In the post-apocalyptic world of Z Nation, where zombies run rampant and hygiene is a luxury of the past, 10K is an anomaly; a sharpshooter with a morning routine that defies the norms of a world gone mad. The sun creeps over the horizon, casting a warm glow over a decrepit outhouse. 10K emerges from his makeshift shelter, stretching his arms towards the sky as if to salute the break of day. He saunters over to the outhouse, the door creaking ominously on its rusty hinges as he steps inside. Moments later, the serene morning is punctured by a symphony of gastrointestinal thunder--an uncanny blend of gurgles, plops, and an occasional high-pitched squeal that seems to question the dietary choices of survivors. Close by, the delicate petals of daisies crinkle and wilt as if offended by the harsh sounds and even harsher smells emanating from within. "Morning bliss," 10K mutters with a contented sigh as he exits, eyes watering just a tad from the stench. He begins his morning stretches, the tough sinew of his muscles undulating under his dirt-smeared skin. As he bends over to touch his toes, the morning light graciously adorns his backside, highlighting the cleft of his pert butt, a testament to the thousands of miles traveled on foot. "Apocalypse or not, gotta keep that form tight," he quips to no one in particular. Next, he approaches his makeshift shower, where a bucket of mud dangles precariously from an aged oak branch. With a sly grin, he strips down, tossing his clothes over a neighboring branch, his defined physique glistening in the nascent light. 10K boasts the rugged look of a man who's made the wild his home, complete with hairy armpits that would rival any beast of the forest. "Time for the spa treatment!" he announces gleefully, pulling the cord attached to the bucket. Down pours the sludge, coating him in earthy goodness. He massages the mud into his skin, a grin spreading across his face, his eyes closed in ecstasy. "Ex-foli-ate," he sings. Gargling a mouthful of the gritty liquid, he playfully attempts to hum a tune, mud dribbling down his chin. He casually spits, hitting a zombie head that's become part of the landscape--a little scored game he plays every morning. Cleaned in ways only the apocalypse can justify, he moves towards a shard of mirror propped against a tree. Grasping a toothbrush whittled from bone, he snatches a bug from the air with sniper precision. "Montana mint!" he exclaims as he squeezes its guts onto the bristles. Vigorously brushing, he admires his reflection right before his smile's sheer intensity shatters the glass--again. "Every damn time," he mutters, spitting out the remains of bug innards, picking a leg or two from between his teeth. Lunchtime approaches, and 10K knows just how to set the table. Strutting to a nearby pond, he prepares for the catch of the day in the most unorthodox way. Just as he enters the water, he unleashes a rancid fart, bubbles rising from the depths as fish begin to surface, stunned by the aromatic assault. "Apoca-fishing," 10K declares, a gleeful twinkle in his eye as he plucks his stunned, still twitching prize from the water. "A smell to wake the dead... and knock out the living." Clutching the fish, he strides back to camp, ready to face whatever the day throws at him--zombies, disasters, or the occasional need for a toothbrush upgrade.