In the dawn's light, cutting through the desolation of a zombie-infested world, 10K arises from his makeshift bed, the day promising another adventure. His first order of business, as with any rugged survivor, is a trip to the outhouse--an experience only those with a brave heart and a lack of smell receptors dare to undertake. As he enters the quaint, ramshackle structure, an eclectic symphony begins. The creaks of the wooden seat are akin to the cries of a dying animal, followed by an array of sounds that could only be described as a blend between a malfunctioning machine gun and a wet balloon fighting for its life. From within, 10K's muffled voice could be heard, "Yeah, that's gonna scare off any nearby Z's...and probably humans too." Emerging into the new light, feeling pounds lighter and with a spring in his step, 10K stretches luxuriously, his muscles uncoiling, revealing the lean, sinewy strength of a predator. This is not just any survivor; this is a man who has outpaced death itself on foot. He glances around, the need for cleanliness calling to him stronger than the scent of his recent victory in the outhouse. Striding towards the designated "shower" area, he scoops up a bucket full of the finest post-apocalyptic mud--it's gray, it's gloopy, it's got texture. You know, all the earmarks of a top-tier spa treatment in the end times. He hangs the bucket on a tree branch with an air of someone about to perform a sacred ritual. With a dramatic flair, he tosses all his clothes on another branch, revealing a physique sculpted by survival, a tight butt that could probably crack nuts (zombie or otherwise), and a set of armpits that harken back to mankind's hairier, warrior ancestors. "A thing of beauty," he mutters appreciatively to his reflection in a piece of broken mirror. He tugs vigorously on the rope attached to the bucket, and a waterfall of mud splashes over him. A grin spreads across his face as he scrubs himself with the sludge, even gargling it for good measure. "Ah, nothing like a morning mud bath to keep the skin undead-free," he quips, spitting out a particularly gritty mouthful. Dripping with mud, 10K strides to his makeshift mirror--a shard of glass that's seen better days. He grabs his toothbrush, a marvel of apocalyptic ingenuity crafted from bone, and scoops up a plump bug, its guts providing the perfect morning mintiness. As he brushes, his teeth glisten against the dark paste, and with a smile aimed at the mirror, it shatters, unable to withstand the sheer, rugged charm of 10K. "Guess I still got it," he chuckles, unfazed and moving onto his next survival task--dinner. Heading to a nearby pond, 10K employs a fishing method that would make traditional anglers gasp in horror. Submerging his butt in the cool water, he releases a rancid fart with a look of utter contentment on his face. The surface of the pond bubbles furiously as if boiling, and within moments, fish begin to float to the top, victims of the most lethal weapon left in the apocalypse. "Fish in a barrel," 10K crows, plucking a suffocated fish from the water. Holding his prize high, he proclaims, "That's what I call fast food!" As he walks back to camp, fish in hand, and a fresh layer of mud drying on his skin, 10K personifies the rugged, indomitable spirit of humanity's fight for survival--a fight that, at least for today, includes battling hygiene in the most unorthodox of ways.