The water cascaded down Rabble's chiseled front. His abdomen was like a system of well-defined canals and tributaries, distributing water downwards towards his most secretive areas (out of respect for the more discerning reader, I will not describe them to you, but will say without reservations that they were indeed impressive). The hot water steamed as it struck his naked back. Rabble sighed and wiped his eyes with a strong, masculine finger.
The spa attendant yelled to him over the noise of falling water. "There's boxer shorts and some towels over by the sink.""Thanks, babe."
She giggled as she left the room. Rabble rubbed some soap into his cavernous armpit and smiled. He still had it. It was relaxing to be in that shower, alone and safe. Rabble tried to remember the last time he felt that way. Comfort was rare in his life, even in the glory days before his homelessness, when he was always either in the field, hunting down terrorists or at home, preparing for his next mission -- never in a state one could describe as "comfort". There was always a reason to watch his back, to sleep with one eye open. Now that he had lost everything, that he had almost resigned himself to a life of destitution and misery -- and yes even Rabble, even a man this strong, who had survived a nuclear blast at its epicenter, could be beaten down by the rigors of poverty -- now that Rabble had lost everything he had nothing left to lose.
He stepped out of the shower and walked over towards a full-length mirror and wiped the steam off with his bare hand, revealing his face. It was as if with one swipe of his hand he was reborn, changed from a ghostly, nondescript figure into the hard specimen of man he now saw in the mirror. The dirt was gone, leaving only skin -- pure, white skin. And with the dirt went all the misery and desperation. He was whole now, a full-blown, blue-eyed killing machine once again. Only his hair, that ungodly mop of dirty blond hair, reminded him of his time on the streets. Once the hair was gone, he could pretend that nothing happened.
The attendant skipped into the room and quickly held her hand to her mouth, part-embarrassed and part aroused. "Oh! I'm sorry!" she said, admiring the musculature of Rabble's back. Rabble turned around to face her, parts and all.
"Nothing to be ashamed of, hon. I'll be out in a second."
Her eyes widened in awe. Rabble smiled. Was it still that easy? She skipped out of the room awkwardly, like it was eighth grade all over again. Rabble took a towel and dried off his protruding bicep. He flexed his arm in the mirror. He was certain he had lost some muscle due to starvation, but by the looks of things it was less than he had imagined. Nothing three thousand pushups a day couldn't fix. Or was it four thousand? John had forgotten his old routines.
He slipped his legs through the boxer shorts, hopped up and down a few times and then bounced out of the bathroom, ready to confront the world. Ready to confront the bastards who had left him for dead, but ready also, to enjoy the things he didn't have time to enjoy before, like the sweet, chemical smell of a holistic spa.
Dougie and K-Rock looked at him, amazed. It was like some sort of Hollywood makeup trick. This was not the man they had just spent two hours in a Hummer with, was it? "Now who's gonna take care of this mop?" Rabble pulled at his hair with mock disgust. He winked at K-Rock, making him feel slightly uncomfortable.
"Well look at you! Quite the stud indeed. I can't want to get my... hands on you." The lispy voice came from behind Rabble. He turned around to see its source, a svelte, diminutive man with a thin mustache and greased, spiky hair. "We are gonna get rid of that dust bunny you've got on your head and replace it with some nice, spiky man locks."
"Isn't there a woman I can have do this haircut?"
"Honey, I'm the closest thing to a woman you're gonna get 'round here." He laughed.
"Alright, fruitcake. But if I catch you popping a boner while you're touching my hair I'll cut it off, fry it in a pan and feed it to you like they do in Germany. Understood?"
"Listen, buddy. I like cutting hair, but I don't like it that much. Besides" he added, "you're not my type."
And with that Rabble sat down in the chair.
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