John had gotten the surprise of his fucking life this morning. In a good way, that was, and while it had taken a few moments for him to wake up enough to realize what, exactly, was coming out of his shower-head, he had figured it out eventually.

A call and a bribe to get a same-day delivery of a few giant bottles of Culligan and a water cooler from the mainland, a trip over the Causeway to the YMCA for a godsdamned shower with water and a shopping trip for the appropriate accouterments...

It was getting on towards dinner time by the time once he was back and had everything he needed. The door to his flat was propped open, text messages reading my fucking taps are running absinthe come fucking help me enjoy it, music on and food available.

Fuck yeah Constantine was indulging. And no, he wasn't lighting his sugar cubes on fire, that shit was for showy amateurs.

[OOC: Open post! If you think you got a text, you did, or feel free to stumble over Constantine's Bad Choices.]