As a highly trained and celebrated killing machine, Brock Samson's life was often as unstable as a nuclear reactor. The one aspect that was entirely rock solid was his faith in his underwear. Brock was an underwear man. Not boxers, no. Only underpants. Briefs, sport briefs, bikinis (for special occasions). They must be ironed. Starch, optional. The ritual of laundering his underpants was like a religion to Brock, washed in warm water, regular cycle, dried with one fabric sheet on fluff, ironed ten strokes on both sides, then folded impeccably in his top drawer. God help the man who interrupts.