This is a satire. Feel free to make fun of the characters and/or story. You know making fun is just so fun! Don't own Jericho. If I did, I'd be pissed.

Though this is a standalone fic, it makes references to "Hero" and "Ah, Heck," both of which are also satirical.

I'm Just a Bill, a Jericho Satire

Bill Kohler, fresh from his stroll around town (he had gone, in no particular order, to randomly comment on other people's business, try to make them realize and acknowledge his superior intellect, and bring the conversation around to his Julia Roberts obsession), settled on a park bench. His hero signs were gone. He'd announced his intentions to take down the signs if no one commented on his heroism, but he might as well have been painting blue on black.

Channeling his inner Stevie Ray Vaughan couldn't diminish the fact that no one was paying much attention to him. Maybe if he threw a hissy fit others would take notice and marvel at his heroism. Bill sank a little on the park bench, embarrassed to have used the term 'hissy fit.' He had always prided himself on having a better than average vocabulary to accompany his exceptional intellect. But since no one was around, hissy fit worked. Anyway, he'd tried that already. They'd all told him it didn't make any sense to think of him as a hero because he'd not done anything heroic. Maybe if he swooped in and tried to rescue someone, he would earn the town's respect. Come to think of it, he would've settled for saving a cat, but Jake seemed to always get there first. So yeah, he'd need to swoop in and save someone. Problem was, he'd tried that with Heather, and she'd headed for the hills.

Speaking of hills…

Bill frowned. How in the hell did Jericho have hills anyway? Wasn't Kansas supposed to be flat? As in a pancake? It made about as much sense as a pirate without a boat or how Emily's hair extensions managed to magically stay in place despite the lack of proper hair care facilities and accoutrements. Geesh. Maybe Jake could borrow that hairdresser she must have had locked in her attic in the Pines. (Insert deity of your choice) knows he sure could've used some hair styling tips.

How strange it all was. The radiation obviously had some side effects that others had not noticed before. This was something else for him to ponder in between his letter writing campaign to celebrities that he hoped had survived the nukes. His great claim to fame was the autographed glossy of Julia Roberts. It meant only one thing. She loved him.

Bill had to admit he had it much better than Major Beck in the romance department. Scratch that. Beck wasn't Major anything anymore, unless he could be called Major Disaster. Poor guy seemed to think Stockholm was in Sweden. And to make matters worse, everyone had heard about the way Heather rebuffed him at Bailey's. Nothing like a little vomit on the shoes to show how one really feels. Bill knew from experience.

If Bill was the type of man who was mean spirited, he could have told Beck that the whole constipated expression he wore when he was trying to figure things out was enough to put any woman off, even women like Heather who needed some wounded bird to mend back to health. But as usual, no one asked him.

There were many things no one asked him about. Really, they should have. Bill's intellect was dizzying.

Despite his superior intelligence, there were things he didn't understand. The aforementioned hills (where had those come from?) and the fact that the women in town looked like models (that was okie dokey with Bill) came to mind.

Then there were precisely two other things that Bill didn't quite get.

First, when Bill went through his "I am a (temperamental) artist" stage a few years back, he read something about Jackson Pollack forcing one of his models (her name was Mary Suzette) to eat broccoli. The model didn't like being forced to eat broccoli and tried to sue J.P. Whole thing went on trial before the model decided that she did like broccoli after all. She decided that J.P. forcing the issue was so romantic. Because doesn't every woman love to be forced to eat broccoli? The article went on to say that J.P.'s love for broccoli overwhelmed his senses. Even gave him indigestion. Though in fairness, that might have been the broccoli, rather than love, that gave him digestive disorders. Broccoli does tend to cause gas, after all. To Bill, though, the whole thing was weird. And crazy. Why Jackson Pollack needed a model didn't make any sense. The man painted by throwing paint on canvas.

Bill's artist stage didn't last long, but he knew he could've painted Pollack style. He just had no intention of forcing broccoli on any woman, though. Guess being a painter lets some people get away with anything.

Second, Bill had so much to offer. He had a nice build, perfect hair, and a damn fine sense of humor. That's right. Not just fine. Damn fine.

And for some bizarre reason he couldn't fathom, he was always the sidekick.

Then again, he tried to figure out when his life became a formulaic disaster movie. If only that "movie" starred one Miss Julia Roberts.

Julia Roberts…yum. His eyelids lowered as he envisioned her perfect, elfin features. And that smile. Wow! Those teeth looked like they could really bite into a whole bushel of apples. Some people said she had that 'every woman' beauty, but Bill knew she went far, far beyond average. If only she'd not won that Oscar, she could've enjoyed a far more lucrative career. Too bad. Instead, she had to settle for a guest stint on Friends.

"Look, I need some help, and my sources tell me you're the guy to ask."

With one eye perched open, Bill saw a man who looked like that guy off of The Cutting Edge, only he wore a baby blue polo shirt. Not only was that guy in The Cutting Edge, he was also in Memphis Belle. Memphis Belle featured Matthew Modine. Matthew Modine had a cameo in Notting Hill starring none other than Julia Roberts. His Julia Robert obsession satisfied (in fewer than six degrees of separation, thank you very much!), Bill could focus on the task at hand: getting rid of this guy so he could get back to concocting a Julia Roberts fantasy with himself in the lead.

Hmm….too bad his computer was fried. He could have used Photo Shop and made a movie poster featuring himself along with Julia Roberts. He nearly clucked at the thought, but then reality set in. What a weird thing to do. After all, what kind of nut job would do something like that? But by (insert deity of your choice), what did Bill care? If it made him happy, that was all that mattered.

"Don't I know you?" Bill asked, wondering why the guy looked amazingly menacing for a figure skater.

"The name's John. You're William, right? I think I've seen you around town hall. Between insurgencies, that is."

"Right. Well, not right. I'm just a Bill. My friends call me Bill. My mama calls me little Willie. Heather calls me 'Run for the hill, Bill.'"

"Hillbilly?"

"Nah. I'm just a Bill. I have a last name, but no one ever uses it. Everyone in town knows who I am." His chest puffed out in pride. "I'm a one name kind of guy. Like Madonna. Or Beyonce. Or Elvis. I'm just a Bill."

As the School House Rock song of the same name entered John's brain (damn those Saturday morning educational cartoons, ruining perfectly good opportunities to watch Scooby Doo and Superfriends) he began to wonder if his afterlife had already begun. Maybe he was beginning his descent to hell, and talking to this guy was his first stop on the route to eternal torment. Sure felt like it. "I'll make this short and sweet. I'm from the government, and…"

Bill got excited. "This is just like that time in Alien when Julia ..."

"Julia Roberts wasn't in Alien. Remember? She had that falling out with Sigourney Weaver. And what does that have to do with anything? Not everything's about your Julia Roberts obsession."

Bill's eyes narrowed. "How do you know of my undying love for Julia Roberts?"

"Let's just say I know things, like the fact that New York is not going to rebound into an entertainment Mecca, complete with multiple CSI series and soap operas, despite what some people say. So here's my point. My soul can't move on to the next life because I have unfinished business here. I just…," Goetz gave Bill his best 'puppy dog' look, which was really wasted much the same way that youth is wasted on the young and alcohol is wasted on the drunk, "…I need someone to understand why I did what I did. I'm not this monster I was made out to be. I'm more of a teddy bear. Or a gingerbread man. Or something. Cute. Cuddly."

Bill began to deflate. He had hoped against hope that this guy needed a hero. Figures he wanted something else. Wouldn't anyone ever see him as a hero? Ever? Come on, people! "So you want a therapist?" Bill, despite the self-actualization exercises Jimmy had him involved in, knew he wasn't a sensitive man. Didn't even want to be a sensitive man. He wanted to be a He-Man. Well, minus the grotesque muscles and the magic and the whole Skeletor problem. Well, maybe he would've settled for the muscles okay.

John began to clean his fingernails with a dagger. Bill could've sworn he saw dried blood on the blade. "No, I don't want a therapist. I just want someone who will be compassionate. I'm so misunderstood."

Bill's eyes grew as round as flying saucers, not to be confused with weather balloons or food drop parachutes. "Wait. I do know you! Only last time I saw you…" Bill grimaced. John Goetz sure looked different when he didn't have half his head blown away. Oh, and he looked much bigger when he wasn't strung up. Funny how perspective works.

Geesh. If the guy could come back from the dead, why was he bothering with Bill? Why didn't he go to Jake for help like everyone else? Pretty boy Jake could do anything or have anything. Big explosions. Check. Brooding glares. Check. Ex girlfriend who could shoot guns and ride horses. Check. Sugary sweet girl who couldn't hold her liquor chasing after him. Check. The governor of Texas's phone number. Check. Action sequences and close-ups galore. Check.

From nowhere, a sappy soundtrack began to play in the background, complete with violins. This intruded upon Bill's self-pity party. Goetz began to tell his tale, which mostly made Bill want to high-tail it out of there to tell the truth. Goetz announced, "I was traumatized as a child."

"Ewww. Try traumatized as an adult!" Bill hated to admit it, but he never could stomach the gross parts of his job, like emptying mouse traps in town hall or the ass kissing requirement, which truly was a sacrifice (not to mention an exercise in hiding one's disgust) after the object of his 'affection' ate Mexican food. And don't even mention radiation victims. Yuck! Something about puss filled gaping wounds brought out the worst in him. But when Bill saw Goetz give new meaning to the phrase "I feel like my head's going to explode," he really thought the whole thing was unfair. Why should Bill have to clean the mess? It was simple kindergarten logic. Stanley made the mess. Stanley should clean up the mess. Literally.

Goetz ignored Bill's comment. He felt a compulsion to tell his story, much as ipecac and/or radiation poisoning causes a compulsion to vomit. "As a youngster, I learned how fragile life is when I stepped on a frog and got its guts and slime all over my foot. I vowed then that I would never be like that frog. I decided to be tough and strong. I wouldn't be bullied. I would be the bully." Goetz paused meaningfully. "Obviously that wasn't a bull frog I stepped on. And you and I both know that bullies are really just crying for help. I was crying for help, but no one would help me. So I had to keep being a bully. I had to ransack those towns. I had to kill people. And really, it was for their own good. And depriving people of vaccines? Imprisoning a boy? That was for the right reason. I'm not sure what that reason is, but maybe if I ramble long enough, I'll find some justification and people will realize I'm just a victim. Oh, here goes. If I didn't do those things, how would anyone know I needed help? How could I ever let my sensitive side be known? I mean, I'm just the same as Stanley Richmond. Only he had a support system and still has his head intact. All I had were cheap whores who shared nothing with me but STDs and Raisin Bran. Sure, there were many women along the way, an STD here, an STD there, but there was only one woman whose love I was sure would redeem me. I looked for her everywhere I went. Every cupboard I ransacked, I sought out her comfort. Her warmth. Her beauty."

"Wait a minute! You're not making any sense here." Bill's words hung in the air. In theory, he should have started to realize how others felt in listening to him. Unfortunately, Bill still didn't see the connection even though it stared him in the face. Typical. How many times had he been told that he didn't make sense? Too many times to count. And Bill was a good counter. Math had always been his strong suit. Even more than detective work. In fact, he could count all the way to twenty. Blindfolded. With his fingers bound and his toes constricted by work boots.

"Betty Crocker," Goetz said her name with a sigh. "I could sing a song dedicated to her." Goetz's frown deepened. "You're really not as smart as you think you are. You know that?"

Bill snorted. "Well, I'm not the one who's dead."

"True."

"So you're still here. Getting your sad, miserable story out didn't do the trick, did it?"

"I thought you of all people would understand my plight. Everyone wants to make people like Jake Green out to be the good guys. Even Major Beck gets to be the dark knight from time to time. But come on! Guys like you and me, we're the ones who pick up the pieces, and what do we get for our trouble? Nothing."

Bill chuckled. "Oh, you got something."

"A measly 10,000 dollars. If I'd of known it was going to go down like this, I would've never done it. I would've held out for the big bucks. Or else the nice government job in the president's administration. Maybe I could've taken over the IRS and changed tax codes to get Mimi to look the other way. Except I figured my past tax delinquencies might take me out of the running. No one wants a guy in a government position who has fuzzy money deals going on, so I figured I'd just take the bull by the horns, you know?"

"No, I don't."

With an air of arrogance, Goetz continued, "The flying monkeys perished with a cabinet full of aerosol spray cans."

"That makes no sense."

Goetz smirked. "Maybe not, but I have impeccable grammar skills."

"Do you have a point with all this?" Bill asked the extremely talkative visitor who was intruding upon his quality fantasy time.

"Just that I deserve consideration. There are two sides to every story, and I wanted mine known."

"No offense or anything, but who really cares about you? You're a freakin' plot device."

Goetz bristled. "I'm better than some plot devices."

"Okay. Name 'em."

Goetz looked doubtful. "Sure you're ready for that fourth wall to be broken?"

Bill rubbed his hands on his knees. "I thought we already had."

Author's Notes:

The fourth wall is an old stage term referring to the imaginary wall that the audience views a play through. Here it's used to mean when the boundary between the audience and the imaginary work is blurred. Satirists are notorious for this.

Had to get in a homage to my favorite number (2) with the two things Bill didn't understand.

Can totally relate to John Goetz. School House Rock music is annoying.

Still haven't decided whether Jake ends up with Emily or Heather. Just know that Bedward Eck is still trying to get the vomit off his shoes. Gives new meaning to a spit shine.