The Life And Times of A Murdering Bastard

by Moneypenny1979

What was the life of Bill like? What events shaped him to become the Snake Charmer, head of the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad, a murdering bastard and the kind of man who would shoot his lover in the head? Spans from childhood to his showdown with Bea.

4. Chap 1 Part 3: Amungst Bastards

Author's Notes - For effects sake, all dialogue in this chapter is intended to be spoken in Spanish, unless noted. I have included some smatterings of (possibly inaccurate) Spanish to give the overall atmosphere.

Again, thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter, both comments and crits, I really appreciate it!

Just a few words about the pacing of this story. I'm sorry if this fic is a bit slow for some people, but I really want to try to create some sense of realism, or at the very least quasi-realism in what would be the "Kill Bill universe" Especially in the case of a fic about the life of a character that I feel has allot of territory to explore. I am more interested in the humanity, or perhaps in this case…de-humanization, of a character, than simply rushing through to the 'cool stuff'. Again, I apologize, but that's just what interests me, I've never done quick shot stories very well, it's just not my thing. I promise, some more recognizable chars will show up eventually:)

Chapter 1

The Acuna Boys

Part 3

Amongst Bastards

"Between two evils, I always pick the one I never tried before." – Mae West

Ciudad Acuna, Mexico. 1962

There was nothing quite like a man begging for his very life.

Many would plea for their lives to Bill over the years. Over time, it would loose some of its appeal; not to mention he would gradually become less and less apt to spare the life in question. But for Bill, at seventeen, this experience was quite something. It was one hell of a natural high. And for a young man who found himself to be exceeding angry, it was one of the few things that really appealed to his current emotional state. He was an intimidator, he was an extorter…..he was not yet a killer, but he was working up to that title; one vice at a time after all.

"Please….," a barkeep, known as Louis, choked between a set of bloody teeth, "Just a few more days, a week at the most…..I swear it! Please…..I know I…," he gagged, "….said that last time, but this time…I swear….next week…."

The man's face, which was literally dripping with sweat, was currently being pressed onto a wooden counter top that served as the bar in his dingy establishment. His stubbly cheeks were smeared with flecks of fresh blood and long established dirt. He wasn't the reputable sort, but he certainly wasn't the sort who held up well to physical threats. His large deep set eyes slid up to peer at the young face of his assailant, "Please….Bill……," he whispered.

Bill gazed down at the man, his brown shoulder length hair falling across his features; which from what was visible, remained an emotionless mask. He was wearing typical cowboy boots, a brown t-shirt and blue jeans. His palm was pushing mercilessly into the back of the Louis's head. In his other hand, a .44 caliber single action pistol was firmly held; the butt of it digging into the rear of the other man's neck. Bill was not yet very tall, and he remained quite skinny, but there seemed to be a personal inner fury that allowed him to manhandle a man twice his size….well, that and a loaded gun.

Behind Bill, stood two other men with guns at the ready. They were both obviously cohort's of Bill's. Both were older, and bigger….but neither moved. They simply stood and watched. Behind them were the few remaining customers in the cantina. Most had fled, but those who stayed now sat stiffly in the shadows; watching silently like the others. The jukebox had been turned off, the tap closed, the glasses lowered. It was utterly still; save for the drama happening by the bar.

Bill tilted his head slightly to the side, lips pursing with some dark sort of irony. "That's funny Louis, since just last week, you told us the same thing," he replied quietly. "I get tired of hearing the same thing over and over again….as does Estiban. What should I tell him Louis? That you are simply too broke to pay up? That your shitty cantina doesn't make a Paso over budget? That……you…….refuse to pay….?" He raised a brow.

Louis sputtered, his fat fingers twitching at his sides, "No….yes….no…..NO!"

With a look of irritation, Bill viciously released his grip on Louis's head, and took a step back. "Bite the bar," he ordered in a flat tone.

Louis turned and stared at the young man, wide eyed. "What?"

Snarling, Bill kicked him in the lower back with the heel of his boot, "I said bite the fucking bar," he indicated the wooden length of bar with his pistol, "…..put your goddamned teeth around it……and bite it, mordedura ello!"

With only a moment of hesitation and a wisp of a grimace, Louis complied. He blinked a few times, waiting in this now rather humiliating position for what was to come to him.

Using the butt of his gun, Bill swiftly struck Louis in the back of the head, slamming the man's teeth against the wood, and subsequently breaking a number of them. Louis let out a garbled yelp and flailed to the ground, spitting out blood and fragments of his own teeth as he did so.

Yanking Louis up by the tuft of his curly hair, Bill threw him bodily back onto the floorboards. He then tucked his pistol under his belt and rolled him over, so that Louis was now staring right up at him.

Bill glared down at the bloody mouthed man, his nostrils flared, "You fuck around with the Acuna Boys……you see, this is what happens….next time, I'll kick in your kneecaps and I hear tell that's a pretty painful thing." He stepped over the fallen man, snatching up a dirty rag off of the bar, "Oh, and don't' try to flee town. We'll find you." He flippantly tossed the rag onto Louis's upturned face. "Just pay up for Christ's sake, .it's far less messy for us both."

Turning, Bill removed a pack a cigarettes from his back jeans pocket and took his time lighting one; as Louis pressed the rag to his mouth in silent misery. Squinting down at the other man through a haze of smoke, Bill smirked, flicking the lit match onto the floor. "Adios Louis, see ya next week…."

And with that bit of well timed drama, Bill swept out of the cantina. The other two stand-by men fell in behind him in a slow saunter of booted footsteps.

"Don't you think that was a little much Bill?" One of them, a somewhat heavyset man with a black patch over his left eye, spoke up as they turned down a dark side street away from the cantina.

"No Carlos." Bill retorted without a glance, "That asshole's been giving Estiban the run around for years. I'm going to make sure that that trend stops. Obviously just threatening him with pain wasn't going to work. Something had to be done."

"Yeah but….," Carlos, pulled his leather vest over his gun holster,"….biting the bar. That's…….."

"I liked it," the other man, a tall scrawny bearded guy by the name of Juan, piped in with a dopey gap toothed grin. "You got real taste Bill….that-

Bill cut him off with a whip like glare. Juan fell silent, scratching at his chin and pretending to find a house they were walking by particularly interesting.

"I bet both of you….a hundred Paso's, Louis pays up in full," Bill stated as the trio continued down the side street.

Carlos and Juan exchanged glances. "Deal," Juan nodded, his gap toothed grin making another appearance.

Bill gave him a fleeting smirk.

The next week Louis paid up….. every Paso, and he never missed a payment from that point on.

---

It didn't take much observation to figure out that Bill was no longer the young man who'd somewhat unwittingly managed to woo the beautiful Rosilinda Ramos, had a little fistfight with his best friend outside of a diner, bought his first gun from a drunkard, got stoned behind a church, and rather unsuccessfully screwed a prostitute in a dugout

Oh no, he'd moved far beyond all of that.

He was two years wiser now, two years bigger, and two years meaner. His rough and unguarded childhood had begun to take its full effect. He was no longer an experimenting teenager. At seventeen he was, by all accounts, a criminal.

He was a bastard, but then again….he'd always been.

He was also a very angry young man: angry at his whore of a mother, angry at the life he'd been dealt into, angry at never knowing his father….angry for not quite being a man…but no longer a boy. And this anger began to boil. In time, this anger would dissipate into a far calmer demeanor; into a cool, calculated, dangerous man who knew when, and when not to let his temper get the better of him. But, in the meantime….Bill was a loose cannon. He was a young man with some serious anger problems and seemingly only violent means to get them out. And for what he lacked in physical size he made up in sheer viciousness. He never questioned his tendency for violence. All he knew was that if felt damn good to be mean, and at this point in his life he was all about immediate satisfaction.

Of course, allot of young men Bill's age were angry….angry with the government, angry with civil rights in the southern United States, and the starting of the war in Vietnam. But Bill was completely apathetic to all of those things. He was too self absorbed to care. After all, how could be become the man he wanted to be if was so concerned with those around him? No, his cause and his fight were his own; they always would be.

---

So then, who exactly were the Acuna Boys?

The Acuna Boys were in essence a gang; a gang of bastards. They were made up of the fatherless sons of Estiban's whores. Estiban ran the Acuna Boys, and in turn, the Acuna Boys ran Acuna.

When Bill was younger, he'd been completely clueless as to just how much weight Estiban had in Acuna. But, as it turns out, his pimp of a father figure ran nearly all of the illegal trades in the Mexican border town. Estiban had his hands in everything: prostitution…of course, drug trafficking, alcohol shipments and regulating, blackmail, extortion and whatever shady little operation was going on in town at the moment. He sat back at a comfortable distance, reaping the benefits, while the Acuna Boys went about and intimidated those who weren't falling into the grand scheme of things. Some of them owed debts to him; others needed to pay up for protection against not having their dirty secrets exposed. Estiban wasn't just a pimp; he was a businessman, an extortionist and an extremely greedy man. Bill's respect for him grew ten fold.

At sixteen, Bill was officially "ordained" into the Acuna Boys. He'd dropped out of school, which wasn't all that surprising given the time and locale, and naturally his next step was to become part of this group of rough men. At the moment, the gang consisted of about thirteen men; ranging in age from one young fifteen year old to a few pathetic hangers on in their mid-thirties.

Those who made up the Acuna Boys were not only unified in their common ancestry of being bastards of whores, but they all seemed to share a common fondness for crime. Bill fit right into this hierarchy of bastards, and it wasn't all that long before he began to take hold as leader of the group. This was somewhat surprising given his younger age and smaller size, but as his wide eyed fascination with the group quickly dwindled to a dominating dangerous demeanor, they rapidly fell into line behind him. It seemed that Bill possessed an innate talent for leadership; among other things. Estiban was jubilant at this taking of power; seemingly haven given up on Bill taking a more non-violent turn in life sometime ago.

The two men that Bill had been in the cantina with; Juan and Carlos were the two he'd done much of his work with so far, Carlos especially. He and Bill had formed a friendship of sorts, although it was a fairly guarded one. Carlos was in his mid-twenties. He was short and overweight. He'd had his left eye destroyed in some mysterious farming accident as a child. Yet despite his almost comical appearance, he was quite sharp and level headed. Juan on the other hand was a fucking idiot, and Bill was counting the days until he ended up accidentally killing himself.

Needless to say, Bill much preferred being a part of the Acuna Boys than being stuck in school. Now he could make trouble and get away it.

---

While it would seem almost silly to take a moment to talk about something as trivial as a hairstyle, it would be Bill's choice of hairstyle that would become part of his lifelong persona, and thus something worth mentioning.

The whole thing came about in an attempt to squeeze more money out of Estiban's somewhat stingy spending money given to him on a monthly basis. This was before he'd dropped out of school and yet to collect from being a part of the Acuna Boys. His monthly allowance wasn't' really an allowance per se, since Bill didn't do much around the house in the way of chores. The money was supposed to be used to buy new socks when needed, an occasional soda, get haircuts; things along those lines. The problem was, it just wasn't enough to do all of that, and still be able to afford to buy cigarettes; even with his occasional pick pocketing and shoplifting profits. He had to cut some corners, or in this case, not cut.

There was only one restroom in the entire house that Bill lived in. And given that a good number of prostitutes lived there, this proved to be a constant source of frustration for him throughout his childhood. He was lucky to get in there and get a shower on a daily basis without some whore pounding on the door telling him to hurry the hell up.

One morning, after getting out of the shower, he took a long moment to stare at himself in the slightly misty and dust encrusted mirror. He was never sure what to make of himself, appearance wise.

A girl at school last year told him he looked "menacing." At the time he wasn't exactly sure if that was a good thing or not. She didn't seem to like him all that much, and he resolved, for a very short time to change his image; combing his hair neatly to the side, plastering the best manly smile he could on his face, and to button his shirt collar all the way up. But it had backfired on him within days and he was quickly back to his stoic expression, unbuttoned shirts and mop of unruly but short hair.

He ran a hand through his currently wet hair. The hair, maybe that was it, it was so….indecisive. Estiban was always ragging on him about getting more haircuts, but it was far more fulfilling to use that designated money for other things. And there was the whole money for cigarettes problem to solve. Now, haircut money certainly didn't cover the cigarette expense gap, but it helped. Plus, Bill remembered seeing a poster a few months back for some up and coming American movie. It had been tacked up to the side of the butcher's shop. The guys in the poster had long hair. Somewhat like girl's hair, but not, because it looked really cool. And they looked tough with it flying around in the wind; like the sort of guys who men didn't mess around with…..but women did.

Still looking at himself in the mirror, Bill threw his bony shoulders back; trying to picture himself with long hair like the guys on that poster. He frowned. It was hard to see it now, but he figured it was worth a shot. He'd just stop having it cut, pocket the money for cigarettes, and see how it turned out.

And with that quick decision, he converted to a hairstyle that would stick with him for pretty much the rest of his life. He was just about to turn sixteen at that point, and now over a year and a half later, his anti-haircut experiment had turned out to be rather successful. The long hair just seemed to fit him. A few years later, lots of men would start growing out their hair, but Bill liked to think of himself as one of the originals.

---

Bill's group of friends from the years before had slowly begun to unravel shortly after him and Julio's scuffle outside of the hamburger joint those couple years ago. All of them, save for Alanzo, had dropped out of school and started doing their own things to earn a living and/or cause trouble. Bill of course started running with the Acuna Boys. Julio went into "business" with his older brother Raul…selling drugs, forging ID's and checks…doing whatever was all the rage at the moment. Paulo started hanging out with a group of Columbians who had set up camp in Acuna for awhile. It was rumored he was helping smuggle cocaine into he U.S. Bill wasn't surprised; Paulo seemed like just the kind of guy who would willingly swallow a balloon filled with coke. Martin had started drinking heavily and would disappear for months on end, only to show up smelling like a sewer….begging for a few bucks and a place to sleep.

All in all, they were turning out to be a bunch of fucking losers. Bill wasn't all that surprised on that account either. He of course wasn't counting himself in that category.

Every few months he and Julio would meet up and hang out for a few hours. They'd catch up: share a joint, a few beers if they could get them, or at the very least smoke some cigarettes.

In particular, Bill always remembered one conversation he had with Julio. It took place in the late spring. Bill had just gotten back from a couple of days in El Paso, where he'd made a little surprise call on a hotel owner in debt to Estiban. This time, no biting of the bar was needed, just a few well placed threats….and a Colt 45.

Julio had phoned while he was away, leaving a message about wanting to chat for a bit when Bill got the chance. So, at the end of the week, in the late afternoon, Julio stopped by; parking his truck in the back lot behind the house. Bill met him there, and they sat down on the back steps; the very same steps that Rosilinda Ramos had approached him on those two years ago. Bill had always had a fondness for those steps ever since then. They had in many ways replaced the screen door he used to always sit behind as a boy.

It was good to see Julio again. He was even taller than before, and he still had that manly mustache and goatee that Bill used to envy so much. He was the same as he'd always been: a slightly clumsy, chatty brute with a shadier side to him. But, there was also something different about him now, something….softer, and Bill couldn't quite put his finger on it.

They'd been having a couple of smokes and swapping idle conversation when Julio suddenly grew atypically quiet.

"I'm gettin' married Bill," he spoke up, blowing out a stream of smoke.

Bill raised a brow, swinging his head around in surprise, "You're shitting me?" The look on Julio's face answered that question. "Who's the lucky gal?"

"Her name's Elizabeth, she lives just outside of Tijuana. I met her a couple months ago when Raul and I were over there picking up some fraudulent supplies" He smiled inwardly, "She's so beautiful Bill……you'd love her…..and she's really sweet. I call her Lizzie. We're gunna get married at the end of the summer. There's that small chapel off the highway, ya know the light brown one with the big copper bell? We're gunna have it there. I even had to ask her dad's permission and all that kind of old fashioned shit."

Julio…married? Bill laughed, despite his best efforts to be serious with the moment. He shook his head, "Goddamnit, I never thought I'd see this happen to you." He made it sound as if it were some form of punishment.

Julio laughed, a little uncomfortably, "I know, it's pretty wild huh? Next thing you know, your gunna get married Bill."

"Fuck no!" Bill spat, tossing his cigarette butt away in disgust, "I'm not the marrying type." He kicked the smoldering discarded cigarette with the toe of his boot to emphasize the point.

Julio's dark eyes twinkled as he smiled at his friend, "Oh…you just wait Bill," he turned and gazed across the skyline, almost dreamlike, "That right girl comes along…….and you'll be changin' your mind real quick…..you just wait and see. Girls love you; it's only a matter of time before that right one shows up and tames you."

Bill always thought Julio over idealized just how much girls liked him, but he appreciated the compliment anyways. He snorted, giving his friend a haughtily skeptical look as he lit up another cigarette, "Gah, don't ever use the word….'tame' again. And, well….she'd have to be one hell of a woman," he muttered, flicking the smoking match away into the gravel.

Julio laughed heartily; teeth flashing under his mustache, "That she would Bill…….," his toothy smile widened into another genuine chuckle, "….that she would…."

After that, the conversation turned away from such serious matters and onto things of far more immediate importance, such as: cars, guns, films, and how to properly forge checks.

It was well beyond dusk when Julio finally stood to leave. He had to meet Raul. They were heading into The States to do some business in New Mexico and wanted to get a good nights start on driving.

He and Bill exchanged their usual shoulder slap and handshake. Julio once again mentioned his wedding date, muttering something about having to make Raul the best man….but how he had really wanted Bill do to it. "Family loyalty, you know…," he shrugged. Then, he turned and left, lumbering into his beat up truck and pulling out of the lot. Bill offered a brief wave as he stood and watched the truck's taillights disappear into the dark.

Besides Julio announcing he was getting married, the whole visit had seemed pretty typical. Yet, Bill would specifically remember this conversation with Julio because it would not only be the last time he'd talk to his friend, but it would be the last time he'd ever see him alive.

---

And of course, there were the girls….or where they women now? Even their status, along with his own, seemed confusing to Bill at the moment.

After getting together the summer of his fifteenth year with Rosilinda Ramos, she had ended up moved away only a few months later. Her and Bill had had a good time while it had lasted though. They spent most if it fucking, and when not doing that; talking. Rosilinda was a smart girl and her and Bill ended up sharing many common interests; she even liked comics. But, soon her father, who was a wealthy textile factory owner, decided to pack up his family and move to South L.A. Neither Bill nor Rosilinda shed a tear over their parting, they'd had their time together…..and that was that. They both knew it had been nothing more than a lustful little teenage fling anyways, and they were ready to move on.

After Rosilinda left, Bill went out/slept with a few other random girls; none of them even nearly as charming as Rosilinda though. His childish strike on sex that he made to himself after the incident with whore obviously didn't last all that long, but the ideal derived from it was still there……it was just that none of them lived up to it.

Then when he was sixteen Bill became acquainted with a woman named Rhonda. She was older, being twenty-one, and she worked in one of Acuna's many bars. She wasn't Hispanic; she was in fact from Texas, and Bill's first real blonde. She was also a woman who liked her men and didn't like just choosing one. Bill didn't mind in the slightest that he was just one of many to share her affections. He was happy to be her boy toy for the time being; because she certainly measured up this ideal. She was stunning; with her golden spun hair, long legs, perfect chest, and a drawl that could make you want to embody the very state of Texas. She looked like some sinful love child between Marilyn Monroe and Anne Baxter, only ten times as alluring. Because she wasn't some pin up on the wall; she was the real deal. It was no wonder she could get any man she wanted. She was almost too good to be true; gorgeous, sexy, lustful, ready to please, and in turn, completely lacking any need of real responsibility.

She showed Bill a thing or five about what is was like to be with a woman. Estiban had certainly kept no secret to him about what went on in his business and he was no stranger to sex. But with Rhonda, he got a little more up close and personal with the whole experience.

She also showered him with attention, fawning on him; slipping him free drinks, free smokes, not to mention free sex. Bill had to admit he loved it. She used to call him her "gypsy boy," which really didn't make much damn sense to him at the time. He sure didn't look much like any gypsy boy he'd ever seen, but he deduced later on she was probably talking about his general persona than anything else.

He and some of the other Acuna Boys would often go hang out at the bar she worked at. Nobody gave a damn that Bill was underage. They drank, played cards and smoked; bumping nickels out of the jukebox and scratching the felt on the pool tables.

Rhonda would then saunter over at the end of her shift and snatch up Bill by the arm. She had an apartment above the bar. Wearing the biggest shit eating grin he could muster, he'd leer at his buddies over his shoulder as she led him upstairs. It was almost like she was one of those whores in an old west saloon, and Bill always secretly relished in that thought. There was something slightly subversive and dirty about the whole thing.

Eventually Rhonda left town, like so many do; onto another town and another group of young men at her beckon call. But Bill didn't so easily forget her. Even a good ten years later, when he heard that damn Cher song, "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves" he was strangely reminded of Rhonda. She simply wasn't the type of woman a young man easily forgot; she was that damn good.

But since Rhonda had left, Bill had been having something of a dry spell with women. Or perhaps he was just too absorbed with his accumulating criminal activities to make much time for them. He found women could be very distracting and he hadn't quite learned to temper that distraction just yet. Either way, he wasn't all too consumed with his lack of female attentions at the moment.

Of course, as things would have it, that would most likely take a turn soon enough.

---

"Now, she's beautiful…….," Bill halted in his tracks, eyes falling on a cherry red 1962 Chevrolet Corvette split window coupe that was parked along the side of the downtown five and dime store. It was a sleek, two door sports car with exhaust vents in the hood, a sloping triangular shaped trunk, and the distinctive split rear window.

Bill and Carlos had been out around town, picking up a few stray payments for Estiban, when they passed by the five and dime; and subsequently the Corvette. It was well past sundown, but the streetlamp above the car did it well enough justice.

"Why do you call the car a 'she'?" Carlos asked from beside Bill, brow furrowed. "It's a thing….an 'it'."

"Oh no….," Bill crooned, tossing away his cigarette and sweeping in closer to inspect the vehicle. "This is a she…..just look at the curves….the design….." He leaned in eagerly, peering past the reflections on the glass and into the leather interior.

"It's……..she's kinda small." Carlos spoke up from behind him.

"She's perfect."

Carlos laughed, "What, are you gunna fuck her Bill?"

"No, I'm going to drive her."

"What?"

Bill straightened up, turning to grin at Carlos deviously, "Stupid fucker left his keys in the ignition."

Carlos shook his head, knowing that look in Bill's eyes all too well, "Don't' do it Bill…..I'm sure whoever owns this, just ran inside to get some milk or something….they'll be back any second."

"Oh, I'm doing it….," Bill retorted, and with a sly leer, popped open the driver's side door and slid into the leather seat. "We're just gunna take her for a little drive…..we'll bring her back."

"I dunno…..." Carlos walked around the front and inspected the bumper, throwing a nervous glance at the nearby store, "…. these are US plates."

"And that means what?" Bill said flippantly from the driver's seat, "I don't give a shit if the plates are from the US or fucking Japan. Stop standing there and get in, hurry up!"

Looking pensive, Carlos complied and hefted his large form into the cramped passenger's side. "I'm too fat for this car…," he grumbled under his breath as Bill smoothly pulled away from the curb and turned down the main street.

"Where are we taking it?" Carlos asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"To the highway of course," Bill replied; his expression one of extreme enjoyment as he steered the sleek car through the streets of Acuna and into the rural outskirts.

Bill had learned to drive with Julio's shitty truck, and he'd driven Estiban's old Morris Minor a few times. But he'd never driven a car like this one before. The car handled beautifully. He could feel the powerful pull of the engine under the press of the pedals, and when he threw it into third gear, a lopsided smile appeared on his face. Bill would have a love affair with cars, amongst other things, throughout his whole life. He loved fast cars…..hell, he just loved going fast. There was just something about the style and the speed of an exquisite fast car that really got to him. It was almost like guns, swords and sex……ah, but then again, not quite as good.

It only took about five minutes to get out onto the expanse of highway. Bill was already going well over the speed limit by the time they got out there, and once he pulled onto the main strip, he gunned it.

Carlos shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It's dark…"

"Good," was Bill's only response as he continued to depress the gas petal; his features now set in complete concentration. It was impossible to see much beyond the halo of the headlights, but the yellow lines on the highway began to blur a little as the car continued to pick up speed. The whish of air began to compete in volume with the roar of the engine as Bill threw it into fifth gear.

"Eighty…," Bill announced after a few moments, attention flicking to the speedometer for a brief second. There was no missing the slightly maniacal look in his dark eyes as he did this.

"Yes, I can see the speedometer……" Carlos's shaking voice betrayed his growing nervousness.

"Eighty five…….," Bill muttered over the increasing rush of wind and engine roar.

"Ok…..that's fast enough……"

"Ninety……"

"…..Ninety-fi-"

"FUCK!"

And there it was; suddenly appearing in the headlights like a flashing desert hallucination. But this was no hallucination, this was another car; sitting out idly in the middle of the highway. It was impossible to tell much else about it in those few seconds; except for the flash of metal and the orange glow of rear reflectors.

Scowling, Bill spun the wheel, wrenching it in a complete 360 degree circle, while simultaneously slamming on the brakes. Both of them were thrown to the side. With a teeth rattling squeal, the car went into a full spin, going up on two tires for a brief second before ending its spin by slamming up against the side of the other car. It wasn't a full impact hit though. But it was enough to cause a good dose of sparks, cracked glass, dents, and scraped paint.

For a few seconds there was no sound except for the creaking of metal, and the soft hiss of exhaust. Carlos peeled his hands from over his face and pushed himself up in the passenger's seat; his one pupil dilated to size of a pinhead

Bill threw his head back and laughed.

Carlos turned and gaped at him, his one eye now nearly bulging from his head, "JESUS CHRIST!" He roared, his voice cracking, "YOU ALMOST FUCKING KILLED US!"

Bill smirked, seemingly unfazed by any of this, "Come on Carlos, that didn't turn you on?"

"What….? NO!" Carlos slammed a hand down on the dashboard, "Bill, shut the fuck up…..seriously, stop joking around….." he wiped a shaky hand across his pudgy sweat glistened face. "I think I almost pissed myself."

"Calm the fuck down man…….if it was you driving, we would be dead," Bill craned his neck to look over into the cracked windows of the other car, "Good thing I know what I'm doing….," he added smugly, "…and that I have two eyes."

Carlos took a deep breath, not bothering to respond to any of that. "Let's just get the hell out of here….I don't think anybody's in the other car."

Pursing his lips, Bill continued to peer into the other vehicle. He looked as if he was going to argue, but then he turned back to the steering wheel, "Alirght….," he turned the ignition and the engine turned over with just a fraction of hesitation. As Bill pulled away from the other car, a loud spine tingling squealing ensued; along with allot of falling glass. But, they managed to pull away in one piece and turn back around towards Acuna.

Carlos attempted to put himself together as they headed back, while Bill simply frowned. "I wonder what was going on with that abandoned car?" he murmured.

"I don't' know, and I don't care," Carlos shot back crossly.

"Mrm, well it was your stupid fucking idea anyways."

Carlos shot Bill a glare that spoke volumes, even with just one eye.

They left the car right outside of the downtown area, with the keys in the ignition just like they'd found it. Bill was tempted to do something witty: write a note, or set up some sort of prank for the owner, but he figured that the condition of the car itself was enough of a prank on its own.

As Bill and Carlos sauntered away from the damaged Corvette and back into town, the bigger man spoke up "So, if that car was a 'she' Bill, is that how you'd treat a real woman then?" He was always coming up with strange metaphorical questions.

Bill smirked, eyes flashing under the streetlamps, "No, I'd get allot more mileage out of her before I crashed and burned."

---

Despite all of Bill's posturing and intimidation tactics, he hadn't actually killed anyone at this point. It seemed that event was not meant to happen just yet. He sure as hell acted like he had, but he was not yet a killer; in the literal sense.

It was in a bar outside of Austin, Texas that he came as close to killing somebody, and getting himself killed as he had thus far. The whole episode was not exactly an enjoyable one either

He and Carlos had been in Austin, buying some supplies for Estiban, and doing some sight seeing along the way, when they stopped into the bar. It was your typical cowboy bar, full of good 'ol boys and local factory workers. Johnny Cash's Don't Take Your Guns To Town was playing on the jukebox when he and Carlos had strolled into the dimly lit establishment.

Bill had used a fake Texas ID, a gift from Julio, to order drinks for himself. Yet, it seemed almost a waste, as they didn't seem to care all that much in a place like this. He was sporting a newly purchased hat. A brown suede cowboy hat with the sides of the brim rolled up and the front and back pulled down in a Southwestern style. Carlos, who was still hung over from the night before, slumped onto the stool next to him as Bill ordered; refusing to drink anything but water.

He and Carlos had been there for nearly an hour, and Bill had already downed four shots of whiskey and was now working on a pint of lager, when the trouble started. They'd been speaking Spanish amongst themselves, but then drawling English dialogue interrupted them.

"Whats we got here boys?" It was a voice dripping with ignorance and stereotypical redneck tonality.

Bill glanced over his shoulder, the brim of his hat pulled down over the majority of his face. He was more than a little tipsy, and it took him a moment to connect the voice with the figure behind him.

The voice belonged to the kind of man you'd expect it from. A big dumb looking asshole; wearing a trucker's cap, a sweat stained t-shirt and a belt buckle nearly the size of his gut. He was flanked by two other men of similar make.

The man in the center leered, revealing a set of chew stained teeth, "We ain't seen you two around here before? Where you boys from?"

"Acuna, Mexico," Carlos replied in his faulty English, always one to try and be optimistically reasonable.

"Acuna, Mexico? Here that's a real shithole." The man jammed his fingers in his belt loops, "No spicks ever come in this bar." His watery blue eyes drifted to Bill. "But you ain't no spick."

Bill continued to glare over his shoulder, his lit cigarette burning idly between his lips. He could feel an anger and alcohol induced flush creep up his neck.

The large Texan laughed, "Hah! Look at you boy……a real cool cowboy ain't ya?" He took a few steps towards Bill, his leer widening, "So you're a long haired tough guy eh?" He turned to his buddies, "Lookie boys….we've got fuckin' Wild Bill Hickok sittin' at the bar here!"

Bill's lip turned up a little, taking that as a compliment.

"Or maybe," the man turned back to Bill, his leer disappearing, "….you're just some long haired beatnik cocksucker in a pretty hat eh? This is the wrong sorta joint to pick up faggots in boy."

That, on the other hand, Bill did not take as a compliment.

He slowly stood up, pushing away his beer mug, and turned to face the three men. The flush he'd felt before was beginning to grow into truly hostile feelings.

The man laughed again, "Ooooo, whatcha gunna do….stare me down ta death?" He gave Bill a quick once over, "You ain't even old enough to be in here….yer just a fuckin' kid."

"A fuckin' kid who's gunna kick your ass if you don't leave us the hell alone," Bill said softly; his fists balling up at his sides. He felt Carlos's hand clasp onto his shoulder, "Don't' do it Bill……let's just leave….," he hissed. But Bill shrugged off the hand of reason, he was too angry now to think about leaving without doing some damage. His temper had been lit, and it was the kind of fire could only be extinguished by burning itself out….and anything that touched it.

The Texan pointed a meaty finger at Carlos, "Yeah doughboy…you shut up…..fuckin' pirate eye spick. Yer next, after this queer."

Bill's nostrils flared as he violently tossed aside his cigarette.

The Texan chewed on the inside of his cheek as he turned his attention back to Bill, "Well, we gunna have ourselves a real old school cowboy brawl now eh? Get rid of that fuckin' shit kicker hat first…," he reached out and flipped the hat off of Bill's head.

"Oh, we'll have a real old school cowboy brawl alright," Bill said in an eerily calm tone, producing a large knife from its sheath underneath his jacket. It wasn't quite as big as a Bowie knife, but it was pretty damn close.

Somebody whistled from the corner of the watching crowd; which had grown hushed as the prospect of a fight became more promising.

The bartender quickly rushed over, "Hey….kid, take the blade and the fight outside. I don't want that kinda shit in here."

Bill ignored the bartender; glare completely focused on the large Texan in front of him; the knife held confidently in his hand. In truth, he didn't really know how to use the thing all that well; but it looked menacing and it could certainly cut the shit out of somebody. How hard could it be to wield a big knife anyways?

"Now that's a nice blade there….," the large Texan observed, exchanging glances with his two buddies. "But, I don't need that sorta shit….I've got two of these," he rose his two massive fists up in front of his face. "And I'm gunna show ya just what they taste like…"

He took a massive swing at Bill, which was so blatantly telegraphed, Bill easily dodged out of the way.

Ducking down low, Bill then came at him with a series of slashes. He managed to cut a long tear through the man's jeans, near the calf. But that was all. And he in turn received a sucker punch to the gut and a second to the face. The man hit like a fucking boxer, and Bill stumbled backwards; nearly tripping in a sudden state of dizziness. He sucked in a gasp of air and desperately tried to hold onto the knife. His ears were ringing, and he could feel a trickle of blood coming from his suddenly numb split open cheek.

Attempting to shake it off, he dove at the man again; knife swinging. This time the man grabbed at his knife arm, and twisted it backwards. But Bill was quick to turn that around, reversing the motion and wrapping the man's arm around his own back. He pushed up on the man's wrist with every ounce of strength he could muster. There was a sickening pop from underneath the man's skin and he let out a loud yelp.

But Bill had little time to enjoy this small victory, as he was attacked from behind by the Texan's two buddies. One kicked his legs out from underneath him, as the other delivered a punch to the back of his head. In the process of being slammed onto the ground, he let go of the knife.

Meanwhile, the bartender had bustled over to the desk phone…calling the cops. Carlos, who had remained out of the fight thus far, saw this happening. With a curse, he turned back to the action with a frantic look on his face. He had to do something.

The ringleader of Bill's attackers had gotten his wits back together. Clutching onto his injured arm, he attempted to stomp on Bill's ribs. Bill managed to roll out of the way just in time and replied with an upward kick to the man's inner thigh.

"Fucker!" The man yelled, and dove for Bill's nearby dropped knife.

Bill scrambled to his feet, firsts in front of him. He glared furiously as his weapon was hijacked by the large Texan.

"Well now….looks like it's my blade now," the man drawled, flashing the weapon, "You grab him boys……I'll do the rest…."

Like hell Bill was going to let that happen, and when the two other men attempted to flank him he turned and punched one in the face. He then spun and kicked the other man in the knees; causing him to drop.

"Alright….I'll do it myself," the large Texan sneered, diving at Bill with the knife. The man caught him in the chest with his knee, and the two of them fell back against the bar; knocking bottles and glasses over in their wake.

There was a momentary struggle, as the larger man pressed Bill down against the top of the bar, and Bill pressed back…teeth grated in extrusion. The knife was hovering just above his sweat and blood smeared face.

With one last shove Bill managed to heave the man off of him; but not without consequence. Realizing he was about to be put off balance, the large Texan slashed out with the blade and caught Bill right across the stomach on his way to the ground. He toppled to the floor, slamming his head against the wooden boards.

Bill felt his flesh split open; a truly bizarre sensation. While it wasn't too deep of a cut, maybe a quarter of an inch, it was lengthy, spanning horizontally across his entire lower torso. It was immensely painful. This was a new kind of pain to Bill; one that he had yet to fully experience, but one he'd experience many, many more times throughout his life. Blood immediately began oozing out and spreading across his white t-shirt.

"Fuck!" he managed; slowly sliding off the bar and into a crouch on the ground.

Carlos was instantly at his side, "Oh shit…..OK…you're fine on…..let's get out of here now…"

Hugging himself, Bill rolled forward onto his knees, supporting himself with one hand, "No…..." he gasped, hair falling over his face.

Carlos tried to help him to his feet, "The bartender called the cops, they're going to be here any minute. We have to leave!"

Bill just shook his head, watching droplets of his own blood trickle onto the floor through nearly closed eyes.

The large Texan was being seen to by his two buddies; both of whom were nursing their own wounds. It was only a matter of time before they would be back on their feet.

Then there was a ruckus at the front door, as four uniformed Austin County police officers burst into the bar. People scattered out of the way; many of them bolting out the building completely.

Carlos looked on with his one wide eye, "Shit…"

Bill didn't have to be looking to know that the cops had shown up. He shoved Carlos away with hand he'd been using to press against his wound. "Get out of here Carlos….," he hissed, "….slip out the kitchen exit….get back to Acuna…..tell Estiban what happened."

"What about the cops?" He still hovered next to Bill.

"Fuck the cops!" Bill spat back, "I said get out of here!"

Reluctantly, Carlos stood up, and with a surprising amount of agility for a man his size, he leapt over the glass strewn bar and sprinted back towards the kitchen doors.

The three Texans were on their feet now and being cuffed by the cops. They didn't seem to be protesting all that much; either because they were too out of it to care, or they simply knew better. Two of the policemen escorted them out, as the other two approached Bill.

Still crouching in front of the bar, Bill could hear their booted footsteps coming up to him. His heart was thudding against his chest; teeth clenched together so hard that he was sure they were going to crack. He was in pain, he was irate…..beyond any sort of reasonable thought, and he fucking hated cops.

Using every ounce of adrenaline that he had, he managed to stand up straight. He wasn't going to let these assholes take him balled up like some child. He was better than that. This action only caused the cut across his stomach to bleed at a doubled rate, and he swallowed a sudden wave of nausea at the increased pain. Lowering his chin to his chest, he leveled a piercing upturned glare at the approaching officers.

The two men hesitated briefly; the image of this blood soaked, wild haired, furious looking teenager not being exactly being what they had expected.

"Alright kid….," one of them spoke up calmly, holding up a hand, "…just take it easy…" He slowed his approach, a pair of handcuffs dangling from his rear hand. The other cop slowly circled around to Bill's side. "We're just gunna take you in for a bit, let you cool down…," the first officer continued, flipping open the handcuffs.

Bill's menacing glare slid to the handcuffs. Oh no, like fucking hell he was going to let himself be cuffed. He was not going to be locked away. And in his rage induced state, he had every intention of that not happening.

The handcuff wielding cop was right in front of him now, the other right behind him. They'd have him in a matter of seconds if he didn't do something.

Estiban had always told Bill never…ever to hit a cop….that it was a very bad idea.

Bill hit the cop directly in front of him….and he didn't just hit him, he decked the man full in the face. He followed this up by a pouncing elbow to the middle of the man's back as he doubled over in pain that the first blow had caused. The cop collapsed onto the bar floor, Bill's knee landing right on his spine.

Spinning ferociously, Bill attempted to take on the second cop, who was a much larger man than the first. This time, Bill's punch hit only air, as the man dodged out of the way. It was a crucial mistake, and Bill received a sharp jab to his already wounded midsection and a second to his face. He stumbled back in renewed pain; which at this point was making him almost woozy.

"JESUS H. CHRIST!" One of the cops who'd escorted Bill's assailants came barging back into the bar with a roar. He ran in to help his fellow officers.

Bill made a sloppy dive for the cop who'd just hit him. He slipped. He was bleeding all over the place; his white t-shirt almost entirely soaked in crimson. His hands were slippery with both his own sweat and drying blood. He stumbled sideways, blinking away the sudden urge to black out.

All three cops were on him now, two of them at his arms, one trying to pin him down from the rear. The more he struggled, the more the slash across his stomach bled.

"Fuckers! Goddamn fucking pigs!" He spat, teeth bared. But, deep down, he knew he'd lost. He'd lost the moment he'd stood up from the barstool and produced that knife. He'd just learned a vital lesson, amongst others: never produce a weapon in a fight that you are not adept at defending yourself against.

Rapidly losing his adrenaline rush and the will to fight on, the three policemen were finally able to cuff him, drag him outside, and wrestle him into the backseat of a patrol car. Even then, he spent a good two minutes struggling in vain. Then, head lolling in defeat and blood loss, he finally collapsed across the back seat.

He woke up, after what seemed like an eternity, in a hospital ward. His right wrist was handcuffed to the metal fame of the bed. His bloodstained clothing was gone; he was now wearing a hospital gown. His head was swimming with drugs and his own confused thoughts. What the hell had happened?

The dull ache and tightness across his stomach brought it all back. He'd lost it. He'd gone totally ballistic in that bar and now he was here, like this. It was possibly the stupidest thing he'd ever done and now he was going to pay for it. All those years of dodging responsibly….and now he was going to have to face the music.

Shifting a little, he gingerly touched his stomach with his free hand. He recoiled in pain and revulsion as he felt the distinctive lacing of fine stitching underneath his fingers.

"Oh….fuck…..." he groaned in self misery. In the years to come, he'd look upon himself as acting like a real pussy in that moment. But caught up in the trauma of the 'first time', he reacted in the only way he knew how. As his injuries accrued over the years, so did his tolerance for the whole experience.

The next morning he was transported to the Austin County police house to be booked. He would have much preferred to stay at the hospital. His stitched up wound had died down to a dull ache by late that first evening, and he liked the drugs they were giving him….best of all, there turned out to be allot of really attractive young nurses in his ward who were quite nice to him.

But the cops were hardly as lenient. He soon found himself being ushered into a bare walled, florescent lit room in the back of the police station. His hospital gown had been traded in for a set of county blues.

This would amazingly be the only time in Bill's life he would ever be arrested. He was fingerprinted, filed and ordered to stand for mug shots; holding his own prisoner number tag up under his chin.

It would be a good twenty years before Bill would actually see those mug shots. He acquired them, with his at that point somewhat formidable means, in an effort to erase any or all existence of himself from normal society. At that level in his career, it seemed like an important tactic.

He had laughed at himself when seeing the pictures: with his youthful snub of a nose up in the air, squinty eyes narrowed even further in some sort of Clint Eastwood impersonation, bruised up, looking damn proud of himself, and angry as all hell to boot. Upon viewing them, he verbally noted that his younger self was: "a mean cocky little fucker begging to get a good ass whoopin'."

Like many things in life, the situation was quite amusing in retrospect, but at the moment Bill found it deathly serious.

After being booked, he was muscled down a long hallway and tossed into a small cell.

He quickly learned that he absolutely hated being locked up. The decision that he'd rather die than spend his life in prison was a swift one to make. Prison was, by far, the worst goddamn place he'd ever been in….both physically and psychologically. He felt like a caged animal, and he knew for sure he'd kill himself if he had to be locked up for any length of time. What was the point to living if all you did was rot away in such a hell? He felt as if his very soul was being squelched.

Bill had always hated closed spaces, small rooms and like. He'd been naturally drawn to large rooms, open areas….like the desert. Being in jail now only strengthened this feeling; to the point of it nearly being a phobia. It was something that would stick with him his entire life; cars being perhaps the only exception.

For the first five hours or so he was in the cell he wouldn't sit, he wouldn't lie on the metal slab that was an excuse for a cot….he did nothing but pace the eight foot square area, prowling back and forth. At least he didn't have to deal with the chaffing handcuffs anymore…..but it was little comfort.

As the evening rolled around, a staff sergeant was posted at the small wooden desk a few feet up the hallway from his cell.

Bill peered at the man from the gap between his cell bars. He was a tall, barrel chested man, most likely in his early forties. He had a ruddy cheeked, wholesome look to him; like John Wayne on a good day. But he also looked like he could take down an alligator if he really wanted to. He was wearing the Texan standard issue ten gallon cowboy hat and a nametag that read "Sgt. Robert Wilson." He seemed absorbed in his paperwork, as if it was proving to be quite difficult for him to do.

Realizing he was being watched, the man looked up. His all-American blue eyes narrowed as they fell upon Bill.

"Ya might as well give yerself a rest kid….heal up and snooze on that cot for the night," he drawled in a low friendly tone.

Offering the staff sergeant a vicious glare, Bill said nothing in reply, and turned his back to resume his pacing.

"I'd rather not," he grumbled after a moment.

The sergeant offered a chuckle from his desk, ""Yer gunna dig yerself a trench to China if ya keep that pacin' up boy."

Bill gave the man a wild eyed look, "Well….didn't ya know…that was my plan all along," he drawled back sarcastically, and turned back once again to pace the other direction.

Shaking his head, the sergeant went back to his paperwork.

After another thirty minutes of pacing and having to listen to the sergeant's childlike pencil scrawling, Bill slumped against the bars; succumbing to his own fatigue and irritability. It occurred to him then that he hadn't had a smoke in well over a day. The drugs they'd given him at the hospital had proved to fend off his cravings, but now…as they were beginning to wear off, he was dying for a cigarette.

Once again, he fell still and watched Sergeant Wilson. Surely the man smoked. How could he not, living in Texas and wearing a hat that goddamn big?

"Can I get a smoke from ya?" Bill spoke up through the bars.

Sergeant Wilson looked up from his work. He smiled, "Sure….what's your brand kid?"

"Chesterfields……," but at this point Bill was just about willing to smoke a dirty newspaper filled with dirt.

"Well you're in luck, that's my brand too…." The sergeant stood up, digging a pack of cigarettes from his uniform trouser pocket. He lumbered towards the cell, holding a cigarette out to Bill's outstretched fingers.

Bill brought his face up towards the bars, letting the sergeant light his cigarette with a small silver lighter he'd produced from his breast pocket.

"You're a tough ambre ain't ya?" Wilson observed, as Bill pulled away. "Heard you put up one hell of a fight….bleedin' all over the place."

Frowning, Bill didn't reply. He didn't want to have a fucking conversation with this pig; he just wanted a damn cigarette.

"How's that stichin' holdin' up?" This Sergeant Wilson obviously couldn't take a hint, and he lingered near the front of Bill's cell like an all too friendly but stupid grizzly bear. "Ya know, I've got a boy….., " he leaned his large form against the nearby wall, "….about your age. He'll be graduating from high school this spring. Name's Bobby Jr." He lit up a cigarette of his own; eyes twinkling in admiration of the subject.

Bill sat down on the edge of the cot, inhaling on his newly received cigarette lovingly. He sighed, realizing that he was stuck with this Wilson for the time being. He supposed it was better than talking to himself. Resigned to that fact, he leaned his back up against the far wall, "And I'm sure your Bobby Jr. plays football, loves having his mamma's meat loaf on Sunday evenings, and wants to be a cop just like his pa when he's all grown up."

Missing the bitter sarcasm Wilson smiled, "Well….he does want be a lawman yes….actually, he wants to be a Texas Ranger."

Bill scoffed. Wonderful, just what the world needed was another fucking hard assed Texas Ranger.

"He's a good kid though," Wilson continued on, smoking away, "…..he's been datin' this real nice gal for a few years, Jean…..she's his high school sweetheart. They are both real good about it though, always beim' chaperoned and such."

Bill settled his gaze on the far wall, "He's fucking her," he offered bluntly.

"Oh no….," Wilson shook his large head, "…I already talked to him about….fornicatin' with girls. They're waitin' to get married to do any of that sort of thing."

Bill snorted, "Line of bullshit, he's fucking her."

Wilson straightened up, looking pointedly at Bill, "And why do ya say that kid?"

"Mrm," Bill shrugged, taking a long drag from his cigarette, "I would be."

"But see, you ain't my boy. He's a good kid….you're….."

"A long haired, no good, troublemaking, bastard?" Bill interjected with a smirk.

"Eh, well….," Wilson scratched at his lined forehead underneath his hat brim, "…I just know he wouldn't be doin' that with his girl. I know him better n' that."

"Sure," Bill pivoted towards him on the cot, leaning forward a little, "…well you go and ask him….just ask him flat out. I bet he'll tell you….seein' how he's so loyal to his daddy and all."

Wilson puckered his lips, looking at Bill for a few long seconds. "Alright….," he said finally, coming to a conclusion, "…it's a deal kid. Well," he hefted his belt, "…I should be gettin' back to my work." He nodded, "You get some rest now."

The large man reseated himself at the small desk and got back to his work.

Leering, Bill snubbed his cigarette out against the concrete wall. He then cringed, as he attempted to make himself comfortable on the cot. His wound was beginning to throb again and he didn't have any more drugs to deter the pain. But perhaps Wilson was right, perhaps some sleep would do him good.

The next morning passed without any word of what was going to happen to him, and Bill found it easier to simply remain in the cot. The stitches and the confines of the cell were beginning to take their toll on him. But when Bill spotted the familiar face of Sergeant Wilson appear through the bars, he sat up.

"Well somebody's blown yer bail kid…..," the policeman said, unhooking his keys from his belt loop, "…..count yerself lucky…..not havin' to go to county It's allot worse there.."

Jubilant, Bill crawled out of the cot and waited eagerly at the bars. The fact that he was getting out of the cell nearly making him forget his physical pain.

"I gotta cuff ya first," Wilson remarked, "They told me to….seems ya got the desk jockeys up front spooked a bit. Turn around kid….put yer hands behind yer back."

Smirking, on his own behalf, Bill turned and let Wilson cuff him through the bars.

"So, I talked to my son…like ya told me to," Wilson said quietly as he went about putting on the cuffs, "……..and…..he just sorta…broke down….spilt the beans. He told me everything. Not only about how he was…..doin'….things with Jean, he also told me he's been drinkin' on the weekends and even racin' cars for money every now and then."

Cuffs now securely on his wrists, Bill turned to face the older man. Wilson looked truly distraught over finding out that his son was not the ideal boy he'd thought he was.

"How did you know?" Wilson asked earnestly.

"Simple." Bill replied in a grave tone, sharp gaze conveying something older than his seventeen years, "People are not black and white……and nothing is as good as it seems." He shrugged after a moment, offering the man a half smile, "Don't take it so hard. Could be worse, he could be me."

Wilson made no reply to this; he simply unlocked the cell door and quietly escorted the young man up towards the front of the station. He didn't say another to word to Bill.

Years later, Bill read in the paper about a kid from Texas by the name of Bobby Wilson Jr., who'd went completely off his rocker in Vietnam and blown his brains out in his father's garage with a police issue shotgun. Bill always wondered if that had been the same kindly sergeant's son.

Indeed, nothing is as good as it seems.

Of course, it had been Estiban who'd made his bail. Bill spotted the pimp right away while he was at the front desk, having his cuffs removed and being given back his confiscated belongings. He didn't get the knife back, naturally.

Estiban's dark eyes bore into him from across the room. He motioned towards the front doors with a sharp head bob.

Once they were both outside in the parking lot, Bill trotted to catch up with him; clutching at his stomach, "Why the hell didn't you get me out sooner?" He easily slipped back into speaking Spanish.

Turning on him with a frown, Estiban waved a warning finger, "I am thinking now I should have let you sit in there longer, it would do you some good." He was mad, but he was also calm…and Bill knew from experience that was not a good thing.

"Yeah, well….it was hell." Bill muttered; his words far less brazen than before.

Estiban said nothing, but the look on his face easily read 'boy, you don't know hell.' They both climbed stiffly into Estiban's recently purchased powder blue Ford Galaxie and headed south.

The drive back to Mexico was utterly quiet and heavy with tension. Bill avoided looking at Estiban and resided to glaring out his window at the passing scenery. Both of them smoked in silence.

Once back in Acuna, Bill quickly got out of the car and headed straight for the house. He had every intention of getting to the safety of his room as soon as possible, but Estiban grabbed him from behind and spun him around; fingers digging into his shoulder.

"You, stupid…..fucking…….foolish, boy!" Estiban roared, punctuating each insult with a confident close handed strike across Bill's face.

Despite being taken completely by surprise, Bill took each hit with complete stoicism, his feet planted firmly on the ground. Only his head was moved by the sheer force of Estiban's punches. He kept his face turned to the side for a few long seconds after Estiban had stopped, eyes shut, blood running freely from his left nostril and the corner of his mouth.

Finally, he slowly turned his head back, looking the other man full in the face; his expression practically daring his father figure to hit him again. Estiban hadn't laid a hand on him since he was ten years old; not like this.

The corner of his split lip turned up, "It's not quite the same is it Estiban?" He whispered in a venomous tone, "Hitting a man?"

Estiban took in a deep shaky breath through his flared nostrils, the veins in his temples protruding. But soon his eyes hooded over with worn heavy lids. He reached into his inner jacket pocket, and produced a classic red handkerchief. He held it out. "You're not a man," he muttered as Bill snatched the handkerchief away and applied it to his bleeding face. "A man wouldn't do what you did. That was the act of a boy, a coward…..who cannot control himself. You not only put yourself in danger…you put me and my business in danger. You put the Acuna Boys in danger, and in turn…you put Acuna in danger. On top of having to pay your bail, I had to pay off the three men you attacked, plus the two cops. This so none of them would press charges. Believe me, none of them were the cheap kind of men either."

Bill's defiant look dulled noticeably, and he gradually lowered his eyes to the dusty ground. He nodded silently. Of course, he understood. He'd understood the moment he'd come to his senses. He'd had a good long two days to think about it. He'd acted like a fucking idiot, and he was resigned to agree with Estiban's verbal lashing.

"Come here." Estiban took a step forward, placing a rough palm lovingly against Bill's beaten face, "I never had a son, until I saw you…..," the pimp spoke softly now in English, and with surprising tenderness, "You are that son……I do not know what I would do if something were to happen to you."

Bill nodded again, eyes still downcast as an unexpected lump formed in this throat.

"I love you Bill, as a son," Estiban professed, pulling the skinny young man into a fatherly hug and giving him a few fond slaps on the back. Bill rested his bruised face against Estiban's shoulder, out of both bitter surrender and comfort. He ignored the pain that the embrace caused him in his fresh stitches.

"I'm sorry Estiban," Bill whispered against the man's linen coat, voice quivering. "I realize my mistake now……I apologize for my disobedience." The words came out before he could really think about them.

And there it was; the power that Estiban wielded…to be so cruel and violent one moment and then so loving and compassionate the next; the tyrant to the charmer in a matter of seconds. This was a man who had been controlling women for decades, and running the Acuna Boys for nearly as long. He knew how to get what he wanted and he knew how to punish people for their mistakes.

That is not to say that Bill not deserve some of what he'd received, or that Estiban did not love Bill, or visa versa. But it would be a lie to say that there was no amount of self centered manipulation between the two of them. As the years went on their relationship matured, but they both were corrupted men…and corrupted men rarely share pure relationships. Estiban would in turn, pass many of his traits along to the very same young man he'd both just struck and embraced in less than a minute.

Pulling away, Estiban held Bill away at arm's length. "You look like fucking shit," he said, smiling now.

'No thanks to you', Bill was tempted to say, but instead he nodded, halfheartedly returning the smile.

"Let's go inside….," Estiban steered him towards the house, "….I just bought a shipment of new local tequila. You can be my guinea pig, yes?"

---

After the incident in Austin, Bill spent a few weeks resting and healing up. Carlos had felt awful about the whole thing, but Bill kept assuring him that he was not to blame. Bill knew his temper is what had gotten him into all of that shit. He'd always been aware of his temper, and just how bad it was, but never had it been so out of control before.

Yet, it seemed fessing up and becoming aware of his temper was not the full salvation to his problems Three weeks after the whole thing in Austin, Bill was back to wielding the intimidating fist of the Acuna Boys. Two days back in, he broke a guy's arm behind a strip joint, and the next day he broke another man's nose while attempting to get him to pay off an old gambling debt to Estiban.

Apparently it would take a harder knock to get Bill to calm down, and that knock came soon enough.

"Some mujer gorda is at the front door, asking for you Bill," a prostitute by the name of Angela approached him as he was reading on the front couch one evening. She smacked her gum obnoxiously.

"Hrm?" He looked up from the book he'd been reading. It was a book on self defense, or…martial arts….by some ancient Japanese man whose name he couldn't pronounce worth a damn. It had been a good two months since he'd been cut in the bar fight. He now had a large scar across his stomach, and it bothered him greatly every time he looked at it. If he only knew then just how many more scars would join it throughout his lifetime. But he didn't, and he'd now become obsessed with learning how to better defend himself. He'd found the self defense book on a back shelf, while making his bribe collecting rounds to a small thrift store in town. So far, he liked it. "What woman?" He glared at Angela over the rim of the book.

Angela popped a bubble, "A woman….big one, she's crying….," she turned and sauntered away with a jaded roll of her eyes.

Bill stood with a frown, making his way towards the front foyer. It was then that Julio's Aunt Blanca, the rotund woman who had seen to Bill's broken nose all those years ago, burst into the living room. She had always been a jovial sort of lady and she'd always seemed to like him…until now.

She was obviously upset, her face wet with tears, hair tussled and her tiny round eyes honing in right on him like an irate mother hen going in for the kill. She bustled across the living room, her bright colored shawl flittering behind her.

Bill's frown deepened, He set aside his book. He then opened his mouth to say something as she approached, but didn't get the chance.

"HE'S DEAD!" She roared suddenly. Her voice was so loud; Bill swore the very walls of the house had just rattled. She then snatched him by the forearms and shook him violently; her face contorted with sorrow. For a few long moments, all she did was weep, her mouth working to try to speak, her forehead pounding against his chest. He was quite a bit taller than her now. She pulled away. "Julio……he….he is dead…….shot…in the head. He tired to rob a store……in San Diego….the police…..they killed him, my little Julio…..died right on the spot…" Her hands moved up to the collar of Bill's button up shirt and she once again shook him with even more emotion, as she let out a massive sob.

Bill stood dumbfounded, staring down at her tear stained face.

"You did this to him Bill!" She roared up at him, spittle flying from her mouth, "YOU KILLED HIM! You corrupted him…….he was a good boy…….so good…….you made him bad…….you killed him!"

Bill said nothing, he felt nothing. His best friend had died…….his childhood friend, his last tie to a more innocent time….and he felt nothing. Was it the sheer shock of the moment, or perhaps a hint of the sociopathic tendencies to come? It was impossible to tell looking at Bill now, he was impassive; with his, brows knitted, large lower lip down turned at just the slightest angle and sharp eyes focused intensely on a beadwork piece hanging above Aunt Blanca's head. It was all he could do to let her continue to berate him without reacting violently.

Aunt Blanca's hands slowly slipped from his collar, falling sadly to her round hips in defeat.

"My Julio died….., they blew his face off," she whispered in a haunting tone, "…and you have nothing to say to me?"

Swallowing, Bill managed a hunky, "No." His gaze was still averted above her head.

Stepping away in disgust, she brushed past him and headed for the front door. She turned at the last minute to glare at him with pure hatred, and then crossed herself in full Catholic fashion, "Madre Mary, perdóneme. May God have pity on your black soul Bill……," she hissed, "…for only He has the ability to forgive a devil such as you….."

Bill turned to look at her sharply, but she was gone. It was the first time anybody had ever addressed him as a devil, but it would be far from the last.

---

Julio's funeral took place in the little light brown chapel outside of town. The very same chapel he was supposed to be married in at the end of that month. Instead, now he was being buried outside of it.

He would just have turned twenty years old.

It was a stale and muggy Sunday afternoon. The sky was a dreary blue stained sepia. Every now and again a bold southern wind would pick up and scatter the hot air, kicking up dust along its way. There was little noise out where the chapel stood, as the highway was virtually deserted; the truckers spending their weekends in respite.

Bill sat in the back of the chapel, where the light of the large stained glass windows refused to touch, and the sorrowful gaze of the altar's Virgin Mary did not gaze upon. Besides, Aunt Blanca refused to let him anywhere near the family's seating area, and he complied without a word of objection. He'd worn his best black boots, slacks, jacket and dress shirt. He knew Julio would have wanted him to. During the service, he mostly kept his head down and scratched idly at the dusty ground with a stick he'd yanked off a tree while on his walk to the chapel. It was easier that way.

Julio's fiancée was there. She wept the entire time, with her head wrapped up in a black shawl and Aunt Blanca's meaty arm around her shoulders. Bill had caught sight of her face briefly as she'd come in. Julio had been right, she was beautiful….even through the puffy eyes and the tear stained cheeks. She was also pregnant, and noticeably so. Upon this realization, Bill found he couldn't look at her anymore and turned his head back down to the dusty floorboards. Soon he set aside the stick that had been in his hand.

In the dust, he'd written, "Mi amigo."

It was when Julio's father, who was blatantly drunk, started to play the accordion, that Bill stood to leave. But when he turned, he bumped right into the chest of Raul, Julio's brute of an older brother.

"I will not kill you inside a chapel," Raul hissed, soft enough to not be heard over the music, "Outside…" he pushed Bill towards the exit, leaving no room for argument. On his way out, he scraped his boot across Bill's dust scrawled words.

Bill didn't have it in him to fight, not now. He let Raul manhandle him like a rag doll, as he was slammed up against the rough outside wall of the chapel. All of the anger and power he'd felt recently was gone; drained from him. At the moment he didn't care if Raul beat his face into the ground.

Raul, with tears welling in his eyes, shoved him once again into the wall, "You fucking bastard! You did this to him…," he snarled.

Bill shook his head with an expression of pity, "No….Raul…..you did this to him. You were the one who taught him everything you knew….you were his older brother….he looked up to you…idolized you….."

"He also looked up to you, you know!" Raul grated, between his crooked set of teeth, "You fucking Americana bastard. He wouldn't fucking shut up about you….it was always 'Bill this' and 'Bill that' I sometimes wondered if he would rather have had you as a brother than me. Motherfucker!"

Bill shook his head again, eyelids drooping, "He loved you Raul….I know he did, I-"

"Shut the fuck up! Don't be talking about love to me, faggot. I've heard more than enough talking from you over the years, demasiado!" His look became murderous, "I'm gunna break more than your fucking nose this time…." He reared back, a massive meaty fist about to pound into Bill's face…..for the second time in his youth. But he paused when a sharp voice interjected from the doorway of the chapel.

"Parada! Leave him be Raul." It was Aunt Blanca, watching darkly from underneath her veil. "You will not dirty your hands on God's soil, especially on that evil boy."

With more than a little glimmer of reluctance in his eyes, Raul pulled away, and lowered his fist. But before he turned away, he muttered under his breath, "I will kill you, bastard."

Bill silently glowered at Raul's back…..which looked very much like Julio's from this angle. But he said nothing, and he did not move until Raul, Aunt Blanca and the rest of Julio's family had solemnly filed out of the chapel. He simply remained there, plastered up against the wall where Raul had left him, his fingers digging into the rough clay, his chest heaving in fury. He could feel his temper broiling now. It was so hard, to hold it back. But somehow he knew he could do it. He had to hold it back. At that moment, he wanted more than anything to attack that disappearing back of Raul's. He'd deliver two quick jabs to Raul's kidneys…….and then put him in a choke hold. He'd let him feel pain, real pain…pain unlike he'd ever known. Then he'd slowly squeeze his neck until it was nothing more than a deflated piece of bruised flesh. He'd fucking kill him with his bare hands. He knew he could do it.

He remained stock still for a good five minutes, awash in utter fury, every muscle in his body clenched up. And then….slowly…it passed. Sure, the anger was still there, simmering….but the rage was gone. He let his head fall back against the wall. He'd done it, he'd overcome his own temper. He hadn't gone completely ballistic, despite every bone in his body wanting to. It wasn't an impossible thing after all.

Taking a deep breath and dislodging himself from the wall, Bill walked out onto the large dusty plot surrounding the chapel. He stood out there for sometime; in the brown dirt, with his hands in his trouser pockets, the wind whipping his hair across his face, and his boots planted firmly on the ground. The afternoon sun was hot against his black coat and slacks, but it was strangely comforting in its intensity. It was then that he did some serious thinking.

He realized that if he didn't calm down…..didn't learn to better control himself, be smarter…..that soon it could very well be his funeral in this same chapel. He didn't want it to be like that. It would be so goddamn pathetic. He would have any real family there, only Estiban, a group of dirty criminals, maybe a few weeping whores, and if she wasn't out fucking somebody, perhaps his mother. He was better than that and he knew it. He'd never known his father, but he knew that somehow he would be a better man than his father had been….in some way or another. And getting killed in a bar fight or shot in the back of a parking lot at the age of seventeen would most likely not make him any better that his father.

Julio had not deserved what had happened to him, but nonetheless, he was dead at nineteen, leaving behind a pregnant fiancée, a devastated family, and what might have been a better future. He was like so many, gone too early…..he was a statistic. He would be the kind of case people would read about in the paper and mumble something about 'no good dirty Mexicans' before they moved onto the funny pages. It was unfair, but that was just the way it was. Bill was not angry about what had happened, he was simply blatantly aware that such cruelties existed.

He knew that it was often that things undeserved were brought upon you; he'd known that long ago. He also knew that whatever was to happen to him throughout his life, including whatever brought about the end of it, would be well deserved. He could accept what he brought upon himself but he had no desire to encourage a fate that he felt was not yet deserved. In time, he would reap the rightful consequences of his actions……but not yet.

Squinting into the afternoon sun for a few moments longer, he then turned his back on the chapel and began his walk back home.

---

After Julio's funeral, Bill spent a few weeks doing very little of anything. He drank far too much a few times, went camping out in the desert by himself completely stoned, and pretty much stayed away from doing anything too violent. That wasn't to say he didn't desperately want to. But for some reason he felt the need, in Julio's honor, to take some time out from the Acuna Boys. Estiban made no objections to this, and in fact he was quite kind about the whole event to Bill; offering his condolences and a brand new bottle of Jack Daniels to his adopted son.

But, it was on Bill's eighteenth birthday that Estiban gave him perhaps the oddest gift he'd ever received thus far, or would possibly ever receive.

"Come into the front room Bill," Estiban called from down the hallway towards the open crack of Bill's bedroom door.

Frowning, Bill crawled out of bed, pulling on a clean t-shirt and jeans. He padded barefoot down the hallway, combing his hair with his fingers. He felt too groggy and just the slightest bit too hung over to give much thought as to what Estiban was up to. He barely even gave much thought to the day being his birthday. It didn't really matter that much to him anymore.

When he entered the living room area, there was Estiban, standing in front of three women. Bill recognized one of them as Valerie, a raven haired woman who'd been whoring for Estiban for a few years now. The other two were younger and completely new to him.

Estiban turned, and smiled, motioning Bill over. "Ah Bill, here they are…..these are very beautiful girls, all of them. I picked them myself. They will work hard for you. I will of course, receive a percentage of their earnings, along with some of your take. You know Valerie," he nodded to the dark haired woman, "…. and these two are new, Julie and Mariana."

But Bill wasn't looking at the girls; he was staring at Estiban; the man's rapid succession of words still registering through the waking fog of his mind. But it quickly dawned on him just what Estiban was getting at. He was giving him control of these women.

Bill turned to look at the women……his women? They remained obediently standing there in a row, their eyes downcast. He was too shocked to take much specific notice of them at the moment, let alone say anything to them.

Laughing, Estiban threw his arm around Bill's shoulders, as he was apt to do in his moments of admiration for 'his son'.

Bill blinked, unsure of what to say, "I………."

Estiban's smile widened, as he plucked his cigarette out of his mouth, and motioned to the women with the smoldering end of it, "You see Bill….you are a pimp now."