Bill always did love a big explosion.
When he was a kid, he was always fascinated by the fireworks they set off during the Fourth of July. The bright colors painting the sky in blues and reds and greens. He'd watch them from the roof of his shack, face slack in awe as the loud explosions drowned out the sounds of the yelling below him. When he finally dragged himself to his cot, he would close his eyes, seeing the explosions behind his lids.
As he got older he began to appreciate other types of explosions.
The ones made from fists and rage. From the liquor in his system and a breath in his ear. He learned that bruises colored the same as fireworks. Rapidly changing colors from reds to blacks to blues to yellows. He liked the way they looked on his skin. But liked it more on the skin of others. He roared through the years before Dutch like a train rapidly going nowhere.
In many ways Dutch gave him the focus to hone his skills. He was free from the constraints of society. From the people that looked down on him.
But as time moved on, he found he wasn't as free as he thought.
Idiot, they called him behind his back.
Moron, they whispered around the fire.
He hears them planning and scheming, calling him the rat. He'll show them. One day soon there will be no more Dutch. No more Arthur. No more John. And when that time comes he's going to make sure that he goes out in a bang.