Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.

Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.

Part Sixty-Seven: Bill

8:46 AM, November 16th, 1899

Hosea used to tease Lenny over his crush. "It can't work out, kid," he'd chuckle. "Lenny and Jenny? That'd be like Martha and Arthur, or Greg and Meg."

Or Bill and Till, Williamson thought as he exited the barn, stuffing the loose dollars into his pocket. Grimshaw's pride had softened, so they delivered their unwanted goods to the fence after all. He'd offered even less than the last time, a fifth of what they were worth—the idiot only gave them a nickel for the fountain pen Arthur had robbed off the lanky boy in Valentine. Still, Tilly sighed, and Bill outstretched his hand.

Heh, Bill was too thick to have noticed, but I certainly did; for all Grimshaw's complaining, it was the most money they'd earned in weeks.

"Oh, hey, let's stop up here," Tilly insisted, bouncing with fake excitement. She pointed at Emerald Ranch's train station, where the domino table stood vacantly. "I'm in the mood to kick some ass at dominoes! You in the mood to lose?"

"Not really," Bill grunted. She wasn't a bad actress, but he was well aware of the night she'd had last night. He knew the last thing she'd wanted was to be here with him, instead of back at camp, sucking in a few precious hours of sleep before the redskins kicked them off their land for good.

"C'mon!" she tried, wrapping her slim hands over his heavy bicep, playfully tugging him over to the table.

He didn't fight. Tilly, he knew, didn't have the autonomy or intuitiveness to know that keeping him away from camp was a smart way to avoid conflict with the natives. If she wanted to distract him, that meant Dutch wanted to distract him. He was up at the crack of dawn, like usual—he didn't sleep too well, especially not with all those red men around him—and Tilly was right up there with him, which must have been torture considering how tired she looked. They'd spent the morning driving to the ranch, selling their goods, collecting the mail, searching for Strauss, but she'd taken a certain amount of time with all of it, and that was when Bill put it together.

As she shuffled the white-dotted tiles, Bill knew her friendly smile was phony as a three-dollar bill. She didn't want to be his pal, no one did.

Can't say I blame her, he thought, carelessly sliding random wooden pieces to his L-shaped rack, stacking them. Woulda killed one of them redskins by now, for sure. Bastards think they can take our fuckin' money—

"Hey, whoa," she chastised, plucking two from his stack with her thumbs and middle finger (the bitch led with the latter, making her thoughts on him abundantly transparent). "I gotta flip 'em first, big boy. It's gotta be random. You only get seven, anyway. Here, let me…"

Big boy? Does she think I'm fat? I ain't fat. Uncle, now he was fat. Micah had a pretty bad beer belly too. Not me. I ain't fat.

His hand crept up the hem of his checkered mustard shirt, groping his hairy paunch at the belly button. That ain't fat… just… just muscle that's dulled a mite. That's all.

His train of thought derailed as Tilly flipped over the rest of the tiles so their brown backs showed and their white eyes took a snooze on the warm wooden table. He glanced up at her, wearing her yellow and white dress again, wincing a bit. The girl's own white eyes were outlined with thick black craters. Between fighting the Lannahechee River to swim back to land and walking the rest of the way back to camp, he wondered if she slept at all last night.

Still, she looked a hell of a lot better than those Germans, than how he'd expected her to appear. When her horse came back without her, everyone thought what happened to her had happened to Micah: capture or raped or killed or all three if they were imaginative.

When it was done, Tilly selected her seven tiles meticulously, as though their cherrywood asses would tell her which was which. Afterward, she shoved the rest off to the boneyard, leaving the center of the board open. Even with Bill not paying a lick of attention, he'd still chosen his seven while looking straight down on their value; all the same, Tilly didn't argue the legitimacy of that, only asked the value of his highest double.

"I got… uh… ten."

"Oh, great, Bill!" she exclaimed. Her voice was thick with honey, but it was the shit kind, the kind they made in factories. "I only got an eight, so you lay first."

The tile snapped as he laid it on the table. It was round, the table, with a pale square painted in the middle, starkly contradicting the naturally dark wood that formed the outskirts of the square, where Tilly had pushed the boneyard off to, though Bill was sure why it was called a boneyard if all the pieces were mahogany.

She sighed disappointedly. "Bill… that… that dog won't hunt."

He looked down at his ten-eyed piece, a six and a four, bemused. "What you mean?"

"I said 'What's the value a' your highest double.' A six and a four ain't a double, Bill."

He felt the skin under his bushy beard grow hot and pink. "I… I thought double was just what you called them. Like pawns or rooks."

It was a simple mistake, an honest one. A fair one, even, she'd been exceptionally unclear, yet she had the audacity to gawk at him like she couldn't believe what he was saying was true.

"N-no, Bill… they're called tiles. Or bones, I guess, but—never mind. Just tiles, stick with tiles."

She thinks I'm an idiot, Bill thought, growling internally. She was the one who was fuckin' vague! 'Double.' That can mean anything!

"So," she began, "I guess I'll go first then since I got the eig—"

"Y'know, double can mean a lot of things."

"Huh?"

"You shoulda explained yourself more. It's confusing otherwise."

"Y-yeah. Uh-huh, sure. Uh, so… I'll-I'll just go first." She set down a double-four, two white squares on a white square. "We'll play All Fives, you know how to play?"

He had no idea. "'Course I do."

"Well, uh, I'll explain it regardless. Y'know… to avoid confusion."

"Ain't no confusion. I know how to play."

"It'll just take a minute, so—"

"I know how to play! Stop treating me like I'm a fuckin' idiot!"

She frowned and crossed her arms. "Okay then. Your move."

Shit, he thought, studying his doubles, sorry, his tiles, before dropping one and folding his arms correspondingly to her. The glare from the sun picked up just over her head, so he leaned his hat down a bit to compensate.

Her glowing haloed head shook a fervent no.

"Fine, maybe explain them just in case," he murmured angrily, making the boneyard jump as he banged his hand to scoop up his tile.

"Ya wanna make things that are divisible by five," she said, rearranging the boneyard primly. "Like right now, two fours are on the board, so it's eight. You wanna add onto that so that number becomes five, ten, or fifteen, or something. The catch is you can only add on with what's available, so only if you got something with a four to build off of my four."

"What if I don't have that?" he asked.

"You draw from the boneyard."

At a moment, his hands were rummaging around in the cemetery, taking a tile. He had several with a four already, including the six-four he tried to play earlier, but he was confused; a trial run would help.

Tilly luckily didn't call him out, he would've burst if she had, though she still glared at him with that pitying look in her eyes, like they'd all done for Jack when John was shot. Oh, it's okay, sweet thing, everything will be all right. He hated when they treated him like he was a little boy. Or a big boy. I ain't an idiot, and I ain't fat.

Tilly snapped a four-two tile, eyes with an agape mouth, on her double-four. "That's ten, so I get ten points."

"You still got Arthur's pen?"

"I'll remember the scores."

"Hmph," he sneered as he searched his rack. "Don't get cute with the numbers." Bill lowered a four-three on the opposite end of the starting tile.

"Good job, Bill," she patronized. "That's five to you."

Bill remembered the welcome home party at Lakay. Lenny was cheering on Jack for beating him at dominoes. I ain't fuckin' Jack. But he kept silent. He needed to be on good behavior. Dutch let him stay after… her… and now after those damn redskins?

Strauss told me to do it, he told himself. To collect the debt. I didn't do nothin' wrong.

She snapped a double-two, laying it vertically. "So… you sleep well last night? See, doubles are set that way, so it ain't a five, it's a seven, so I don't get anyth—"

"I know," he snarled. "And no, I didn't sleep well."

He never slept well. Especially not since they started residing with the enemy. It brought back nightmares of the war, of the Red Man, skin crimson with blood, narrow pupils yellow like a cat, arrow notched and drawn back, chanting an ominous high-pitched squeal as he charged on horseback.

It was a good ambush, they'd masked their scent, kept their lanterns dead, and marched by moonlight. Hadn't mattered, some scout with a keen eye must've spotted them, and when they arrived to burn the village down, the Red Man was ready for them.

The natives didn't have many guns, so they always moved to close the gap, making the army's guns worthless since you couldn't very well shoot a bastard if he was plugging his knife into your belly. They waited for them, they must have because they only attacked at the perfect moment, when the regiment slid out from the woods to advance upwards at the riverside. With rapid waters cutting off their escape, they were bombarded from three sides, forming a triangle of death that must've dyed that river scarlet for weeks.

"Sorry to hear that," Tilly said as he plopped a two-five, winning zero points. No dice. "If anyone's earned some sleep, it's you."

He fought to keep in the scoff. He hated the lying; the brutal truth wasn't so bad, but the lying was poison. She hated him, he knew it. Hated him because he'd beaten that damn Indian and gotten that whole fiasco started. Weren't my fault, and still she blames me, cuz of course she does. Bill is a tool, he's an idiot, he ruins everything.

She snapped down a three-five, making ten. She was winning by fifteen. "How… how have you been doin' with things, Bill? We've lost a lot. Jenny, Mac, Davey, Arthur, Pearson, Trelawny, Sean, Lenny, maybe Micah. Fuck, when I name 'em all, I can scarcely believe it."

"You forgot one," he said softly, lowering a five-four. Zero points. "Karen. Right? Cuz if I didn't kill her then, in her state, she's probably dead now, right? Cuz I scared her away?"

Her hands reached up defensively. "I-I didn't say that…"

He shoved a fat finger, no not fat, it wasn't fat, it was dulled muscle. "You were thinkin' it, though."

The sun had risen above her head so her damn halo was gone. "No, I-I weren't—"

"What were you thinkin' then?"

"I… Christ, Bill, I…" Her face hardened and her hands fell. "Y'know what? Fuck you. I was tryin' to see how you were holdin' up after everything. Watching all those miners die and Micah probably gettin' shot like a dog."

He spat off the platform, giving a faded yellow patch of grass a bath. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course, it matters." She smoothed a wrinkle from her dress, suddenly looking very crestfallen. "We've seen a lot of death… and… I was attempting to be nice to you, but woe is me, I guess." She snapped down a five-one. "That's five points for me."

She was lying, he knew it. Lying through her pearly white teeth. Like Mary-Beth and Kieran. Fucking faking it. I ain't a fuckin' idiot, no matter what they say. I know Dutch wants me, why else would he let me stay. But at least he's fuckin' honest about it. Everyone else pretends to be my friend. But they don't mean it, they're as false as Karen.

"Don't act like you want to be here," he barked. "You're just here cuz Mary-Beth and Kieran can't stand me."

"And maybe there's a reason for that," she hissed back, leaning over the table. "I heard what you did. Killin' a little boy. His goddamn mom. What the fuck is the matter with you? Y'know what, don't answer that—I don't care. Take after Charles, zip it, and make your damn move."

"Oh, I'll make my fuckin'—"

He raised his hand to swipe the tiles off the board, but stopped himself. Stay loose, he thought. Keep calm. Dutch wants you calm. You're on thin ice here, don't break it.

When the throbbing in his forehead relaxed and he glanced up at Tilly, he saw she was blenching back, hand covering her head.

Bill's voice cracked as he lowered his hand. "I… I wasn't goin' to hit you…" He couldn't muster anything more than a whisper. "I… I was just goin' to smack the… the doubles away, that's all."

The fear in her brown eyes cut deeper than his father's belt. Be scared, you dumb little boy, it recheated as the slash came, like hoarse drunken sandpaper in his mind, you worthless mooching fairy.

"Uh… I'll… uh… do this," he said awkwardly, placing a one-six abut her five-one. "No points for me, though. Your move." It was actually ten points for him, but Tilly didn't notice as she quickly lowered a six-two.

I wasn't going to hit her, he told himself, considering carefully, wrapping his fat sausagey fingers around his six-four, his first tile, and situating it on the tail-end of the string of dominoes so it became the head of a golf club. His total score hadn't changed, sitting with his IQ score in the single digits. I wasn't going to. I don't…

You hit Kieran, a small voice inside of him said. And the Red Man.

No, Bill objected, that was self-defense. They attacked me first. They fired first. And Karen insulted me, Molly did the same thing and Dutch paid her back, but no one cares about that. They only care when it's dumb ol' Bill.

"I ain't a bad guy," he spat suddenly. Tilly was placing a two-three to make the pattern of tiles a very long 'Z.' Her hand froze in the air as she studied him with her warm hazelnut eyes. "I ain't. I know I done some bad things, like with Karen—I mean, she did have it comin', the bitch, but I still… y'know, I feel bad 'bout that. My temper's always been a problem, but—I mean, c'mon, you woulda done the same. Dutch did, I just remembered. Remember? He beat Molly and no one objected—well, I guess Abigail did but fuck her, right? Look… I mean… in the life we live, sin's inevitable, but I mean, y'know, everyone sins. No one's perfect. Not no one. I don't wanna be perfect, never wanted to be, but… You believe me, right? I ain't a bad guy. Karen was a mistake, but c'mon, she was a fuckin' wreck, we all know it. Drunk and easy and all fucked up all the time. I mean, the Indians robbed us blind, and we're gonna forget 'bout it, can't you just forget I did that one thing? I ain't a bad guy. I ain't. You believe me, right? I wasn't gonna hit you."

Tilly's expression was a mask. The dark shadow of her hand wavered over the white board in the center of the table as she stared at him, gingerly selecting her words. After a moment, she sighed. "Sure, Bill. You ain't a bad guy." Her words were as flat as her eyes.

The tile echoed weakly as it clattered against the table. Her wooden rack was untenanted with any more doubles. "I win." She smiled, but she was faking. He could tell. "Good game." She offered her hand, which Bill tentatively shook. His hand had grown sweaty, so he was happy to relieve the moisture.

"Wanna do another game?" Bill asked, not sure why. He knew the answer.

"Let's… let's just go home." Like he said, she was faking. "Not that it'll be our home much longer." She rose to her feet, wiping her wet hand along the waistline of her skirt. Bill followed, leg sweeping the table's own leg, and the boneyard jounced and fell onto the station's planks. Tilly didn't notice, luckily—she was already hopping down the steps, moving to Brown Jack at the hitching post—so Bill swept the wooden pieces under his chair with two wide kicks and glowered at the train clerk until he looked away.

"Hey," Tilly started as he helped her onto the steed, "since I fancy myself Queen of the Silver Linings, I'll say it: we may have lost Micah, and we may have brought hell to a town we half-destroyed beforehand, absolutely decimating the population of innocent workers, but hey, we got Cornwall, right? Fuckin' best thing we ever did."

"Yeah," Bill agreed blankly, stirring Brown Jack out of Emerald Ranch. It wasn't worth the argument, but he didn't really think anything would change. Cornwall ain't the tip of a spear, he thought, he's the tip of a saw. There are a hundred more tiny blades behind him, keen and ready. Someone else'll back the Pinks, some other rich prick who's losing money on account of us.

Nothing was going to change. The Pinks stay on their tail, the two-faced savages stay savage, the gang hits big and goes back to square one again, and everyone keeps thinking he was a tool.

Bill glanced over his shoulder to confirm Tilly was still there. She was, clumsily astride Brown Jack, though it wrinkled her dress, pushing her hands against the beast's sides. Bill snickered. She's doin' a lot of work not to hold onto me. He sped up, hoping she'd lose her balance and fall. To his disappointment, she did not.

The sky was a rich gold, powdered with fluffy clouds as they passed the Heartland Overflow, crossing into Grizzlies East. Light crowned the Three Sisters, shimmering down in symmetrical streams, forcing Bill to yank his hat down so the glare wouldn't blind him.

"Bill," the soft tone declaimed in his right ear. "Remember… we're leavin'. Dutch doesn't want nobody to start somethin' with the natives."

His head whipped around to scowl at her. "Y'think I don't know that? Fuck, I didn't fuckin' do nothin'. Strauss told me to rough the guy up, so I did. Blame him."

"Bill, I didn't—"

"Christ, I lived with 'em for days before the lot of you moved in. In that time, did I give them cause to riddle me with arrows? Did I?"

"If you recall," she interjected, wind gliding off her tangled bundle of hair, "you wanted to strike back at 'em. With Micah? Use the Maxim gun from Lakay, massacre all the women and children, any of this ringin' a bell?"

His face flushed a damp pink. He flogged Brown Jack faster. "That was… y'know, it's not fair that you hold old stuff against me. Can't you let things go? Abigail is still cross with me cuz I told Jack his daddy was probably gonna die. What did she want me to do? Lie?"

"You could say just nicer things. Then we wouldn't have this problem."

His face folded into a frown. "Do you really think I'm fat?"

"I'm not havin' this talk with you, Bill," she said, gazing off. "Instead, you know what I'm goin' to do?"

"Cuz I don't think I am. We've spent a while layin' low, is all. Muscles dull, y'know?"

"Sure. Y'know what I'm goin' to do?" She bent over, reaching inside his horse's saddle pouch, fingers straggling the white envelopes they collected from the post office. "I'm goin' to read. Ever heard of it? Mary-Beth swears by it."

"'Course I heard of it," he muttered. "I ain't an idiot… Hey, what are you readin'?"

"Nothin'," Tilly answered coyly, sliding her gaunt finger into the fold of the paper, breaking the seal open. She uncreased the letter and began scanning it.

"Hey, what are you readin'?" Bill repeated, more to annoy her than out of genuine curiosity.

Her fit of giggles came at once, high-pitched and jumbled as a dozen chickens clucking. Her shoulders quivered with laughter, and her white teeth shone spectacularly in the light of the morning sun. She was a beautiful sight, with her cute dimple floating up and down on the waves of her bright smile, bangs mopping over her forehead in disheveled heaps. Heh, if only Bill swung that way.

"Dammit, what are you readin'?" Bill echoed, irritated now that she wasn't telling him. "What's so fuckin' funny?"

"I can't believe it…" she murmured. "Fuck me, how the hell didn't I figure?"

"What?! Tell me now or I'm droppin' you off."

"Keep your panties on," she belittled, "this is too good not to share. Okay, should I read it in an Irish accent? Yeah, I think it'll help set the mood. Okay, here goes:"

Dear sweet Molly,

It's me, of course. I met our mutual friend in Annesburg, and he told me about this 'Tacitus Kilgore' moniker you and those scoundrels use. Yes, yes, he's still with me, I'm keeping good care of him for now, though I fear he isn't a very mannered guest.

Why do you do this to me, my love? Betray me? After all I've done for you. Molly, my sweet, you may not understand it yet, but I'm the best friend you have. You need me and I need you.

So please, help me; you'd help a friend, wouldn't you? Especially one who cared so very deeply for you?

The Bible says, "If you love someone, you will be loyal to him, no matter what the cost." So I ask you to be loyal to the man you love. Me, or that miscreant Dutch Van der Linde. You have to choose.

If you write back that you choose him, I'll come to you. I'll find you. No force on earth will keep us apart. My friends and I will search high and low until we're together, and I will make you pay.

But… if you write that it is me you love, with my long shaggy blonde hair, furry mustache, cold blue eyes, brutal way of talking, and tacky hat that isn't even mine, then I will be yours, totally and completely. Though I know it won't be easy. You'll have to abandon your ragtag flock of madmen and murderers, and you'll have to finish with your old lover first. You'll have to show me you're done with him. You'll have to, metaphorically of course, sneak into his tent in the dead of night and shoot him with his own gun. That's what I need from you, that level of commitment. When that's done, write me and I'll tell you where I am.

We can still be together, my dear. Everything we need is within our reach, we just need the courage to reach out and take it. But I'm not worried. Love makes us strong, I've heard. And I just know you love your new man far more than your old one.

Love, always,

Amos Ross

When it was finished, Bill was confused, and Tilly was near tears.

"She's havin' an affair! Oh, man, that's darling." She went rigid, adjusting her posture and voice to sound like Molly, in all its uppity glory. "'No sir. I'm a one-man woman. I'm not a five-dollar whore. I am not some cheap harlot.'" Tilly returned, snickering. "Oh, Christ, all them times I said she was blowing off her responsibilities, oh man, what did I know!"

Bill found himself chortling too. It was a bit of an odd letter, but hey, romance was never something he was adept at. He'd snuck a peak at some of Mary-Beth's stories and could never tell which ones were could and which ones were shit.

"So that's why she sleeps all day," he quipped. "Cuz someone's keepin' her up all night."

"When she said she couldn't catch any shuteye cuz it was too hard, I thought she was talkin' about the mattress!" Tilly's youthful jowls quivered as she sucked in deep breaths. "Wow, okay, man, that made my day. Shit, I gotta tell Mary-Beth. Or Kar—"

She stopped herself, but Bill knew who she meant.

Silence took over for a moment or two, and all that could be heard was the steady gallop of Brown Jack and the rustle of leafless, bony branches in the breeze.

"I…" Bill said, breaking the silence, "I… I guess we know why Dutch pounded the shit outta her after all, don't we?"

It was a joke, but Tilly didn't laugh. For the first time, she touched him, squeezing his arm with anxious gravitas. His muscles deflated at the touch, the paunch molding to her grip. "Bill," she said, quietly, "Dutch can't know about this. He can't. He's under a lot of pressure now, and… his pride's always been a problem. I-I can see a world where he hurts her for this. Badly." She bent the letter back, ironing out the creases so it looked fresh and unopened. "We shouldn't have seen this, alright, let's forget we did." Her hand found his arm again and she tightened until he felt his bicep pinken under the sleeve. "I know you owe a lot to him, but please… don't say a word."

Bill cleared his throat, considering his next words carefully. "Do you really think I'm fat?"

"Wh—huh?"

"Do you think I'm fat?"

Her eyes darted left and right, as though someone was standing there with cue cards. "N-no, Bill… of course not."

He nodded, satisfied. "I'm not an idiot, y'know. I wouldn't try fightin' all them redskins on my own."

"Y-yeah… and… about Molly?"

"I know!" he growled, not sure why he was so mad. "I know! I'm not an idiot."

Her soft, warm hand left his arm. "I never said I thought you were—"

"But you think I'm cruel, don't you? Cuz a' Karen? Or that dumb little boy whose name you couldn't tell me. Or that Indian. I ain't a bad guy. I really ain't."

"I know," she sighed wearily. "I told you as much, remember?"

"But you didn't mean that," he insisted accusingly, "right?"

"What's meant is what's said, bud." Tilly stuffed the letter back in the saddle. "Can we please have some quiet now? I'm tired of talkin'."

Yeah, he thought, heeling Brown Jack up the steep trail, moving up the mountain, she thinks I'm a bad guy. She thinks I'm an idiot. Like Karen, Mary-Beth, Kieran, Abigail, John, all the rest. Maybe he would tell Dutch about the letter, there was a threat involved in it after all (metaphorically, of course). And the man was the only one in camp who liked him, trusted him. Maybe, he'd have to sleep on it, he was tired.

When they arrived at the reservation, Tilly hopped off quickly, scurrying away from him as he hitched Brown Jack. The enemy surrounded him, staring at him, watching him with yellow eyes as he walked over to his cot. The tents were all folded up and packed away in the wagons, but his bedroll sat flatly on the gray stone. The sun was vividly bright, and even with his broad brown hat resting over his face, a faint glow weasled into his eyeline. He ignored it, that and the sweaty scent of the hat.

"I'm not a monster," he whispered. "I may be bald, I may even be a little chubby, but I'm not a monster."

He dreamt an old dream. Of the belt, of his drunken father. And of the river.

In his dream, the Red Man emerged from the dark forest, the white of the crescent moon reflecting in his yellow eyes. He had a sharpened spear in his right hand, horse reins in the other. Usually it was a maroon Thoroughbred that matched its rider, but today it was a white Mustang, warted with pink roses that matched Molly's shawl.

Bill looked up at the Red Man; he heard the screams of his men, his friends all around him, and the satanic chants of the other Indians as they were slaughtered, blood turning the soil at their feet to mud.

The spear swirled from the bastard's hand, landing next to Bill, who fired as he leaped to the side, landing on a patch of sticky moss.

The Red Man fell, his body thudding against the wet dirt with a smack.

And his yellow eyes blinked. "That's not what happened, Bill," he said, his voice soft and cool, yet it echoed again and again until there it was army, booming so loud he couldn't hear the rest of his platoon dying. "You fired first, remember? Not me, you."

"No," Bill shouted, standing over him, shooting him repeatedly in the chest so that red covered his torso.

"You always fired first, you worthless…"

"No…"

"Mooching…"

"No!"

"Fairy."

Bill awoke, awash with oily sweat. It was near noon; the gang was just about ready to leave.

And Molly, Abigail, and Charles were nowhere in sight.

Huh, Ross found out about Tacitus Kilgore. Wonder the kind of torture Micah endured to let that slide?

What will Molly do: kill Dutch, metaphorically, of course, or let Micah die?

Tune in next time to see.

Hope you enjoyed; I like the idea of Bill using his past experiences and grievances as an excuse for all his general awfulness. It's okay he kills people needlessly because he feels really bad about it, etc.