“… never worked and never will’, that’s me, Girl. Yup, that’s me alright. . . But it’s not, you know. I always worked hard. I been a hard rock miner, a underground miner, and a high mucky-muck chef for **** International (hotel chain). At the same time as I did the chef thing, I was also undercover for the CIA. I’d waltz into some big hotel kitchen in some country that had problems or a problem person or an uprising or something.
I’d have my two little teacup poodles with me; one in each shirt pocket, and I’d start yelling and waving my hands at people and I’d shout, ‘You’re fired! You’re fired!’ until I had so much commotion and confusion going that I could find my man and take him out before anybody knew what happened. They were all flappin’ around in the (corporation)’s kitchen. Sometimes the hotel corporation even sent me out to straighten out a kitchen that wasn’t doing too good. I can cook, too, you know. I’m a very good chef. To prove it to you, I’ll make dinner for the whole clan tonight. Do you like red or white cabbage best?

Say, do you think you and that young man you brought up could shave this old dog? I took her away from a guy who didn’t take proper care of her, and she stinks. I don’t think he brushed her in her whole life. . . Jeeze, that would be great, thanks. Let me get my hair clippers- yeah, same’s dog clippers. I don’t have to worry so much about hair, not like I used to, but I still have some.

Yeah, that’s black sand in mercury. The mercury percipitates the gold out of the black sand. I got a place I get it from, but any time I’m out in the desert and see black sand I take a coffee can of it home with me. I use the gold for little things, like that suit over there on the side wall of the quonsett hut. I wore it to (our friend’s) wedding with ole’ Whitey. Now that’s a miner, let me tell you. And a sculptor— that man’s got art oozing out of his veins. Only one eye, too. Amazes me.

Hey, is that maggots on that dog’s skin? I told you that so-and-so never combed her out. That must be a million years of hair that never shed offa her. Them cockers hafta be brushed and combed, you know. Just like my poodles. That reminds me of when I was up north running a trapline with a dog sled. I’m a dog-lover. Always have dogs. Things got too busy and too crazy for me so I went north, changed my name and took a vacation. They tracked me down, though. They always do. Them darn CIA boys don’t leave a worm unturned when they look for somebody. cackles Yep. . . Oh, I been all over the world, you know. . .

You say you’re going to leave Nevada? I don’t know how you can do that. I sure couldn’t. Leave the desert, I mean. You’ll be back, you got sand in your veins. nods You’ll be back.

Well, if you’re bound and determined to go, I got something in that dresser drawer over on that other side of the bed that every single girl should have— yup, that drawer. Now, pick up the little blue box and bring it to me. C’mon, Girl, I can’t wait all year!

Man oh Man! That’s a lot of hair you got offa that dog. ‘Honey’, that’s what I call her. She’s a good little girl. I pin her ears back with a clothes pin when she drinks out of her water dish, and part of the day, too. Otherwise they get infections in the ear and under them big ear flaps. Not the skin, you know, but the hair. I’d hate to give her a bruise on her ear flap.

Well, here you are. The blue box. Well, open it, Girl, I ain’t got all year! Now, you fermilyer with these little babies? Heh, heh, I am, by gum. It’s a single girl’s best friend, and I haven’t been able to cock it with these blamed hands for years. I been cleaning it though, when I can. It takes .25 longs. Never seen anything but a revolver? Here, bring it over here. NO! Leave your hand on it. Now, take that-there thing, yeah, that- and pull it back. NO! Pull it back HARD! There you go, Girl, you got it! Now you a pistol-packiin’ Mama!

Oh, my hands? — well, yeah, my hands are infected. I guess they hurt, I can’t feel nothing in them. It’s this blasted diabeetees. That’s not what cost me my leg, though. A truck took that off. Oh yeah, I got a peg leg. I carved it for myself, you know. Let me show you. . . That’s how I get out in the desert. I can’t wear that stupid prosthetic leg— you know, the fake leg they give me. All that padding and stuff in that silly little bucket. Look how I made the straps on this-here peg-leg. I’m gonna model it for you, Girl. Just help me outta this stupid wheelchair and I’ll sit on the bed and strap it on. Say, what happened to that young man you brought along with ya?. . .

And that was my friend Bill. The feed he put on was WONDEFUL, and, like the professional chef he was, he messed up the entire kitchen, used all the pots and pans and the two stoves in his quonsett hut and still spread a mess over his neighbor’s two stoves and tiny kitchen. Eventually his son moved him to Arizona so they could be together more often, and got a nurse to stay with him. I was surprised he didn’t marry his nurse.

This son was one of his adopted sons from Mexico and around the world. He’d find orphans, boys and girls, that he thought had promise as he went out on ‘company’ business. He would adopt them, and put them through school, furnishing everything for them. This son he took from grade school through college and grad school, clear up until the young man opened his own dental office. Bill was that way. You never knew what he was going to say or do next. I miss that crazy old man. . .



Joined March 2008

  • Artist

Artist's Description

Meet Old Bill through his own words. A former govenment contract hitman who traveled with a tiny teacup poodle in each shirt pocket, I met him in his last years.

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