Ever since you joined the gang a few months back, Bill has grown a crush on you and he would rather die than admit it. He hated that he liked men. It was instead replaced by a deep hatred for you. There wasn't anything you'd done wrong except catch his eye, and the small ration part of his brain ached to run away with you and not worry about all of this nonsense. But Bill wasn't a rational man.

He stumbled up the campfire as you sit by yourself, ready to start harassing you as usual as he sits down on an adjacent log. He was a mean man but an even meaner drunk, and usually he spent that anger on you.

"Ey, sissy boy. Fetch me another whiskey why don't you? Make yourself useful to the real men." He demanded with a snark, his voice loud enough to wake the mostly-sleeping camp.