Billy Six Gun

Copyright © 2021 Bradley Keith Young.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by

any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system

without the written permission of the author except in the case of

brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com

844-682-1282

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use

of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical

problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The

intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help

you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use

any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional

right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Editors:

Phil Blevins and Judianne Abramson

ISBN: 978-1-9822-7734-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-7735-2 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date:  07/27/2022

CONTENTS

Chapter 1:     The Beeping

Chapter 2:     Fuck that guy!

Chapter 3:     Shut up and take the money!

Chapter 4:     Going...Going...Gone!

Chapter 5:     Fucktard

Chapter 6:     Bud’s Place

Chapter 7:     Billy Six Gun

Chapter 8:     We ain’t a fucking circus!

Chapter 9:     West Coast Throttle

Chapter 10:   Fred

Chapter 11:   The Gathering

Chapter 12:   The Archway

Chapter 13:   The Chair

CHAPTER ONE

THE BEEPING

T he beeping. That was the sound that he could never get used to. Beep. Beep. Beep. Not all at once, of course. Long and drawn out. Beep……(three seconds).....Beep…...He lost count of how many beeps he heard over the past six months in this room. He started to think of a time before the beeps. The thought of the ocean came to mind. Yes, the trip with his wife to Santa Cruz, California. Not far from his own home in Hollister, California. That trip was memorable. The seagulls even seemed happy as they cawed from the pier and ate leftover clam chowder from the bread bowls made from one of the local shops. The sun shone on them, but it wasn’t hot or unbearable, and tourists walked up and down the pier with joy as they spoke in all different languages from all over the world. Special, that was the word he was looking for. There were definitely no beeps then.

Mr. Tunnicliff, that should do it for today. You did great! Mary, his nurse, said as she removed the cap from his I.V. tube. Her smile was always radiant, even when the other chemotherapy patients in the rooms appeared miserable.

They tried to make it comfortable. The chairs were genuine leather and padded nicely. The televisions were always within view. William Tunnicliff estimated that he must have spent at least 6.1750 hours in each of the chairs. Numbers, he was good with those. After all, he was a Certified Public Accountant and worked as an independent contractor for big companies. Texaco, Walmart, and IBM were just a few. He liked to think of numbers as a key to the universe. One of his prized possessions that sat above his computer was a Nautilus shell. It had the Fibonacci sequence mathematically laying out each ring of the semi-circular shell as it grew with the formula.

Doxorubicin, the most potent form of chemotherapy available to him was brutal. Not at first. Always later, and at the worst times. Usually when he was about to try to work on something at his computer or just relax. Relaxing. That was something that felt like a distant memory.

William, you’re wife’s here. Mary said, snapping him away from his thought for a moment.

William began to stand and did pretty well. That is until he stood all the way upright. Nausea hit him immediately, and it felt like his whole body was ready to pour out of his mouth. He wasn’t about to let that happen. He closed his eyes, winced, and then with all his dignity, stood tall, pushing the feeling down into his stomach. He opened his eyes to look around the room. His eyes locked on a painting of a cactus hanging on the wall. He had seen it several times, hell, he had seen every painting in there a hundred times, but this time, the cactus stood out. It was in some type of desert setting with a red-tinged sunset in the background. He never noticed bees in the photo and flowers he had only noticed the cactus.

Interesting…..he thought to himself and tried to count the spikes on the cactus. As he began to count, the thunderous and distinct sound of a Harley Davidson motorcycle roared outside, causing him to look out the window. It was annoying. It reminded him of his annoying neighbor Steve.

Baby, you’re looking good! his wife Rhonda said, holding out her hand as she did for every session. William smiled through the nausea and looked around the room once more. Fifteen patients were receiving chemotherapy today. Each of them six feet apart, wearing masks thanks to the COVID-19 pandemic. As if it mattered to a bunch of cancer patients. COVID might even be a step up from how the chemotherapy made you feel. At least before they could talk to each other and pretend there was some kind of hope. Now the governor took that away too.

He took Rhonda’s hand and started to walk. Her blue dress clung to her body perfectly. She knew how to dress. Under any other circumstances, he’d probably go home and try to get her out of it as quickly as possible and practice making babies. That, however, was not in the stars for the Tunnicliffs. They had been married for 12 years and counting but had no children. Not for lack of trying. They did all they could. Neither of them had reproductive complications, and they tried everything the doctors recommended. They even consulted a fertility doctor. It was just not in the stars. Not in the stars then, and definitely not now.

William stopped briefly to catch himself, grasping Rhonda’s hand tightly. She stopped and turned, but before she could speak, he said, I’m fine. and continued walking. The motion of watching her dress must have made him dizzy. He concentrated, saying, One more step. Just keep moving….

Mr. Tunnicliff, would you like to come in next Monday? Your treatment needs a little more time to leave your system. Mary said, popping up on his right side cheerfully. He never could understand how she was always so friendly when most of her patients faced certain death, albeit slowly. It must be daunting.

Next Monday will be fine. he replied, continuing to walk. Mary nodded and disappeared as quickly as she appeared.

A woman in a wheelchair was wearing a robe and a headscarf, typical of cancer patients who lost their hair, wheeled by. He could see she felt the same misery he did. As sad as it sounds, he took comfort in it. Misery loves company.

The car ride back to the house was when he would have small talk with his wife, but not today. Rhonda was quiet as the car hummed down the road. He was grateful for that. The nausea was getting worse and came in waves. The hum of the engine seemed to make it worse. The passing blur of the scenery sped up the misery, so he closed his eyes. He felt at peace briefly until another loud motorcycle pulled up next to them at a stoplight. THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP. The loud pipes woke him up. He looked over to see his neighbor Steve, his annoying nemesis, sitting on his black Harley Davidson stopped at the stoplight next to them. THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP the pipes kept screaming.

HEY WILLY!! GOOD TO SEE YOU! he yelled over his pipes, waving at William. William waved back.

It’s William, you fucking Neanderthal! William said. Still, it was Steve, and again, Steve was getting on his nerves. He had several run-ins with his neighbor asking him to turn down his music or stop revving his motorcycle at 7 a.m. The problem was that Steve was always so happy and friendly that he would respond happy, which shut down William’s warpath.

Oh, it’s just Steve. You know how he is, honey. Besides, he can’t hear you anyway. Rhonda said, looking straight ahead.

The light turned green and Steve gave William a peace sign before accelerating ahead of them. That fucker’s always so God damn chipper…..William thought.

The motion aggravated his stomach as they pulled off, and he watched as the landscape buzzed by. Pulling up to his house he felt the dread of knowing he would have to move from his seat but was relieved that nothing was moving. The chemicals from the chemotherapy were horrible. It was like a cocktail of what felt like the flu coupled with diarrhea, amplified by a hundred. They forget to tell you that you’ll feel like this and then be constipated at the same time because your body doesn’t know what to do with itself.

It was a nice house, built only two years earlier. Tan with brown trim like many of the other newer homes. They called them Earth Tones. They bought it when William was at the top of his career, making well over six figures. Now they could barely make the payment, and medical bills were piling up fast. The doctors at Kaiser had exhausted all efforts, so they switched to Blue Cross so William could go to Stanford Hospital for more aggressive treatment. Two months into the switch, they found out that the new insurance policy did not cover the latest treatments, and everything they had tried was only covered by twenty percent, leaving a hefty bill that was piling up. Today’s treatment was estimated to cost around nine thousand dollars. They had depleted most of their savings but still had their 401K.

To make things worse, he wasn’t able to perform his work. The treatments were so physically taxing that he could barely even move some days. He remembered back to his last pitch with Google for a contract that would have pushed his private accounting business into the mid-million dollar marker. Had he not passed out during his presentation, he might have landed that contract. That was the day they discovered he had colon cancer. Colorectal cancer to be exact. He had ignored blood in his stools dismissing it due to stress. He was only forty-one and in decent shape, didn’t smoke, and worked out regularly. No reason for alarm.

Need help, baby? Rhonda asked, looking over at William slumped in the passenger seat. He sat there looking at Steve’s motorcycle parked in his driveway. He heard her. He just didn’t want to say he needed help. No matter she was used to this. She got out of the car, walked over to the passenger side, opened the door, and leaned in.

I don’t know why you’re so stubborn. she said, reaching in and pushing the button, releasing his seat belt. He put his right arm around her neck, and she helped him out of the car. William stood up proudly and nodded as if to say, I got it from here. Rhonda walked off to the front door. He could hear the keys jingling in her hand and then unlocking the door.

Steve’s garage was open and he could see there was yet another motorcycle in his garage. This one was bigger and shiny. He remembered riding dirt bikes when he was a kid but couldn’t understand why Steve insisted on having these bikes. They were just obnoxiously loud. Steve owned three companies and had twice as big a house. He couldn’t figure out why he would waste money on those machines instead of a nice car or adding to his house. Nonetheless, that was the least of his worries.

William felt the all too familiar feeling of possible diarrhea but couldn’t tell if it would happen or was it another false alarm? Either way, shitting himself in his driveway wasn’t fun, and since he’d done it once already, he wasn’t about to take that chance. He hurried as fast as he could, pushing through the front door, nearly bumping into Rhonda aiming for the downstairs bathroom. Too late. It wasn’t a false alarm. He felt his pants soil as he got through the bathroom door. Fuck! He wanted to yell, but it only came out in his head. The smell from his pants immediately hit him, and he vomited into the toilet. At least he got that part in the toilet, he thought. The vomit scent and diarrhea instigated a chain reaction of vomit over and over again for the next few minutes. It felt like hours to him. Rhonda looked in and then left.

Rhonda returned with a fresh pair of sweats and underwear, holding her breath, as she put them on the counter and left the bathroom again. This incident wasn’t their first rodeo. This type of thing happened at least three times a month, and it was increasing. Luckily, there was a shower in the downstairs bathroom and Rhonda had put baking powder on the counter, which they learned was suitable for covering up smells quickly. Rhonda left the room again and closed the door. She knew better than to try to help him. It just made it worse. When he finally got enough strength back, he got into the shower and started it, still wearing his clothes. He got undressed in the shower to let some of the mess get washed away. That way it didn’t get all over the floor.

The water felt good as it cooled him off. He was exhausted. He kicked off his pants and washed himself off until everything was clean. Just a few months ago he was as fit as a horse. He could work all night and party with his wife when they had time. Now he could barely stand for more than a few minutes. He reached out with the shower running and put his wet clothes into the garbage can lined with a plastic bag. Another precaution they had learned was to put his clothes immediately in the washer, minimizing the smell. He refused to let Rhonda help with the process; he still had his pride.

The shower stopped, and he toweled off, put on his sweats, and grabbed his bag of soiled clothes. He walked over to the washer, dumped his clothes in, and started the machine. This type of thing seemed to feel like a regular thing now. He looked up to the stairs and dreaded going up the ten steps to his office. Ten long steps….Never used to notice them before, but now, they seemed like Mount Everest. He was no quitter, though. He made his way to the steps and could hear Rhonda come up behind him.

Oh no. You know better than that. You need to sit down for a few minutes. she said, grabbing his hand. She guided him over to their living room and motioned for him to sit on the couch. He did so reluctantly. He knew she was right. After he sat for a minute, she put a glass of water on the table and went up the stairs to get ready for work. She had taken on several new jobs in addition to her regular job managing an office. He couldn’t even remember which one she was going to this time. After about ten minutes, he felt his sickness begin to fade a little, and that was the signal that he could make it up the stairs. He got up and made his trek up Mount Everest, which didn’t seem too bad this time. He got to the top of the stairs and felt light-headed but not nauseous, which was good. He knew the extra waves of sickness would come later and get worse, then taper off. You never actually feel better on these treatments, just less sick.

He managed to get to his office, his home. He spent a year getting his office just the way he liked it. Pictures of his family plastered on the right side, trophies, and nick-nacks from growing up on the left, and his computer with a big nice comfortable chair right in the center so he could look out the window.

He plopped into the chair and fired up his computer. This chair of misery is how he spent most of his days, even before he got sick. He quickly went to YouTube to find something to watch as he heard the clicking of Rhonda’s heels as she walked around their bedroom. Hardwood floors, he was glad he got that upgrade. They felt really good on his feet when he was sick. Kind of soothing.

I’m off to work Honey. Do you need anything? I made soup. When you’re ready it’s in the refrigerator. I’ll be back around 8. she said, wearing her business attire. She must be working her regular job. For twelve years, they had been married. She was a good wife and she took good care of him. Both of them were busy, and the twelve years had flown by. 1 P.M. Funny how that worked out. He looked over to the wall and saw a picture, of them, with parrots all over them. He had balked at the thirty-dollar price tag to take a picture with the birds, but she convinced him to do it. Now he was glad she did. It was 1 P.M. in the photo. She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t ask to have a sick husband, and now he wasn’t even a provider.

He logged onto his computer, hoping to salvage what was left of his clients by crunching some numbers before the next wave of sickness hit. He switched over to look at the spreadsheet he had created for his medical bills. Everything was in red. They don’t tell you that every time the doctor looks at your chart they charge you. Every time they ask how you’re doing they charge you. When they discuss a new treatment, you guessed it, they charge you. It adds up fast, and Kaiser wouldn’t accept him back after leaving their coverage. Today’s chemotherapy was the cheapest bill on the spreadsheet.

There comes the point when you’re dying that you accept things. They call it the acceptance stage. Seeing the red, on this well-created spreadsheet that he was once paid thousands of dollars to create for clients, finally did it for William. He had gone from 200 lbs. to 120 lbs. The tax collectors and financial institutions, that he once navigated with ease, seemed to hit him at every turn. Depression started to set in as he looked at the different pages. He was good at balancing and making things work, that’s why he so was highly paid. However, it seemed like he was plugging holes in a ship riddled with thousands of bullet holes and sinking fast. He only had so many fingers. They weren’t completely broke and maybe had a year of finances left. Much less than he was used to having in the bank.

BRAP BRAP BRAP BRAP BRAP BRAP…. the sound of Steve’s motorcycle outside seemed to thunder up to his office. Asshole…. William muttered, still clicking through his documents. He tried not to dive into this because it always ended up spinning into a negative and depressing mood, but he couldn’t stop. He always thought about Rhonda and how she was going to survive if he died. Now, after this last treatment, he felt mortality approaching quickly. One folder was left to click on, life insurance. He began clicking through the documents and the exclusions. Smoking negated the policy, suicide, murder by the beneficiary, and so forth. BRAP BRAP BRAP, the noise thundered into his office.

FUCKING ASSHOLE!! William yelled, getting up from his computer. The sickness seemed to dissipate in the anger, and he started marching down in a rage to tell Steve to turn that thing off. He had no reason to yell at Steve. It was before 10 p.m., and he wasn’t bothering anyone. Still, this was a good distraction.

He marched down the ten steps in fury as he opened the front door heading straight to Steve’s house. As he stomped closer, he saw both motorcycles out in front. BOTH were running in front of his house. The black bike he was riding at the stoplight was small compared to the massive red and orange bike next to it. Both of them thundering obnoxiously out of their altered pipes. Nothing from a factory came so loud that it rattled residential windows. As he got closer, he could see Steve tinkering around on the new bike, and he was bent down just