"God forbid should any of our men become wounded or injured. Often the only recourse for a serious injury was amputation..." The rednecks pull out a garlic press; the cute blonde one presses the shit out of some garlic, like viciously and in Bill's direction, which is hilarious because like, in what drawer of the kitchenette in your trailer home do you keep your garlic press, sir? Sookie watches, unimpressed: she is them. She shares their allergies, and she hurt his feelings on purpose, because she got scared and for no other reason. And all her self-righteous platitudes and judgy-judge and open-mindedness went out the window the second she saw him in a certain light, and realized her world wasn't big enough to contain his every angle. Which is what he spent four episodes testing her on: first you check if they can hang with your friends, then you take them to club and see how they do, and then you make a cop piss himself in front of them. We have all done these things.
As Bill drones on and on about the totally boring shit these people want to hear about, answering such questions as "Did amputation exist" and "Was there weather back then," Hoyt is being cute as hell in the location of the kitchen, cleaning out the fridge and happening on a bottle of TruBlood. He stares at it, fascinated, and then slowly reaches for it, smiling to himself and looking around all shifty before unscrewing the cap and taking a quick sniff. He nearly giggles as he's replacing it on the shelf. I have a fear that Hoyt is going to have a really bad day, some point soon. He's too awesome to survive this show.
Some Colonel Sanders lookin' dude asks about a particular Glorious Dead from whom he Descends, and yes, Bill did happen to know that guy, and here's a totally pointless story about that, because Bill knows as well as you and I and Adele do that at some point in the last five episodes this went from being a historical curiosity to a civil necessity, that Bill needs to be formally introduced to the town where he's making his home, that he must perform perfectly in front of them, that he must manipulate and hypnotize them into not lynching him in the daylight, that the great leap forward that humanity's still trying to accomplish even after two years has come to Bon Temps. That it's no longer a choice: when it starts, you are called to action. When the world gets bigger you have to be ready.
Bill flashes back to a battle about twenty miles north, in which "the Federals" outnumbered the good guys five-to-one, and had better guns, and everybody was dying. And this kid was lying injured, out in the field, under the sun, fourteen or younger, calling to him and this guy's Glorious Dead Ancestor, all day long. This was back before Bill's short-bus haircut, back when he was totally hot and had really great hair. So anyway, Bill thought about how probably he should shoot the kid, to put him out of his misery, but Ancestor Tolliver told him that was murder, not war. It wasn't that the kid was beyond help so much as the fact that they couldn't get to him, across that open space, and bring him back to their location. Tolliver looked across that field and saw The Boy; he got a message from God to get him. Bill pled with him not to do it, specifically offering, note, what would hold him personally back, the thing he loves and misses most, his family. But the thing that animated Bill is not what animated Tolliver, and Tolliver headed out to do his duty to God and the boy. He died instantly, of course, just as he reached the kid, and blood went everywhere.