Deadwood (TV series)

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Deadwood is a HBO television drama that originally aired from March 2004 to August 2006, set in the 1870s in Deadwood, Dakota Territory. It features many historical figures, such as Wild Bill Hickok, Seth Bullock, Sol Star, Calamity Jane, and Al Swearengen.

Season One[edit]

Deadwood[edit]

Jack McCall: Should we shake hands or something, relieve the atmosphere? I mean how stupid do you think I am?
Bill Hickok: I don't know, I just met you.

Seth Bullock: We got chamber pots to sell ya. And if you don't know what one of those is, the man livin' next to you will appreciate your findin' out.

Merrick: [To Charlie about Wild Bill Hickok] What a grand surprise. I never thought he'd live long enough for me to meet him.

Al Swearengen: Well, I guess when it starts pissin' rain in here, you know who to blame, huh? Now, I know word's circulatin' Indians killed a family on the Spearfish Road. Now it's not for me to tell anyone in this camp what to do, as much as I don't want more people gettin' their throats cut, scalps lifted or any other godless thing that these godless bloodthirsty heathens do. Or even if someone wants to ride out in darkest night. But I will tell you this. I'd use tonight to get myself organized. Ride out in the morning clear-headed. And startin' tomorrow morning, I will offer a personal $50 bounty for every decapitated head of as many of these godless heathen cocksuckers as anyone can bring in. Tomorrow. With no upper limit! That's all I say on that subject, 'cept next round's on the house. And God rest the souls of that poor family. And pussy's half price, next 15 minutes.

Al Swearengen: Let her go; she ain't taking any business with her. And don't forget to kill Tim.

Calamity Jane: Is it true? Indians killin' white people?
Dan: That's the sewer mouth that follows Hickok around.
Calamity Jane: Why are we standin' here?
Guy: Ridin' out tomorrow, daybreak.
Calamity Jane: Oh, really? Tomorrow. What's your fuckin' rush?! I'm goin' now. Even without Bill. Even without Charlie. I know the road to Spearfish. And I don't drink where I'm the only fuckin' one with balls!

Deep Water[edit]

Doc Cochran: I see as much misery outta them movin’ to justify their selves as them that set out to do harm.

Al Swearengen: Let's leave it all alone. I'm stupidest when I try to be funny.

Al Swearengen: You don't want to interfere with me.
Calamity Jane: You think I'm scared of you?
Al Swearengen: Sure you are. And if I take a knife to you you'll be scared worse and a long time dying.

Bill Hickok: If irritating me is the jackpot, you got the job done.

Reverend Smith: Men like Mr. Seth Bullock there raise the camp up.
Johnny: Yeah, the fella to be put in that box might argue with you, Reverend.
Reverend Smith: Ah, Mr. Bullock did not draw first. And I point to his commissioning me to build the departed a coffin and, and see to his Christian burial.

Reconnoitering the Rim[edit]

Jack McCall: [While playing poker] Well, that's one in a row for you, Wild Bill. Who's hungry? What in the hell damn time is it anyway?
Wild Bill: Sure you wanna quit playin', Jack? The game's all that's between you and gettin' called a cunt.
Tom Nuttall: Ah, meeting adjourned, fellas. Take it outside.
Wild Bill: That drooped eye of yours looks like the hood of a cunt to me, Jack. When you talk, your mouth looks like a cunt moving.
Jack McCall: I ain't gonna get in no gunfight with you, Hickock.
Wild Bill: But you will run your cunt mouth at me. And I will take it to play poker.

Al Swearengen: [during a meeting with Johnny Burns, E.B. Farnum, and Jimmy Irons] I wanna know who cut the cheese. [nobody answers] I'll tell you this for openers: we are gonna set off an area on the balcony. [opens the door to the balcony] And God help whoever doesn't use it, because the next stink I have to smell in this office, and whoever doesn't admit to it is going out the window, into the muck, onto their fucking heads, and we'll see how they like farting from that position, okay?

Al Swearengen: [discussing Custer at Little Bighorn] I'll tell you this, son, you can mark my words, Crazy Horse went into Little Bighorn, bought his people one good, long-term ass-fucking. You do not want to be a dirt-worshipping heathen from this fucking point forward. Pardon my French.
Joanie Stubbs: Oh, I speak French.

Brom Garret: If I'm stooped when next you see me, Alma, it won't be worry weighing me down, but bags of our recovered gold.
Alma Garret: If you wish to see more of the West let's leave now and see it, or else return back to New York. I don't think we should linger here.

Al Swearengen: Every fuckin’ beatin’ I’m grateful for. Every fuckin’ one of them. Get all the trust beat outta you. And you know what the fuckin’ world is.

Here Was A Man[edit]

Wild Bill Hickock: [on prospecting] What slows me down is thinking about freezing my balls off in a creek for the cocksuckers I'd lose the gold to at poker.

Cy Tolliver: How about a nap, a bath and sex with a unfamiliar woman?

Wild Bill Hickok: Some goddamn time, a man's due to stop arguing with hisself, feeling twice the goddamn fool he knows he is because he can't be something he tries to be every goddamn day without once getting to dinnertime and not fucking it up. I don't want to fight it no more. Understand me, Charlie? And I don't want you pissing in my ear about it. Can you let me go to hell the way I want to?
Charlie Utter: Yeah. I can do that.

Al Swearengen: Her husband came here with childish ideas. Bought himself a gold claim with me an honest broker. Claim pinches out, which will happen. But he can't take that like a man, has to blame somebody. Seller's left camp, so he picks on me. Says he'll bring in the Pinkertons if I don't offer restitution. I got a healthy operation and I didn’t build it brooding on the right, and wrong of things. I do not need the Pinkertons descending like locusts. So I bend over for the tenderfoot cocksucker. Reconnoiter your claim fully, I say. And then, if you're still unhappy, I will give you your fucking money back. And the tenderfoot agrees. Just as he's finishing his reconnoiter, cocksucker falls to his death, pure fucking accident. But up jumps the widow in righteous fucking indignation. Wants the doctor to examine him for murder wounds. My visions of locusts return. I see Pinkertons coming in swarms.

Wild Bill Hickok: You know the sound of thunder, don't you, Mrs. Garrett?
Alma Garrett: Of course.
Wild Bill Hickok: Can you imagine that sound if I asked you to?
Alma Garrett: Yes I can, Mr. Hickok.
Wild Bill Hickok:' Your husband and me had this talk, and I told him to head home to avoid a dark result. But I didn't say it in thunder. Ma'am, listen to the thunder.

The Trial of Jack McCall[edit]

Doc Cochran: I don't know if this is the time for you to stop takin' this laudanum, Mrs. Garrett.
Alma Garret: What a pleasant surprise, doctor. To hear you admit the limits of your knowledge.

Al Swearengen: Let me say this once in your hearing. For outright stupidity, the whole fuckin' trial concept goes shoulder to shoulder with that cocksucker Custer's thinkin' when he headed for that ridge.
Cy Tolliver: It's got its disadvantages.
Al Swearengen: We’re illegal. Our whole goal is to get annexed to the United fuckin' States. We start holdin' trials, what's to keep the United States fuckin' Congress from sayin' "Oh, excuse us, we didn't realize you were a fuckin' sovereign community and nation out there. Where's your cocksucker's flag? Where's your fuckin’ navy or the like? Maybe when we make our treaty with the Sioux, we should treat you people like renegade fuckin' Indians. Deny your fuckin' gold and property claims. And hand everything over instead to our ne'er-do-well cousins and brothers-in-law."
Cy Tolliver: That we don't want.

Al Swearengen: Before a guilty verdict would get executed on that cocksucker, three men would walk in that meat locker where he's bein' held with bags over their heads and cut his fuckin' throat. And within half an hour, that celestial's little pigs will be on their backs with their hooves in the air, belching up human remains.
Judge: Are you saying you'd order that to be done?
Al Swearengen: I'm sayin' I had a vision it'd happen. My second of the day. First come when I was watchin' you and them lawyers on line this morning. They began to slither in my sight like vipers. So as not to puke, I had to close my eyes. The vision went on. Got worse. I saw the vipers in the big nest in Washington. They were takin' us in the camp for actin' like we could set out own laws up or organizations and then saw the big viper decide to strangle and swallow us up every fuckin' thing we gain here. It was horrible. How could we fuckin' avoid it? How could we let the vipers in the big nest know that we didn’t wanna cause any fuckin' trouble?
Judge: And that's when you had your second vision.
Al Swearengen: Yeah, the cut throats and the pigs. But who wants all that blood spilled, judge, huh? Isn't there a simpler way of not pissing off the big vipers?

Al Swearengen: Sometimes I wish we could just hit 'em over the head, rob 'em, and throw their bodies in the creek.
Cy Tolliver: But that would be wrong.

E.B.: What's he ever done for me? Except let him terrify me every goddamned day of his life 'til the idea of bowel regularity is a forlorn fuckin' hope.

Al Swearengen: Remember this when you run your own place: that type guy, hanging around, gets people agitated, forces 'em to take a position, one side or the other. And agitation brings a slight bump-up in whiskey sales but the sale of cunt plummets. That's why I often wonder if I should take that fucking picture of Lincoln down.

Seth Bullock: That man is a lunatic. High water he never made much sense, but now? He just utters pure gibberish.
Sol Star: Did he look pale to you?
Seth Bullock: What?
Sol Star: Did he seem pale?
Seth Bullock: How the fuck do I know if he was pale?
Sol Star: He looked pale to me.
Seth Bullock: What if he was? Let's say he was. Will you shut up about it? What is my part, and your part? [mocking] "What part of my part is your part? Is my foot your knee? What about your ear?" What the fuck is that?
Sol Star: Yeah, I don't know.
Seth Bullock: What don't you know? If he was pale or not?
Sol Star: What you're supposed to do.
Seth Bullock: I'm not supposed to do anything! Let's agree to that. Not one fucking thing that I don't decide I'm gonna. All right, Sol?
Sol Star: All right. [Bullock begins to walk away] Suspenders.
Seth Bullock: God damn it! If I kill the droop-eyed son of a bitch and my part's getting hanged for it, good luck with the fucking store.
Sol Star: All right.
Seth Bullock: I will write to Martha and see it posted. You look out after that widow.
Sol Star: All right, Seth.
Seth Bullock: Can I impose on you to pack a bag for me to cut down on the cocksucker's head start?
Sol Star: Be ready for you when you ride out.
Seth Bullock: Thanks, Sol.

Plague[edit]

A.W. Merrick: May I say, Dan, having resumed drinking alcohol, I cannot for the life of me remember why I ever gave it up.

Al Swearengen: Woman lives in your fucking hotel, but you can't find pretext for pressing the offer on her claim?
E.B. Farnum: I can't outflank Trixie, Al. The whore guards that widow like a mother hen.
Al Swearengen: She's dosed her with opium, priming her for your approach.
E.B. Farnum: Be that as it may...
Al Swearengen: E.B., put that offer in your pocket, you knock on the widow's door.
E.B. Farnum: But Trixie'll answer.
Al Swearengen: Trixie answers you tell her that I want to talk to her. Trixie leaves, you gain entry, broach the sale. Can you circumnavigate the child or must I map that for you too?
E.B. Farnum: [mutters under his breath]
Al Swearengen: What?
E.B. Farnum: Nothing.
Al Swearengen: [on hearing a knock at the door] Come on in, Doc, him and me are finished. Anyway, don't play that shit where you make me drag your words outta you. Declare, or shut the fuck up.

Al Swearengen: I'd rather try touching the moon than take on a whore's thinking.

Doc Cochran: I take it you've been out on a hoot?
Calamity Jane: I've been drunk awhile; correct. What the fuck is that to you?
Doc Cochran: The question was well meant. Like if you was a farmer, I'd ask ya how the farming was going.

Charlie Utter: [on burying a dead Native] You ain't doin' him no favor. I mean his way to heaven's above ground and lookin' west.
Seth Bullock: Let's do that, then.
Charlie Utter: Don't you want to take him over the ridge? To his fuckin' Holy Ground and put him up there with his headless buddy? I mean, that's what you nearly got killed for: interfering with his big fuckin' medicine, burying his fuckin' buddy, over the fuckin' ridge!

Calamity Jane: I'm calling on the widow and the little one in her care, and if I was you I wouldn't try to stop me.
E.B.: Be brief!
Calamity Jane: Be fucked!
E.B.: Her gutter mouth, and the widow in an opium stupor: a conversation for the ages.

Bullock Returns to the Camp[edit]

Al Swearengen: We teach a special sweeping technique here.
[Al indicates Jewel, who is sweeping the stairs.]

Al Swearengen: That widow ain't high.
E.B. Farnum: Maybe waiting till after the service
Al Swearengen: When she'd want to get good and loaded is before the fucking service, against all the fucking carrying on. What do you think?
E.B. Farnum: Makes sense.
Al Swearengen: Meaning all that whore's been telling me the last ten fucking days, about seeing the widow taking the dope, your own fucking assurances, you verify that she's loaded personally, you're both full of shit.
E.B. Farnum: I checked in on the woman daily. If I was fooled, perhaps I've chosen simplemindedness, Al, over realizing a certain friend has used me as an instrument of purposes he concealed.
Al Swearengen: Say what you're gonna say or prepare for eternal fucking silence.
E.B. Farnum: I don't believe you commissioned me to make an offer on the widow's claim to keep the regulators off you, Al. I think someone found something out there you want.
Al Swearengen: Assume you ain't been privy to the ins and outs of that matter for the sake of fucking conversation, huh? I mean, was I asleep, E.B., when you and me declared undying loyalty and full faith mutual disclosure, about every fucking detail of every fucking move we were ever going to make together?
E.B. Farnum: You used me as a pawn, Al.
Al Swearengen: And you fucked up the game is the central fucking present issue. We agreed on 2,000, you want a fucking percentage instead?
E.B. Farnum: Is that such an inconceivable proposition?

Al Swearengen: Oh, do you worry for her, Dan? Wandering the muck of our thoroughfare, her tiny self all but swallowed up in horseshit?

Miles: They're nice here. And Mr. Swearengen's funny as all get out.

Seth Bullock: You and I know how it is, Mr. Swearengen.
Al Swearengen: How what is?
Seth Bullock: She gets a square shake, or I come for you.
Al Swearengen: What if I come for you, you ready for that?
Seth Bullock: I guess I better be.
Al Swearengen: Then close your fucking store because being ready for me will take care of your waking hours and you better have someone to hand the task off to when you close your fucking eyes.

Seth Bullock: Jack McCall!
Jack McCall: [With his back to Bullock] I'm done, I don't wanna play no more.
Seth Bullock: [Speaking to others] Bein’ a loud-mouthed cunt I guess sometime since he’s been here this fella who “don’t wanna play no more” probably spoke of killin’ Wild Bill Hickok… well, we’re Bill Hickok’s friends. [Everyone scrambles out of the room]
Seth Bullock: I'm Seth Bullock.
Charlie Utter: and I'm Charlie Utter
Seth Bullock: And if you got your head blown off, sitting here with your back turned, that’d be as fair a play as you gave him.

Suffer the Little Children[edit]

Rider: God bless you, Mr. Swearengen.
Swearengen: Well, not likely. But my short-term prospects have just improved.

A.W. Merrick: Why did you strike me?
Doc Cochran: To secure your attention.

Alma Garrett: [on her claim] Is the technical term "bonanza"? [Seth nods] It's a bonanza, Mr. Farnum.

Al Swearengen: Dan's a fucking expert. When he's not shit-faced drunk, so's Ellsworth.

Al Swearengen: My oath on this: every day that the widow sits on her ass in New York City, looks west at sunset and thinks to herself "God bless you ignorant cocksuckers in Deadwood, who do strive mightily and at little money to add to my ever-increasing fortune," she'll be safe from the wiles of Al Swearengen.

No Other Sons or Daughters[edit]

Al Swearengen: In life you have to do a lot of things you don't fucking want to do. Many times, that's what the fuck life is... one vile fucking task after another. But don't get aggravated... then the enemy has you by the short hairs.

Al Swearengen: The direction of my thoughts—with the sustained fucking stupidity that you're exhibiting, I hesitate to voice them—is that you might want to train for Phil's former position.
Johnny: Al... I have hoped for this conversation ever since you give me that Indian head to hide.

Johnny: [coming down the stairs] Hey, Al. Any reason I can't share with Dan the, uh, proceedings of the talk me and you just had about me, uh, takin' over for Persimmon Phil?
Al Swearengen: Yeah, keep Dan in the dark.
[Johnny looks at Al, crestfallen.]
Dan: Hey, Johnny.
Johnny: Dan.
Dan: What’s new?
[Johnny looks down sadly and says nothing.]

Reverend Smith: This is God's purpose, but not knowing the purpose is my portion of suffering.
Doc Cochran: If this is His will, He is a son of a bitch.

Mister Wu[edit]

[Wu is explaining his problem to Al by drawing pictures]
Mr. Wu: Bok Gwai Lo... cocksucka!
Al Swearengen: Yeah, glad I taught you that fuckin' word. These are whites, huh?
Mr. Wu: White cocksucka! [shows empty bag]
Al Swearengen: Two white cocksuckers killed him and stole the dope that he was bringing to you.
Mr. Wu: White cocksucka! You, Swedgin.
Al Swearengen: [suddenly enraged] The dope that you were gonna fuckin' sell to me?
Mr. Wu: White cocksucka.
Al Swearengen: These two white cocksuckers? Who the fuck did it?
Mr. Wu: Wu?
Al Swearengen: "Who," you ignorant fuckin’ chink!
Mr. Wu: Wu!
Al Swearengen: Who? Who? Who stole the fucking dope?
Mr. Wu: Cocksucka!
Al Swearengen: Aw, Jesus.

E.B.: Anything the mayor should know?
Al Swearengen: The name of another tailor.

Al Swearengen: As damp as your hands are, why do you continuously lick your fuckin' thumb?
E.B.: Habit, I suppose.
Al Swearengen: Could you learn the habit of lickin' a fuckin' stump?

Al Swearengen: You can't slit the throat of everyone whose character it would improve.

Al Swearengen: [to Adams] Get a fuckin' haircut. Looks like your mother fucked a monkey.

A.W. Merrick: How many memories, fond to their recollection, have their setting in that tight little dining room?
Charlie Utter: Yeah, well it’s fucked now.
Seth Bullock: Anyways, we gotta open soon.
A.W. Merrick: Who would argue that the venue was the cause of these happy memories, nor the bill of fare? The bitter coffee, the rancid bacon, those stale biscuits that were tomb and grave to so many insects. No, gentlemen, it was the meandering conversation, the lingering with men of character - some of whom are walking with me now - that was such pleasure to experience, and such a joy now to recall.
Sol Star: Good of you to say, Mr. Merrick.
Charlie Utter: Yeah… back atcha, as far as… that goes.
Seth Bullock: Yeah.

Jewel's Boot Is Made For Walking[edit]

Silas Adams: They believe you're the man to deal with. Yankton.
Al Swearengen: I am.
Silas Adams: It's just the magistrate looking to earn off that warrant. But no one else even knows it's out on you.
Al Swearengen: Maybe the magistrate needs to die.
Silas Adams: Maybe he does.

[On Stapleton being appointed Sheriff]
Al Swearengen: Bullock, it's a ceremonial position to give comfort to Tom Nuttall, who feels the camp's leavin' him behind. Putting a badge on Stapleton makes him feel he's got friends in high places.
Seth Bullock: That job shouldn't go to a shitheel.
Al Swearengen: Where as my feeling would be it should go to a shitheel, as it's shitheel's work.

Al Swearengen: I want to tell you somethin' about the law. Please, take a seat. Separate from all the bribes we put up, I paid 5000 dollars to avoid being the object of fireside ditties about a man that fled a murder warrant then worked very hard to get his camp annexed by the territory, only to have them serve the warrant of him and to face the six-foot drop. Into the magistrate's pocket the money goes, after which he sends a message. The 5,000'll need company if I'm to be off the hook. I give you the law.
Seth: It doesn't have to be like that.

Al Swearengen: Hey Doc, how long were you planning on taking before you told me what the fuck was wrong with Jewel?
Doc Cochran: Nothing, nothing she wasn't born with.
Al Swearengen: Mmm, I mean, she told me she was knocked up but I assumed that was her gimp sense of humor.
Doc Cochran: She wants me to brace her leg so her dragging it doesn't drive you crazy.
Al Swearengen: So what'd you tell her?
Doc Cochran: Not to worry about your moods, that you generate those yourself and then you find your excuse for having 'em.
Al Swearengen: Saucy words Doc, good thing you're handy with the snatch.
Doc Cochran: I had an idea for a boot, just now measured her for it.
Al Swearengen: If you treat her as successfully as you did the minister, she'll be kicking up her heels in no fucking time.
Doc Cochran: I will leave you now to pursue another excuse.

Al Swearengen: Don’t you think I don't understand. I mean, what can anyone of us ever really fuckin' hope for, huh? Except for a moment here and there with a person who doesn't want to rob, steal or murder us? At night, it may happen. Sun-up, one person against the fuckin' wall, the other may hop on the fuckin' bed trusting each other enough to tell half the fucking truth. Everybody needs that. Becomes precious to 'em. They don't want to see it fucked with.
Sol: I won't pay.
Al Swearengen: You pay… or she pays. No home visits. Do your visiting on the premises, five. [Sol slides five coins across the bar] Seven for an ass-fuck.

Seth Bullock: That man's not here to help his daughter, he's looking to root at her claim. You went to see that whore again?
Sol Star: I guess she had to account for her being outside, Swearengen sent for me to pay him his fee. I guess she told him where she'd been.
Seth Bullock: It might have been me he found out from, Sol, 'cause I'm sometimes that stupid.
Sol Star: You think it could have been you?
Seth Bullock: I'm sure it was, speaking without thinking, justifying being in his place.
Sol Star: Being you'd been ousted from your own.
Seth Bullock: I was hot seeing that tinhorn Stapleton getting installed as sheriff, and I used poor fucking judgment.
Sol Star: Sorry Mrs. Garret's pa turns out a shitheel.
Seth Bullock: Cold enough world without gettin' gone against by your own.

Sold Under Sin[edit]

Al Swearengen: This bloated tick, Claggett, feeding on the neck of the fucking military.

E.B. Farnum: Cavalry in camp, Doc. May I number you in the reception committee?
Doc Cochran: Fuck the cavalry and the committee that receives 'em

Al Swearengen: Walk in unannounced is a good way to get yourself killed, Doc.

Otis Russell: [To E.B.] It must cost you sleep, the guests you drive off, the chances of thievin' and bilkin' you lose needing to rub against your betters.

Seth Bullock: You and I are gonna talk.
Otis Russell: You don't account for my preferences, Mr. Bullock?
Seth Bullock: I will beat you here in the street.
Otis Russell: First-rate thinking. My daughter's agent beats her father in the street, how better to condemn Alma to deepened suspicion as to her role in her husband's violent death and widen suspicion to include yourself? Shoot craps, Mr. Bullock? Were you bullied, Mr. Bullock, when young and incapable? Now you see wrongs everywhere and bullying you feel called to remedy. The bully who oppressed your youth isn't at the table with us, perhaps he's long dead. If you will view the present with more clarity, perhaps you'd recognize that I'm not victimizing my daughter, but merely asking for a small portion of the ample proceeds from her veins. Alma is hurt only in your particular view of things. And while I'll sign no guarantee not to return, or against any future claim on her compassion, realize I do hate it here. And if you inhale and expel pure righteousness, my olfactories are keen to the smell of shit. Having heard all that and knowing, as you must, the injudiciousness of making an enemy of a man who could testify truthfully that, five minutes before her marriage, he heard his daughter wish her prospective husband dead, and who won't shrink from lying as to what she admitted to him on his arrival in this cesspool, as to her complicity in her husband's murder, I suppose you'd best take your swing.
Seth Bullock: [After beating Mr. Russell] All right. Leave this camp, and draw a map for anyone who wants to believe your fucking lies. Anyone wants to put your daughter or her holdings in jeopardy, you show 'em how to get here and you tell 'em I'll be waiting.

Seth Bullock: I don't care if the whole U.S. Cavalry walks in here, you don't want to pour another drink. You just want to listen to me 'cause if the man doesn't die whose face I just broke, he's gonna go to New York City and tell Brom Garret's people it breaks his heart to say so but his daughter had their son murdered. He'll tell 'em, knowing how he does, they won't want their son's rightful property in the hands of the woman who killed him. He'll swear to what he heard from her own lips. And those society people in New York City, who live with their heads up their asses anyway, will believe him. And whoever they send out here may take up to fifteen minutes before they decide that you were involved in the transaction first to last. It must have been you and your boss she hired to push her idiot husband off the cliff. Of course, they'll be wrong about Mrs. Garret, but they'll be right as rain about you two cocksuckers. You tell him all that upstairs.
Dan Dority: If he don't die.
Seth Bullock: If he don't die. I don't think I killed him.
Dan Dority: Just so I understand you, if he don't die, you're saying the man's luck don't have to hold out. Now, that's the message you want me to take upstairs.
Seth Bullock: I don't swim in that shit.
Dan Dority: You oughta pin that [sheriff's badge] on your chest. You're hypocrite enough to wear it.
Seth Bullock: You just tell him.

Sol Star: I'm guessing you've done things today you wish you could amend.
Seth Bullock: What kind of man have I become, Sol?
Sol Star: I don't know. The day ain't fucking over.

Seth Bullock: May I speak?
Cy Tolliver: Mr. Bullock.
Seth Bullock: I was a marshal in Montana, my father served in the British Royal Army, and my brother Robert was a cavalryman, killed fighting the Comancheros in Texas.
General Crook: Why are you here, Mr. Bullock?
Seth Bullock: A man named Otis Russell is laid up in this establishment, he needs protection.
General Crook: Protection from whom?
Seth Bullock: Several in this camp. I beat him badly. Others have reason to wish him dead, and the camp sheriff can be bought off for half a can of bacon grease.
General Crook: Well, while we're here, I will hold Mr. Russell under protection, as a gesture to your brother's sacrifice.
Seth Bullock: Thank you, sir.
General Crook: I would add, in a camp, where the sheriff can be bought for bacon grease, a man, a former marshal, who understands the danger of his own temperament, might consider serving his fellows. We all have bloody thoughts.

Seth Bullock: I'll be the fucking sheriff.
Al Swearengen: Startin' when?
Seth Bullock: Startin' now.
Al Swearengen: You have the tin?
Seth Bullock: I do.
Al Swearengen: Produce it.

[Seth stands up, and pulls out the badge]

Al Swearengen: On the tit.
Seth Bullock: I know where it goes.

Al Swearengen: Announcing your plans is a good way to hear God laugh.

Season Two[edit]

A Lie Agreed Upon, Part One[edit]

Al Swearengen: [on Bullock and his affair with Alma] He don’t know if he’s breathing or taking it in through fucking gills; he is that fucking cunt-struck. They’re afloat in some fairy fucking bubble, lighter than air. Him, her snatch and his stupid fucking badge.

Al Swearengen: [to Bullock] What's the matter—taken by a vision? [Bullock glares at him] You would not want to be staring like that at me.

Al Swearengen: Age impedes my stream, no fucking fear of you.
Seth Bullock: Get in here.
Al Swearengen: All in due fucking course but tell me one thing first, Bullock, as I stand here fucking humbled. Does the widow Garret have a going fucking hard rock concern and five-stamp mill crushing gold out of her quartz all day and fucking night?
Seth Bullock: What?
Al Swearengen: Or does she cast her lot with the camp, furnish others here a chance to develop what they got, to hang on or even prosper?
Seth Bullock: You pie-faced cocksucker, get in here and account for your insult.
Al Swearengen: Or, with you at her ear - among other points of entry - instead of doing your civic duty, does she ship her fucking loot to Denver?
Seth Bullock: Civic duty? Opposed by her own and her dead husband's family, to put her assets at play in a camp with no law or government worth the name?
Al Swearengen: See as here where she lives and struck lucky, civic duty? Yeah! And it's time for her and some others to quit their fucking shirking, Yankton's making its move. Ah, the fucking thing!
Seth Bullock: Meaning what, "Yankton's making its move"? Without more insults.
Al Swearengen: We're getting ass-fucked. Carved into counties, but not one fucking commissioner coming from the hills.
Seth Bullock: How do you have this information?
Al Swearengen: From the governor himself in a pricey little personal note. They want to make us a trough for Yankton's snouts, and them hoopleheads out there, they need buttressing against going over to those cocksuckers. Now I can handle my areas, but there's dimensions and fucking angles I'm not expert at. You would be if you'd sheathe your prick long enough.
Seth Bullock: Shut up.
Al Swearengen: And resume being the upright pain in the balls that graced us all last summer.
Seth Bullock: Shut up, you son of a bitch.
Al Swearengen: Jesus Christ. Bullock, the world abounds in cunt of every kind, including hers. [Bullock removes his Sheriff's badge] Of course, if it would steer you from something stupid, I, uh, could always profess another position.
Seth Bullock: Will I find you've got a knife on you?
Al Swearengen: I won't need no fucking knife.

Cy Tolliver: Awful possibility in these matters is both men sustaining mortal injury... [After the fight] But I'm rarely that fucking lucky.

Al Swearengen: Welcome to fuckin' Deadwood! Can be... combative!

Al Swearengen: Wave a penny under the Jew's nose. They have living breath in them, brings 'em right round.

Cy Tolliver: Suck some pricks if you like. Keep whatever they give you as my way of saying welcome.
Maddie: Any blind ones out there?

Al Swearengen: Jesus Christ!
Barney: That bandage wants to be tight, Al!
Al Swearengen: Does it? Ask it if it wants to be wound around your fucking neck! Get away from me, Barney!

Johnny Burns: What was that Jewish fella, thinking, Dan, to charge at me with a purse gun?
Dan Dority: That's just an unfamiliar situation. He just overplayed trying to prove himself.
Johnny Burns: What was that whole damn thing about, anyhow?
Dan Dority: Al's calling Bullock to the fold.
Johnny Burns: Bullock ain't even of Al's flock.
Dan Dority: Al's gonna be calling numbers to the fold now that he can't trust like us, some he don't even like. We're joining America, and it's full of lying, thieving, cocksuckers that you can't trust at all - governors, commissioners and whatnot.

Doc Cochran: Tell Wu that that drunk better not get ate by his pigs until I have had my way with the corpse.
Sol Star: [Drugged up, referring to the gunshot wound in his shoulder] I'm braced, Doc, if you want to start digging.
Doc Cochran: Momentarily.

Al Swearengen: Cow-eyed kid looking from that coach, that's what fucking unmanned me.

Cy Tolliver: Don't believe there's no good women 'till you've seen one with maggots in her eyes.

A Lie Agreed Upon, Part Two[edit]

Doc Cochran: Jane, for me, the female breast long ago lost mystery or allure. Open your goddamn blouse.
Calamity Jane: I'll keep my fucking eyes shut, but I'll know every fucking move you make.

Silas Adams: For what it's worth, Yankton's afraid of Bullock.
Al Swearengen: Well, say no more. Refrain from explaining yourself.
Silas Adams: Till Congress approves, nothing's to say the Hills get made part of Dakota. Far as that, Montana's got pull Dakota don't. Montana's got silver for bribes.
Al Swearengen: Thievin' Indian agent's all fucking Dakota's got.
Silas Adams: It ain't fucking fresh money to the game.
Dan Dority: And how does that argue for Bullock living or dying?
Silas Adams: Yankton thinks Bullock's Montana's Man.
Al Swearengen: On what basis?
Silas Adams: He was favorite of a judge in Helena that wanted him in politics. They figure he's a stalking horse here for the judge's interests.
Dan Dority: Then Yankton's got their head up their fucking asses if they think Bullock's anybody's man. Hell, Bullock himself don't even know whose man he is.
Al Swearengen: In the thoroughfare, as I readied to stab the cocksucker, did you have no impulse to hint at this?
Silas Adams: The moment didn't seem right.
Al Swearengen: Over time, your quickness with a cocky rejoinder must have gotten you many punches in the face.
Silas Adams: Depends what you call, 'many'.
Dan Dority: There's another fucking clever one.
Al Swearengen: To Yankton's thinking, would Bullock dead curb Montana's interests or incite them to a stronger expression?
Silas Adams: I don't know.
Al Swearengen: If he's spoiling to mix it with us further, they may get a chance to find out.

Alma Garret: We do love each other. Our being together ought not to seem so outlandish a proposition. Except for every other single thing.

Tom Nuttall: [Regarding Silas and Dan] Them too seem disputatious as well, huh?
Al Swearengen: Storm clouds gather.

Al Swearengen: Jesus Christ!
Johnny Burns: Either Al got God or Dolly just stuck her thumb back up his ass.
Al Swearengen: Now, I'm halfway thinking this exaggerates the condition rather than alleviate it. If I might should query the doc, but then that cocksucker will only ask after gleets. Oh my God! Take it out. Take it out! Remove your fucking thumb! Why, if I was moving forward to get away from you, would you have fucking pursued me? When I stopped, pressed on yourself, to drive your thumb into my intestine?
Dolly: Sorry.
Al Swearengen: Is it a river of blood, or what the fuck's pouring out of it now?
Dolly: Nothing.
Al Swearengen: Huh. Close the ass-flap. The entire area of my fucking asshole is now one gigantic fucking throb. I have no idea what's transpiring in there.

Al Swearengen: [Receiving a blowjob] Even this, now gives me no pleasure.
Seth Bullock: [From outside] Swearengen! Be down in five minutes with my gun and badge!
Calamity Jane: Start down now, you limey cocksucker! Allow for getting stuck from crawling out from under the bed.
Al Swearengen: That Bullock is a fucking strategist, ain't he? Sets terms to publicly humiliate me, and my penalty if I don't comply is he walks into the bar downstairs and takes fifteen bullets in the chest. And that ain't no hooplehead, you know. Bullock, he's one of those special fucking cases, you don't know what in fucks going on in their mind, and he's big with Montana. Big. I heard that today. Because the news earlier from Yankton and the fucking commissioners wasn't adequately confusing. Not to mention the fucking telegraph coming in and four whores that I don't know who the fuck they work for.
Seth Bullock: [From outside] Three minutes!
Al Swearengen: Shut the fuck up! I suppose I do fucking understand. So fucking confused and disgusted and wanting it to end and looking for the blessing of a quick way out. Sets himself to a higher fucking standard than our natures, and he wants execution 'cause he's failed.
Seth Bullock: One minute!
Charlie Utter: What the fuck happened to two?
Al Swearengen: Talk about one person, fucking up another person's entire fucking day. [Goes outside to the balcony, points at Bullock] Wait.

Johnny Burns: He's coming, he's detained. Getting dressed.
Calamity Jane: Ain't it always a trial picking out the best gown best conceals you fucking pissed yourself.

Al Swearengen: I regret the delay, I was sequestered. Have been, one thing and another, since last we met. I also apologize for the stink.
Calamity Jane: Welcome change from your usual odor of skunk!
Al Swearengen: I offer these, and I hope you'll wear them a good long fucking time in this fucking camp, whose ever fucking thumb we're under. And where it come to me just a few moments ago that the Reverend Smith, may he rest his soul, he was found on the road, apparently murdered by heathens just some months ago. What he said on the subject of you: 'Mr. Bullock raises a camp up, and I hope he'll reside with us and improve our general fucking atmosphere for a good long fucking time, even with all the personal complications and fucking disasters that we all fucking have, and where, running away solves absolutely fucking nothing.'

Al Swearengen: A full fair-mindedness requires us also to report that within the Gem, on Deadwood's main thoroughfare, comely whores, decently priced liquor and the squarest games of chance in the hills remain unabatedly available at all hours, seven days a week.

A.W. Merrick: The economic aspect is one fabric in the tapestry of journalism.
Al Swearengen: Ass-fucking the dirt worshippers being another? A pleasure beyond gain.
A.W. Merrick: Now, now, now.
Al Swearengen: Oh, is that your Heathen imitation? Jump up and down and give a few whoops, as in "Whoop, that ass fucking hurts."

New Money[edit]

Maddie: The creature I saw outside our place last night, who you said is the camp's mayor, now perches like a vulture over that man at breakfast.
Joanie Stubbs: Farnum. He owns the hotel.
Maddie: Have you affection for Mayor Farnum?
Joanie Stubbs: None.
Maddie: Good. Because the man the mayor expects to digest is going to toy and play with Mr. Farnum from camouflage for as long as he finds it amusing. And then make him a meal of his own.

E.B. Farnum: Al, if you're not dead and already moldering, I send news to revive you. A fish to rival the fabled Leviathan has swum into our waters. Get well soon and we'll land the cocksucker together. Your friend, E.B.

Seth Bullock: Swearengen said the county commissioners are all from Yankton.
Sol Star: When was this?
Seth Bullock: Just before we hit the mud. It’s wrong the hills get no representation.
Sol Star: Even in an Eden like this, wrongs sometimes occur.

Francis Wolcott: You've approached a group in San Francisco that does business with my employer.
Cy Tolliver: That group and employer bullshit really quickens me with fuckin' trust.
Wolcott: That group you've approached is a fraternal Chinese organization.
Tolliver: "Tong" is not a clever enough word?
Wolcott: You offered them a contract to send members to this camp. That organization has a pre-existing arrangement with my employer.
Tolliver: So you work for who, Wolcott? The railroads? Some mining combination that brings those slant-eyes in by the boatload?
Wolcott: No, sir. I work for one man.

E.B. Farnum: Some ancient Italian maxim fits our situation, whose particulars escape me.
Francis Wolcott: Is the gist that I'm shit outta luck?
Farnum: Did they speak that way then?

Trixie: I'll pay you, or you can take it out in cunt.

Requiem for a Gleet[edit]

Ellsworth: Because them as poke around Miz Garret’s workings without a by-your-leave ain’t welcome, Mr. Wolcott, and you ought not to repeat your fuckin’ mistake.
Wolcott: Well, that’s an uncivil response to an innocent error.
Ellsworth: Did you work in the Comstock when you was beardless?
Wolcott: I did.
Ellsworth: For Mr. George Hearst, as a keen eye for the color?
Wolcott: As a geologist for Mr. Hearst. Well, you have the advantage of me, Mr. Ellsworth.
Ellsworth: That ain’t a possibility, Wolcott. No more than an error of yours would be innocent.
Wolcott: I do dimly recall an Ellsworth superintended the consolidated Virginia operations.
Ellsworth: I don’t give a fuck what you recall.
Wolcott: A hero. Dug a week without respite to save three poor souls from a cave-in.
Ellsworth: And 46 corpses in a fucking hole that ought never to have been dug.
Wolcott: Always a choice... to count the saved or the lost.
Ellsworth: Get off this property.
Wolcott: Just as a man opposed to inevitable change needn’t invariably be called a Luddite, another choice might be simply to describe him as slow in his processes.
Ellsworth: You tell that cocksucker you work for the next surrogate he sends oughtn't to be bloodied from the Comstock.

E.B.: It is no disloyalty to be a realist, Richardson. We are mortal. One hopes for the best. One perseveres. One re-evaluates constantly. One is an asshole if one doesn't. Loyalty expanded is not loyalty betrayed. I contemplate no disloyalty to Al Swearengen. I feel exposed. I don't like being weak, and I know that I am. I yearn to rely on a stronger will. I fear what I'm capable of in its absence. Whereas you, Richardson, know nothing of yourself. Are you shitting or going blind? Or on foot or horseback? You vile fucking lump!

Sol Star: If money had to be clean before it was recirculated we would still be living in fucking caves.

E.B.: Miserable, haughty cunt. Putting me beyond my depth.

Complications[edit]

Al: [after waking up from his "coma"] Did you fuck me when I was out?
Dan: Hell, no.
Al: Then quit looking at me like that.

Richardson: I like you.
Alma: Thank you, Richardson.
Richardson: You’re purdy.
Alma: Thank you very much. And probably that’s all either of us needs to say on that subject ever again.

Hugo: Had you vision as well as sight, you would recognize within me not only a man, but an institution and the future as well.
Steve: Fuck you, fuck the institution, and fuck the future!
Hugo: You cannot fuck the future, sir. The future fucks you.

Al: Do they understand how most of what happens is people being drunk and stupid and trying to find something else to blame besides that that makes their lives totally fucked? No. They don't.

Something Very Expensive[edit]

Doc Cochran: You, Al, are an object lesson in the healing powers of obstinacy and a hostile disposition.

Sol: If you keep it up, we're going to fight, and you'll have to work by yourself while I convalesce.

Commissioner Jarry: And you, Mr. Wolcott, I find you the most severe disappointment of all.
Wolcott: Often to myself as well.

Merrick: Lot, before God, could make no case for that food.
Mary: Lot's wife may have been in that food.

Cy Tolliver: Now that's an attitude right there I want us to counsel on. Smart-alecky sort of attitude and almost with a quality of.. fuckin' anger to it. I don't find the exact fuckin' words for it, but it fuckin' disturbs and concerns me.
Francis Wolcott: By my lights, I feel I manage well.
Cy Tolliver: Well, you can say that, Mr. Wolcott, yet I hear accounts that you're a dangerous lay, and that adds to my feeling disturbed. Are you inclined, sir, every so often to.. 'ride one off the cliff'? Girls, I mean.
Francis Wolcott: I am disturbed at my private conduct being spoken of.
Cy Tolliver: Well, I should think you fuckin' would be. And to think of Mr. Hearst's disturbance if he was to fuckin' know. Because, that's a dangerous habit to indulge when you're not among friends.
Francis Wolcott: Are you my friend, Mr. Tolliver?
Cy Tolliver: And someone past surprise at habits or inclination, or turns of events, and who don't confuse himself far as sitting in judgment with our Lord in fuckin' heaven.
Francis Wolcott: I see
Cy Tolliver: And who would never tattle to your employer or jeopardize what's got to be a handsome fuckin' income. God damn right, I am your friend, Mr. Wolcott. All I can't provide for the party is the cliff.
Francis Wolcott: Believing yourself past surprise does not commend you to me as a friend. A man inadequately sophisticated or merely ignorant, or simply stupid, may believe himself past surprise, then be surprised to discover, for example, that Mr. Hearst already knows of my inclinations and finds them immaterial. Suggesting as a corollary that your skills for blackmail and manipulation no longer are assets to you, and for your fatuous belief in their efficacy, in fact have become liabilities. In short, you've overplayed your hand. Now I should think, in consequence, now recognizing yourself as a man past his time, that during this last transitional period you would devote yourself with grateful and quiet diligence to such uses as others may still find you suitable.

E.B. Was Left Out[edit]

Al Swearengen: Pain or damage don’t end the world, or despair or fucking beatings. The world ends when you’re dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man—and give some back.

Francis Wolcott: I feel you breathing down my neck.
Charlie Utter: Should I exhale out my ass?
Francis Wolcott: And I believe you're doing it intentionally.
Charlie Utter: Why? You think I believe you're a fuckin' cunt?
Francis Wolcott: [turns to face Utter] If we fight, it won't be a casual matter.
Charlie Utter: Ohhh, I see you got your big fuckin' knife there, and hid somewhere on your persons you've probably got some pussified shootin' instrument. But I am good at first impressions, and you are a fucking cunt, and I DOUBT you've fought many MEN, maybe even ONE!

Alma Garret: [regarding Sofia] You frighten her.
Al Swearengen: I have that effect.
Alma Garret: I think specifically it was your plotting against her life.
Al Swearengen: I'd take tea
Alma Garret: What do you wish to discuss?
Al Swearengen: The child's tutor you recently sacked..
Alma Garret: Miss Isringhausen?
Al Swearengen: She's a Pinkerton.
Alma Garret: I don't find that credible.
Al Swearengen: That's the way they like it. Your husband's family chartered the agency to pin his dying on you so when you're jailed or hanged they can bag your gold.
Alma Garret: How do you support this contention?
Al Swearengen: Oh, she's come to me, and wants to give me money to confirm what she says you confessed: that you hired me to kill him.
Alma Garret: How much have they offered?
Al Swearengen: 50,000.
Alma Garret: And how much do you ask of me as commission to tell the truth?
Al Swearengen: I don't like the Pinkertons. They're muscle for the bosses, as if the bosses ain't got enough edge...
Alma Garret: So you'd side with me on principle?
Al Swearengen: Now I'll finish my fucking sentence.
Alma Garret: Excuse me.
Al Swearengen: I don't like the Pinkertons. Being the Hearst combine and their fucking ilk got their eyes on taking over here, your staying suits my purpose.

Al Swearengen: What happened to Tolliver illustrated till the race is fucking finished, never mark the fucking wager paid. Wakes up this morning in bed with the fucking Hearst combine, knowing he's got us by the balls. Whatever sick fucking business that geologist has transacted, you can bet he had his wrists in it up...
Dan Dority: Tolliver.
Al Swearengen: Tolliver, yeah. Before, after, and in the fucking middle too, thinking he's got the fucking edge, which is the right fucking move. Underwriting whatever sick business that geologist was involved in guarantees his fucking position, but what fucking happens, Dan?
Dan Dority: Fucks himself up the ass, Tolliver.
Swearengen: No mean feat! Yet how often we bring it off.

Barfly: I won't fuck Chinese; I got a mother living yet.
Hawkeye: She the jealous type?

Con: Hey, you ever hear, Tom, the Chinese whore has a ancient way of milking ya of yer sorrow, your loneliness and that awful feeling of bein’ forsaken?
Tom: Seems to me that’d leave you with nothing.

Al Swearengen: Request of the widow Garret E.B. that I may be allowed to call upon her.
E.B. Farnum: Today? Shall I tell her time is of the essence?
Al Swearengen: When ain't it?
E.B. Farnum: I'll aim for early afternoon
Al Swearengen: Stop walking with me E.B..
E.B. Farnum: Yes, of course. And if she pries and pokes and prods me to elicit your intentions?
Al Swearengen: Tell her I wouldn't say.
E.B. Farnum: And if she asks me why you wouldn't?
Al Swearengen: Say you're a pain in my balls that can't desist from inquiry till told to shut his fucking mouth and act on the task he was asked to fucking do!

E.B. Farnum: Have we a new Pope?
Al Swearengen: She's some fuck, E.B..

Al Swearengen: What's this about?
Trixie: I'm done at that hardware store with their fuckin' harpin' and badgerin'.
Al Swearengen: Who's harping? The jew?
Trixie: Are you making a fuckin' pun?
Al Swearengen: I'm asking a fucking question.
Trixie: The jew. And fuckin' Bullock also. I'm erratic with my decimals and the like.
Al Swearengen: So harping now is a hardship on the same fucking order of a boot on your fucking neck? Do not fucking fault them, Trixie, for your own fucking fears of tumblin' to somethin' new.

Sol Star: Guidance for me, before you turn to your numbers?
Trixie: Tread lightly, who lives in hope of pussy.

Al Swearengen: A man, as it happens a rival of mine, learning the secret of a great man's lieutenant would make that lieutenant his slave. My rival knows that expanding the circle of the informed, diluting his power, will confound his intention, so he takes precaution to be the sole sharer of his secret. Then the world being the world.. along comes a half-assed knight-errant, Utter, Hickok's ex-partner, to put all my rival's plans at risk. I'd seek audience with Utter, verify my thinking. He earns his bread shipping packages. And as the dimwit nobility that made him intercede may now make him reticent, you, Chief, will be my prop and ploy whilst I seek to draw him out.

E.B. Farnum: Why, Al?
Al Swearengen: Why, E.B.? Because being present at that meeting and made as you are, blackmail would have proved irresistible and pursuing it would have gotten you murdered.

Francis Wolcott: Prudence dictates my requiring, in return, your account of what Miss Stubbs told you.
Charlie Utter: The prudentest thing you can do is not name that girl again with me in the fucking room.

Francis Wolcott: I am simply asking confirmation of what you were told and by whom.
Charlie Utter: And I'm promising I'll sooner blow off your fucking head, and take the fucking letter from your corpse than confide any fucking particulars.
Francis Wolcott: To me?
Charlie Utter: To any fucking one, when I give my word I wouldn't.

Childish Things[edit]

Seth Bullock: Maybe you’re mistrusted less as a killer than showin’ your cards a corner at a time.

Tom: My bicycle masters boardwalk and quagmire with aplomb. Those that doubt me, suck cock by choice.

Dan: Sometimes I hear you speakin’ in here when I know there’s nobody in here but you.
Al: You have not yet reached the age, Dan, have you, where you’re moved to utterance of thoughts properly kept silent?
Dan: Been known to mutter.
Al: Not the odd mutter. Habitual fuckin’ vocalizing of thoughts best kept to yourself. I will confide further. Lately... I talk to this package: the severed rotting head I paid bounty on last year of that murdered fuckin’ Indian.

Joanie Stubbs: Would you like a drink?
Jane: Yes. But my opening position is no.

Charlie: [at Bill Hickock's grave] Evenin’, Bill. Jane ain’t with me, ‘cause she’s a drunken fuckin’ mess, and I don’t know what to do about it. I know you want her looked out for, and I’m doin’ my fuckin’ best. But I won’t stand before you claimin’ optimism. Other news. That letter you wrote your wife just before that cocksucker murdered you, it come to my hand. I won’t even try explainin’ fuckin’ how. And knowin’ what we know about our fucked up postal system, I ain’t committin’ it to the fuckin’ mails. You know I will try to get it to her, which I pray’d be a portion off your mind. When I’ve found where she’s at, on my way settin’ off I’ll tell you. All right. God bless you, Bill. [starts to leave and then turns back] And as far as Jane, as drunk as you’ve seen her, you’ve never seen her this worse. Between us, maybe havin’ lost, wantin’ to keep on. So I - I don’t know what the fuck to do! But you know I’ll— I’ll keep tryin.’ [leaves]

Al Swearengen: Summon from Farnum that cunt with the long Kraut moniker.
Johnny Burns: E.B. ain't been over for coffee.
Al Swearengen: Should I ask if Farnum's come for coffee before I get you to summon that cunt? [To the disembodied 'Chief'] Dead and without a body, you strill outstrip him for intelligence.

Charlie Utter: Seeing you know about losing friends, you might be a good person to go on and talk to her.
Jane Cannary: How does standing in my own puke prompt you to volunteer me to give a condolence call?
Charlie Utter: Why fucking wouldn't it, Jane? You like being situated how you are?

Alma Garret: My beliefs about you have to do with your soul, which I feel is cold and ungenerous, unless you are a counterfeit. And if you are a counterfeit, the deception comes so naturally, I'd credit its source in such a soul.. meaning, cold and ungenerous, and as capable of counterfeit.. manipulative and treacherous as well.
Miss Isringhausen: Who can you think I am, Mrs. Garret? I, a poor working?
Alma Garret: You are not.
Miss Isringhausen: I only hope your high wroth, ma'am, don't bespeak some affair gone amiss.. I hope to Christ not involving Mr. Bullock. Even under such duress, you oughtn't presume to strike me. For who do you take me then? For who do you mistake me?
Alma Garret: I mistake you for no one, Miss Isringhausen, and I know you for a fact.
Miss Isringhausen: All right then, Mrs. Garret. You've had your fit of temper, get the fuck back to your room.

Al Swearengen: [To the disembodied 'Chief'] Sent many of your friends to the happy hunting ground. Formidable Tom was, and no more a fool now than time shows us all.

Martha Bullock: This roof over our heads, Mr. Bullock, testifies to your care for William and me. The fostering affection and guidance you show my son to shape him into a man will only deepen my gratitude to you. As for myself, no further demonstrations are necessary as.. other duties claim your attentions.
Seth Bullock: None such as you conceive since your arrival, nor will they again, whatever the state of our relations.
Martha Bullock: Do not sacrifice further on my account, Mr. Bullock. I reject the offering. I repudiate it! I find it poisonous!

A.W. Merrick: Is this true, Al?
Al Swearengen: Did he fucking confirm it to you?
A.W. Merrick: I haven't spoken to Bullock.
Al Swearengen: So, then I guess it ain't confirmed. Answer me this fucking question: why in fuck do I find out about this telegraph operator arriving tardily and by accident?
A.W. Merrick: I wasn't aware that you were owed official notification.
Al Swearengen: Merrick, you and me are allies, marching into battle together, and aren't smart-assed replies amongst allies a waste of fucking time?

Doc Cochran: Do you speak Chinese?
Francis Wolcott: I do not, sir.
Doc Cochran: However you accomplish communication with that son of a bitch, then the more the disgrace to your soul!

Mose Manuel: That easy, to forget a fucking brother!?
Francis Wolcott: Money has properties in this regard! ..Though no remedy is discovered yet sovereign against sentimental remorse.

Amalgamation and Capital[edit]

Samuel Fields: [talking to a horse before he and Hostetler castrate it] Now, if you want to take it out on someone, remember it was very dark-skinned white folks that cut on you. They just sounded like niggers to throw you off.

Tom Nuttall: Knowledge is overrated, William. Diligence is what’s required in the service of a willing spirit.

Al Swearengen: They're hypocrite cocksuckers. And the fuckin' lyin' instruments and tactics they use to fuck people up the ass can be turned against them.

Francis Wolcott: On my order, Mr. Tolliver, Lee will burn this building, mutilating you before, during or after as I specify, or when he chooses unless I forbid.
Cy Tolliver: Oh, my full attention is at your disposal.

Al Swearengen: Dan, don't you agree that the truth, if only a pinch, must season every falsehood, or the palate fucking rebels? And mustn't the novice chef be mindful not to ladle out his concoction by the unseasoned fucking ton, lest before he perfect his art, he lose his clientele?

Al Swearengen: Every rumor you floated in your article, Merrick, I believe is a living possibility for this camp, and I want you to fucking hear that as a compliment.
A.W. Merrick: If so, it's the first from your lips.
Al Swearengen: Because all them possibilities, called next to accomplished fact, in one fucking outgush makes people smell a rat.
A.W. Merrick: Yes, I suppose so.
Al Swearengen: These interests coming after us, Merrick, they're fucking rough. They're going after our nuts. They're hypocrite cocksuckers, and the fucking lying tactics and instruments they use to fuck people up the ass can be turned against them.
A.W. Merrick: My newspaper being such an instrument.
Al Swearengen: But scale, amount, proportion, seasoning. Drink that fucking second shot, Merrick!
A.W. Merrick: I like my fucking liquor.
Al Swearengen: A trait in you that gave me early hope.

Charlie Utter: A letter come to hand I need to take to Bill's missus.. He wrote just before he got killed.
Seth Bullock: I see.
Charlie Utter: And you know who fucking give it to me? How crazy life got? And money must buy these bastards any fucking thing they want! That cocksucker inside, Mr. amalgamation & fucking capital!
Seth Bullock: Hearst's geologist gave you the letter?
Charlie Utter: And god knows who he fucking bought it off of or how many hands it passed through. It fucks me up thinking Bill's missus got to handle something that cocksucker touched.
Seth Bullock: Was it over the letter you beat him the other day?
Charlie Utter: No, no. I give my word not to say what that was over. I'd best go, lest Mr. amalgamation & capital takes one through the fucking head.
Seth Bullock: What's the import of that expression?
Charlie Utter: Do I look like I'd fucking know? Some big-shot eastern magazine reporter interviewing Bill said that was what's changing things around. Jane, I don't know what's gonna come of fucking Jane.
Seth Bullock: I'll keep an eye on her.
Charlie Utter: You should lock her in that cell and don't let her fucking drink! And don't fuck yourself up over Mose Manuel. He will get hisself fleeced of what is rightfully his and what he got by fuckin' murder. He'll be judge on hisself and jury too, just like the fucking most of us.

Charlie Utter: New saloon in the camp, Jane?
Jane Cannary: I know that's some clever opening gambit to culminate in breaking my balls.
Charlie Utter: Just saying I checked the usual spots 'cause I wanted to say goodbye before I left camp, so in case you go ahead and fucking die...
Jane Cannary: Goodbye, Charlie, goodbye. Have a good fucking trip. Shut the fuck up! 'Cause it so happens, when you return, if no trees of animals killed you, that you were fucking driving crazy with criticism, you will find I've moved out of this shitbox, so I don't have to fucking embarrass you or fucking have you hovering over me like the ugliest fucking nurse in the fucking universe.

Al Swearengen: Mrs. Garret writ me a letter saying how yesterday she lost her temper with you somewhat, and judgment, she tipped she was on to you being a Pinkerton. Oh, being bright, I expect you concluded it was me must have told her, meaning maybe I had sold over to her, and with my allegiance now in question, I expect you wired the Pinkerton big-shots, arguing you oughtn't sign any documents that might be able to prove that you, the agency, and Mrs. Garret's fucking in-laws hired me to lay at Mrs. Garret's doorstep the murder of her husband.
Miss Isringhausen: And further, Mr. Swearengen, that as to purchase of your allegiance, now in question, they might wish to keep the bidding open.
Al Swearengen: Bidding is open always on everyone, Miss Isringhausen. But I expect you understand, knowing as I do, should Mrs. Garret lose her claim, rather than operate it themselves, her cunt in-laws will sell to third-party cocksuckers inimical to the whole of my interests in this camp! To buy my allegiance against myself, in-law cunts and shit-heel operators would have to bid very high indeed.

Advances, None Miraculous[edit]

Hostetler: Horse run trash like that over by accident, still ain’t a white man on earth gonna stand up against roping us up, now is there?
Samuel Fields: John Brown would’ve.

Al Swearengen: Sign these documents and leave unharmed.
Alice Isringhausen: I can’t trust that, Mr. Swearengen, being that it’s not to your interests.
Al Swearengen: That applies to you most, fuckin’ sittin’ in that chair distracting my fuckin’ thinking. If I have to come over there, I’ll cut your fuckin’ throat for you, pen yet put to paper or not.

A.W. Merrick: And thus the uncharted journey continues.
Al Swearengen: Merrick, please. As we’ll be more often in each other’s company, when given to utterance of that type—consider drinking.

Wolcott: I am a sinner who does not expect forgiveness. But I am not a government official.

Hugo: I do not, my friend Adams, take it up the ass... But I suspect those that do, do so because they consider they advance their own interests. Shall we not, like them, pursue our mutual gratification?

Sol Star: The cocksucker upstairs sends his retriever out to collect me with instructions I'm to wait 'till summoned.
Trixie: I suppose then you should sit the fuck down.
Sol Star: And I come, too, and find you like you never left tihs place to learn your numbers.
Trixie: Did you teaching me make me accountable for my whereabouts the rest of my fucking days?
Sol Star: If he wants me, he can fucking come find me.
Trixie: Why not wait and find out what he wants?
Sol Star: Why don't you tell me yourself?
Trixie: Because I don't know that, Mr. Star.
Sol Star: Other events have a claim to attention.
Trixie: He knows about other events.
Sol Star: And ain't you his fucking lapdog, Trixie!?
Trixie: I ain't nobody's fucking lapdog.
Sol Star: Hard to think, even, of you coming to learn numbers without its being to his purpose.
Trixie: Any more to that fucking thought?
Sol Star: I'll have a fucking drink.

Al Swearengen: Before his present troubles and whilst you pursued your preferred activities, your partner Bullock joined in a campaign to which I hope you will now subscribe.
Sol Star: What do you mean my, "preferred activities"?
Al Swearengen: Oh, a reference to your people's penchatn for money-getting. A poor attempt at wit.
Sol Star: I don't find those funny.
Al Swearengen: I apologize.
Sol Star: If you want my help, don't insult me.
Al Swearengen: Oh, Jesus Christ, show me the secret grip that proves my regret and let's be about our fucking business.

The Whores Can Come[edit]

Al Swearengen: It wouldn’t be the worst thing, backing a loser to Hearst. Let him pick me up from the canvas after, dust me the fuck off. I raise the great man’s hand and murmur, best as I can through split lips, "Your man beat my man’s balls off, Mr. Hearst." But Hearst’s chink boss in that alley ain’t to my fuckin’ taste. So what if something delays the battle of the chinks? Say, durin’ that interval I get to show my ass a few times to Mr. Hearst. Meanwhile, that pain in the balls Wu is sketching up a storm, drawin’ fuckin’ little pictures of himself brandishin’ the lash, drivin’ from a delivery ship a quota of chinks to be blown to pieces by dynamite working in the mines for Hearst at half the fee, per chink, that Hearst is paying the San Francisco cocksucker. Now, by this time Hearst has seen my ass so many times, he knows I’m no long-term threat. So some brief opposition of our interests ain’t gonna make him feel like he needs to engage me in a death struggle, say, by opposin’ local elections. Those circumstances, we can risk backing Wu, and the great man figures, "I am damaged by neither outcome. Why not retire to a neutral corner and test my import against the locals?"

Alma Garret: I've wished sometimes only to play checkers or to occupy myself some other way than having to see and feel so much sadness, or feel every moment how difficult things are, to understand or to live with. I've sometimes felt I couldn't live with them, but I find I can, Sofia. I've found I am, even when I think I'm not or that I can't. Can you look to me now, Sofia? Can you try? I will be so grateful if you will trust me with your sadness, and I will trust you with mine, so that even when we are sad we will be grateful for how much we love each other, and know that we are in the world as much in our pain as in our happiness.

Francis Wolcott: You're a desperate man, aren't you, Tolliver? Desperate. You feel your position weakening.

Boy the Earth Talks To[edit]

Hearst: [noticing a stuffed buck's head on the wall] Your kill, sir?
Swearengen: Who?
Hearst: The animal.
Swearengen: Oh fuck no, I'm a fucking terrible shot. Work better closer in.

Tom Nuttall: There’s talk of an offer on my place.
Al Swearengen: How will you answer?
Tom Nuttall: I came to take counsel with you.
Al Swearengen: Drunk or sober is my question.
Tom Nuttall: Well, I have my wits about me, Al.
Al Swearengen: Maybe, then, you’ll want a few more, huh?
Tom Nuttall: Don’t talk to me in fucking riddles.
Al Swearengen: Drunk, Tom, for reasons not to do with business, you’ll sell. If that’s your decision, let me offer. Sober, you know sellin’s stupid.

Hearst: [slaps the wall of his room in the Grand Central Hotel] These walls are coming down.
Wolcott: They'll be your walls soon.
Hearst: Ever since I was a child in Missouri I've been down ever hole I could find.
Wolcott: Boy-the-earth-talks-to.
Hearst: Yeah, I've told you, that's what the Indians call me.
Wolcott: Yes.
Hearst: It talks to you too, Francis, I know. Our time together, your hearing has stayed keen. But this gambler Tolliver, who was our agent for buying the claims has spoken to me about you. He says that you've killed women. Prostitutes. That he has disposed of the bodies for you.
Wolcott: [stunned, fumbles putting out his cigar]
Hearst: WELL!?
Wolcott: When I was in Campeche, you wrote a letter on my behalf.
Hearst: To the Jefe de Policia.
Wolcott: "I am aware of Mr. Wolcott's difficulty. You will find me personally grateful for any adjustments you may make in his case." What did you think that was about?
Hearst: I didn't think about it. You were my agent in Mexico! You had many responsibilities. You asked me for the letter and I wrote it!
Wolcott: As when the earth talks to you particularly, you never ask its reasons.
Hearst: I don't need to know why I'm lucky!
Wolcott: What if the earth talks to us to get us to arrange its amusements?
Hearst: That sounds like goddamned nonsense to me.
Wolcott: Suppose to you it whispers, "You are king over me. I exist to flesh your will."
Hearst: Nonsense.
Wolcott: And to me... "There is no sin." It happened in Mexico and now it's happened here.
Hearst: We must end our connection, you understand that, Francis. Make a severance you think is fair. You know I won't quibble. Does some spirit overtake you? Is that what you mean by the "talk"?
Wolcott: No.
Hearst: It tells me where the color is. That's all it tells me. My God.

Season Three[edit]

Tell Your God to Ready For Blood[edit]

Al Swearengen: [on Sol Star] He’s a candidate for office. He can’t whore-fuck no longer with impunity.

Al Swearengen: I need your truthful reply. Lie, I will know it, and death will be no respite.
E.B. Farnum: I told Hearst nothing of Bullock and the Widow.
Al Swearengen: I will profane your fucking remains, E.B.
E.B. Farnum: Not my remains, Al.
Al Swearengen: Gabriel's Trumpet will produce you from the ass of a pig.
E.B. Farnum: You told me not to tell him, and I didn't.
Al Swearengen: I believe you.
E.B. Farnum: My pain is such that gives me no solace.
Al Swearengen: Well try not to blame Bullock for presuming it was you considering your fucking history. Anyways, tonight's speeches are fucking canceled. Nurse your fucking wounds.
E.B. Farnum: Thank you.
Al Swearengen: I do not mean here.

Calamity Jane: Everyday takes figuring out all over again how to fucking live.

Al: You see me empty, sir, do not pause and inquire; simply assume and refill.

Al Swearengen: Bloodletting on my premises that I ain't approved I take as a fucking affront. It puts me off my feed.
Hearst: How do we know when you are off your feed?
Al Swearengen: You'll start to see me tearing things down. Speeches tonight are canceled. Unless the insult's cured by tomorrow, there'll be further tearing down. Fuck the fucking elections, and fuck the agreement with Yankton. Let the camp return to its former repute: unstable and unsafe for commerce.
Hearst: I'm a great believer in those.
Al Swearengen: Oh, stability, Sir, and commerce? I can fucking imagine. Think of all they've helped you accomplish.

Calamity Jane: I drink what I'm able. If that comes to much, that's the day's affair and the liquor's.

Dan Dority: Parp.

I Am Not the Fine Man You Take Me For[edit]

A.W. Merrick: It was gunfire, and it came from your saloon.
Al Swearengen: Has not the press a duty, Merrick, qualifying its accounts in time of war?
A.W. Merrick: Are we at war now here in the camp? Has that fact been suppressed as well? Absent formal declaration, Al, information which affects this community is not my prerogative to disseminate. To do so is my sacred responsibility.
Al Swearengen: Whores currently disseminating a dose, for example?
A.W. Merrick: To inform within decency's limits. We've had this discussion before.
Al Swearengen: Citizens better die postulating than touch indecent ink.
A.W. Merrick: Make a list of the infected whores and account for this morning's gunfire, and I'll publish it all.
Al Swearengen: I won't, fucking Merrick, because neither's to my fucking interests.

Hearst: To labor without pleasure makes us our destiny's slaves.
Swearengen: To work for crumbs or to keep from the lash says maybe a slave's what you are.

Hearst: Accepting your premise, Mr. Swearengen, I'll not name how you would benefit from the action I wish you to take, saying only instead it's my will. To which I will have you bend.

Farnum: Puberty may bring you to understand what we take for mother-love is really murderous hatred and a desire for revenge.

Dan: I'm older, and I'm much less friendly to fuckin' change.
Al Swearengen: Change ain't lookin' for friends. Change calls the tune we dance to.

True Colors[edit]

Jack Langrishe: It's the learning fuckin' nothin', Al, that keeps me young.

A.W. Merrick: A. W. Merrick, Mr. Langrishe, publisher of the Deadwood Pioneer.
Jack Langrishe: Ah! Accounting for the halo I see above you.
Al Swearengen: Shit blizzard's early today.

E.B. Farnum: [describing Mrs Ellsworth to Hearst] A haughty cunt. Formerly weak for dope. Most fundamentally a sexual peccant, though I'm sworn against providing specifics.

Ellsworth: Whatever’s toward what he wants. Not a flying fuck if it's true or how fucking soaked in blood.
Alma: That talk serves no purpose.
Ellsworth: What talk to a murderer does?
Hearst: I'd not be insulted in my own rooms, Mr. Ellsworth.
Ellsworth: Where shall we go for me to do it?

Al Swearengen: What makes you think any good will come of confronting Hearst now?
Seth Bullock: Now is when he's killing people.
Al Swearengen: What, you feel he'll leave off soon?
Seth Bullock: Tactics and timing ain't the issue.
Al Swearengen: The hell you say.

Full Faith and Credit[edit]

Langrishe: Shall I accompany as your second? My obvious unsuitability might confuse him.

Charlie Utter: Nigger General and Hostetler brung that horse back to camp that got away from 'em and trampled the Sheriff's boy.
Joanie Stubbs: Is that so?
Charlie Utter: Wherever the two of them was, I guess they didn't feel their lives were in enough danger.
Joanie Stubbs: Well, people will do strange things.
Charlie Utter: For years at a time. Pick any part of my life, for example.

Al Swearengen: I did not shame myself. I keep an open mind in that area. Kid yourself about your behavior, you'll never learn a fuckin' thing. I knew it was comin' too. Fuckin' Captain, holdin' me down. I knew what the fuck was next.
Dolly: When he chopped off your finger?
Al Swearengen: He didn't chop off my finger! Hearst chopped my fuckin' finger off; the other fuck held me down! They hold you down, y-you can't get at 'em to help yourself. Fuckin' cold in here anyway, isn't it?
Dolly: You want a blanket?
Al Swearengen: If I do I'll put it round me, you ain't boss of the fuckin' bedclothes! They hold you down from behind. Then you wonder why you're helpless. How the fuck could you not be?
Dolly: I don't like it either.
Al Swearengen: Another one that held me down, that fuckin' Proctor when I tried to get to that ship. He fuckin' held me, fuckin' wouldn't let me go. Fuckin' in my mind, y'see, she was being restrained, couldn't get back off, that had got on the boat to fuckin' New Orleans to go suck prick in Georgia. She changed her mind, and I was bein' restrained by that fat, bastard orphanage Proctor! Anyway, that's it, that's the end of it, that's the fuckin' conclusion ... CHRIST, I'D'VE WISHED TO- [catches himself] Though probably she'd'a thrown be overboard anyway, but I'd'a wished to get to that fuckin' ship. But I was bein' restrained. I couldn't get from where she'd left me. He held me to that bed, her callin' from the ship that had changed her mind.
Dolly: [quietly] I don't like it either.
Al Swearengen: No, huh? ...What?
Dolly: When they hold you down.
Al Swearengen: I guess I do that, huh, with your fuckin' hair?
Dolly: No.
Al Swearengen: No? ...Well, bless you for a fuckin' fibber.

Hostetler: First off, I thank you for lookin' to the Livery.
Steve: You'll talk to me through you [Bullock] or you won't get any fuckin' response.
Hostetler: I'm grateful for the care you gave the animals.
Steve: Now, wait until he translates from ape!

Hostetler: I was answerable to the horse that trampled his boy, camp being stirred up. If I lingered to make my arrangements, I don't think I would have lived to catch that horse.
Steve: Ain't that the purest form of nigger logic. He runs! He blames the white man! And then he comes back, and he treats 'em like dirt. Hey, when I can I start working for you, you fuckin' monkey-ape! Why don't you start jumpin' up and down, and pounding your chest!

A Two-Headed Beast[edit]

Al Swearengen: [Hearst] makes of me and Tolliver a two-headed beast to savage what might be healthy borne out of the fucking election and gnaw its own privates off-hours. Plans keep coming to the cocksucker, that their final sum is this: but for what brings income to him, break what he can; what he can't, set those parts against themselves to weaken.

Johnny: If it's gettin' to go wrong, Dan, you just drop flat.
Dan: What the fuck did you just say?
Johnny: Drop flat if it's going wrong, and I'll blow his fucking head off.
Dan: You do and it'll be the last goddamn thing you do on this fucking earth. Going wrong is not the end of fucking things, Johnny. Fuck no! I have come back from plenty of shit that looked like it was going wrong.

Trixie: The bank's founder and president, Chief Officer as well, of air-headed smugness and headlong plunges unawares into the fucking abyss.
Sol Star: I don't understand.
Trixie: You wouldn't. You're too fucking healthy-minded. You'll sit here waiting for me to materialize from a piece of fucking furniture and think the world is normal.

Johnny: I wish you'd look in on Dan, boss. Not for being poorly as... down.
Al Swearengen: Johnny... some shit's best walked through alone.
Johnny: Dan's killed people before. You have too. But neither've been solitary after.
Al Swearengen: A fair fight, something Dan and I have always struggled to avoid, is different. You see the light go out in their eyes. It's just you left, and death.

Hearst: [to Tolliver] The Sheriff recently put me on notice. He is vigilant of my possible "transgressions."
Bullock: You sound drunk to me.
Hearst: Whom are you addressing?
Bullock: You. You sound drunk.
Hearst: Do I? [Bullock nods] Hm. When I say "Go fuck yourself," Sheriff, will you put that down to drunkenness or a high estimate of your athleticism?
Bullock: [growing angry] Did you just tell me, "Fuck myself?"
Hearst: I think I did. And to shut up, or I will quiet you myself.
Bullock: You're under arrest.
Hearst: [defiantly] Fuck you. And shut up, or I will shut you up for good.
[Bullock draws his gun on Hearst.]
Bullock: For threatening a Peace Officer, I'm taking you into custody.
Hearst: Don't be stupid, Bullock...
Bullock: Don't YOU be fucking stupid!
[Bullock grabs Hearst by the ear and drags him out of the Bella Union. His rage seething, he snarls into Hearst's ear:]
Bullock: Fuck... you!

A Rich Find[edit]

E.B. Farnham: It's Hearst. Hearst: is he Caesar, to have fights to the death for diversion? Murder his workers at whim? Smash passages in the fucking wall? A man of less wealth would be in fucking restraints.
Al: We're in the presence of the new.
E.B.: Fuck the fucking new! Jesus Christ, Al. Is it over for us here?

Charlie Utter: One thing: if he knew it was coming, Bill [Hickock] was not shy of drawing first.
Sol: Seth locked up Hearst instead of that.
Charlie Utter: Oh, I get it.
Sol: What does that mean?
Charlie Utter: It means, Mr. Star, after leading him by the ear through camp for all to fucking see, Seth installs Hearst in a cell adjoining a man he's had killed, that the knife still protrudes out of his chest. And as much as me and Hearst conversed, I made him address my ass. So do let's don't pretend Hearst will feel he was treated legal or civilized, or that his business with us is finished. Hearst is fucking coming. Bringing us back to Bill and doing unto others first. Which ought maybe include a visit to Hearst's fucking diggings. And his muscle you fail to murder before they arouse? You bring to chase you to camp, Judas goat the cocksuckers, for Swearengen's men and Tolliver's to mow down from fucking ambush while we’re up seeing to Hearst.
Sol: There’ll be nothing left of the camp.
Charlie Utter: How much you figure will stand once Hearst had his fucking say?

Hearst: This place displeases me. I'm taking measures to bring it down.

Al Swearengen: That they're armed and awake don't have to mean they're fucking hired.
Dan Dority: Yeah, and when I feel a shit coming on I'll remember to drop my pants.
Al Swearengen: The obvious merits utterance. Character is fucking pertinent.
Dan Dority: If I'm to go, I'd as soon get started before the darkness.
Al Swearengen: Going means the darkness is upon us.

Seth: Charlie Utter thinks it has to come to blood.
Al: Charlie Utter's likely right.
Seth: And if it has to, that we should strike first.
Al: Believe me, even now in the forest the blade would be between my teeth; me and you making our way stealthily forward. And as to us and him, if blood's what it finally comes to, 100 years from now the forest is what they'll find here. Dewy morning's lost its appeal for me. I prefer to wake indoors. Dan! You don’t travel tonight! Need of canned peaches, Johnny. Let's collect the camp elders. Be baffled among friends, huh?

Steve: [speaking of blacks] Puttin' a dead one's kidneys up his nose... however the fuck else they summon up their demons. Beat thigh bones on tin pans... shake, rattlin', and hop the fuck around!

Samuel Fields: Ain't meanin' to be here long, ain't looking to drink. All's I'm here for, Steve, is to talk to this here gentleman.
Steve: Go ahead and do somersaults or peel bananas with each other for all I give a fuck. Whole place has gone to shit anyhow.

George Hearst: The nigger I appointed to dine with does not appear.

Unauthorized Cinnamon[edit]

George Hearst: I knocked holes in these walls. Confinement gives me the fidgets.
Odell: Set yourself up comfortable.
George Hearst: Let me confide as well, Odell, that when people only say to me with other words what I have just said to them, I quickly grow impatient.

George Hearst: Gold is every man's opportunity. Why do I make that argument? Because every defect in a man and in others a way of taking him. Our agreement that gold has value gives us power to rise above.
Odell: Fond as you are of my mother, without that gold I showed you, I don't expect we'd be out here talking.
George Hearst: That is correct. And for your effrontery at our meal a moment ago, I'd have seen you shot or hanged without second thought. The value I gave the gold restrained me, you see? Your utility in connection to it. And because of my gold those at the other tables deferred to my restraint. Gold confers power. Power comes to any man who has the color.

Blazanov: Fuck confidentiality of communication.
Al Swearengen: Why not fuck a woman instead?
Blazanov: Hope to, eventually.

Hearst: I hate these places, Odell, because the truth that I know, the promise that I bring, the necessities I'm prepared to accept make me outcast. Isn't that foolish? Isn't that foolishness? An old man disabused long ago of certain yearnings and hopes as to how he would be held by his fellows, and yet I weep.

Al Swearengen: [to Doc] Jesus Christ! The fucking gimp finds something useful to do in the fucking brace you made her. Do you think you could treat "Being Johnny"—always struggling to fashion a fuckin' thought? Every fucking night, I, that could cut a throat and sleep the sleep of the just, spend six fucking wakings trying to fill a piss-pot with my dribble and wondering when I got to be so old. [throws swatches down to Doc] Pick a fucking swatch for a spit rag, use the others for masks, and go about your fucking business. I ain't learning a new doc's quirks!

Leviathan Smiles[edit]

George Hearst: I'm to take you for majestically neutral?
Merrick: I'd make the less exalted claim, as a journalist, of keeping my opinions to myself.
George Hearst: You are less majestically neutral than cloaking your cowardice in principle?
Merrick: I can only answer perhaps, Mr. Hearst, events have not yet disclosed to me all that I am.

Shaughnessy: I'll not have vile affections, or uncleaness, on these premises. Find my specific meaning at Romans 1:24-6.
Calamity Jane: [drawing over Shaughnessy's biblical quote placard] Fuck yourself, with a fist-punch up your ass, today at the present moment! [punches Shaughnessy in the gut]

Samuel Fields: Cause I’m a nigger, Doc, that don’t care what stands or falls.
Doc Cochran: Hostetler was too.
Samuel Fields: Hostetler was taller than me.

Johnny: You say it weren't an ass fuck, I believe you.

Seth Bullock: I've had a wire... says your statement is true, far as having worked as a lawman. Not asking why you put the work aside, I'll say only some that do find themselves ready and uniquely able to work the other side of the street. Some do that. I took the badge off myself once, without losing my impulse to beat on certain types.
Wyatt Earp: Though, that seems never to go.

Cy Tolliver: [on seeing a gang of Pinkertons ride into camp] Take them amateurs off the fucking sugar tit. Mr. Hearst brought the pros to town.

Amateur Night[edit]

Hearst: You will not mistake the newspaper man: he looks like a... big turtle.

Silas Adams: Horsemen come to camp by torchlight last night.
Cy Tolliver: Tell Al as we didn't wake to the apocalypse, I suppose all we need fear is their Winchesters.

Morgan: They have their fuckin' fun with you, and in the morning, they treat you like dirt.
Wyatt: [chuckles] And you a fucking virgin...
Morgan: No, and not pretending to be.
Wyatt: ...to be wounded by her callous ways.
Morgan: All I’m saying is she could have been nicer, and those steerers more fuckin' polite.

Hugo Jarry: Washington harasses us for our difficulties in distribution to the Indians, thereby distracting the nation at large from Washington's own fiscal turpitudes and miasms.
Silas: There amongst the turpitudes and miasms, you got caught stealing the money.
Hugo Jarry: The money was not stolen. There was an amount of siphoning off and certain irregularities.
Silas: Sounds like it was regular as milking Bessie, 96¢ on the dollar.
Hugo Jarry: Rank exaggeration.
Silas: If it was less than 90, you fucked generations of Indian agents to come.

Jane: Get out of my fucking light.
Mose: It's me.
Jane: Who is me? The fucking eclipse?
Mose: Mose Manuel.
Jane: Oh, really? I thought it—it was Giganto, the runaway circus elephant.
Mose: Miss Stubbs has been looking for you. Those kids need chaperoning to the new schoolhouse, Jane. [Jane turns away and puts her hands to her ears, shutting her eyes.] Get up and walk them kids.
Jane: Okay, Giganto! Don’t tusk me to death with your tusks. [steadies herself, sheathing her gun] How long do I have to assemble myself?
Mose: They'll be ready to go in a few minutes.
Jane: Shut up.

A Constant Throb[edit]

George Hearst: Elections cannot inconvenience me. They ratify my will or I neuter them.

Hugo Jarry: Perhaps then, rather, at this moment—having had in fact no connection to the regrettable incident involving Mrs. Ellsworth—you are Socrates to my Alcibiades, taking it upon yourself to edify me?
George Hearst: Are you saying you want to fuck me?
Hugo Jarry: [confused] What?
George Hearst: Well, you keep calling yourself Alcibiades to my Socrates. Are you proposing some sort of a homosexual connection between us?
Hugo Jarry: I'd forgot that part of the story.

Al Swearengen: Tell E.B. nothing.
Richardson: I'll just keep quiet.
Al Swearengen: No. Tell E.B. nothing's going on and then tell him, "If I wanted to tell you anything, I'd have told you. Don't send the imbecile over with no more notes."
Richardson: I can't remember all that.
Al Swearengen: Can you remember "Nothing's going on"?
Richardson: Yes.
Al Swearengen: Tell him that, then.

George Hearst: Have you smelt human flesh on the spit?
E.B.: How would I have?
George Hearst: I know the smell.
E.B.: You have been to and fro in the world.
George Hearst: It pleased me to find out.

Al Swearengen: How well do you know the other guy?
Pinkerton: Who would that be?
Al Swearengen: That my man Dority killed. The Captain.
Pinkerton: We served in the 69th in New York.
Al Swearengen: Was that a mick regiment?
Pinkerton: Yeah. What were you doing?
Al Swearengen: Cutting throats.
Pinkerton: I was asking whose flag you were under.
Al Swearengen: The famous cocksuckers brigade.
Pinkerton: Is that so?
Al Swearengen: Command of the all-whore detachment. Distress you, when my man downed your friend?
Pinkerton: Let me tell you something, Mr. Swearengen. You don't scare me, and you don't fucking know what happened with the 69th New York. I will tell you this: I didn't like what happened to Joe Turner. Mr. Hearst came to him and said, "Make it last, even if you gain the upper hand and can kill him." And I think that was halfway selfish of Mr. Hearst, whereas Joe could have killed your man and didn't, and look how it wound up. But that's as much as I feel like saying, and that's neither here nor fucking there.

The Catbird Seat[edit]

Al Swearengen: Knowing him for an errant maniac, I'll still not believe Bullock doubts me.

Al Swearengen: [reading a telegram from Hawkeye] "23 men hired, all on our way." This squaw-fuckin' idiot. Proves in eight words he's incompetent and a fuckin' liar. He can't have got Adams' telegram more than four hours ago, yet he expects me to believe that in four hours he can prudently assess the qualities of 23 hires. And you know what "on our way" means, huh?
Blazanov: No.
Al Swearengen: "On our way" means they’re getting drunk and blown in some saloon in Cheyenne and running their mouths about the big fuckin' filibustering expedition they're being commissioned for under the command of the famous Hawkeye, the laziest, most shit-faced whore-mongering cocksucker to ever piss my money away!

Jack Langrishe: The man I once was, Al, was not formidable, and I am but his shadow now. And yet I'd be put to use. A decoy, perhaps. A weight to drop on villains from above.

Hearst: I oughtn't to work in these places. I was not born to crush my own kind.

Al Swearengen: [to his whores, pointing at a sleeping man] Rouse him to spend on pussy, or rob the son of a bitch.

Tell Him Something Pretty[edit]

Adams: When he ain't lyin', Al's the most honorable man you'll ever meet.

Hearst: Have the gold seen to [Alma's] bank, Newman. Have its purity assayed. Let her or her seconds choose the man. When that tedium is completed, have the documents witnessed as though we were all of us Jews. And bring the business back to me. [turns to leave] Excuse my absence, Mr. Star, as I hope you'll forgive my thoughtless aspersion on your race. [Sol nods.] You stand for local office, but some contests being countywide, I await wires from the other camps. [holds the door open and Alma turns to leave. Hearst sniffs as she passes by.] You've changed your scent.
Seth Bullock: Can't shut up! Every bully I ever met can't shut his fuckin' mouth... except when he's afraid.
Hearst: You mistake for fear, Mr. Bullock, what is in fact preoccupation. I'm having a conversation you cannot hear.

Rutherford: Right to vote shall not be abridged or denied... [drinks] ...on account of race or color or condition of previous servitude. 15th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, ratified 1870, law of the land thereafter, including territories.
A Pinkerton: They got something about niggers not waiting their turn?
Rutherford: Not that I'm aware of.
A Pinkerton: Oh, you ain't aware of it? Then I guess you'll want this white man voting first?
Fields: What's a few minutes more?
Charlie Utter: The nigger was before him.
A Pinkerton: No he wasn't.
Charlie Utter: I guess you're blind and stupid.
Fields: I believe I'll vote later.
Charlie Utter: Fuck if you will. Get your nigger ass back in line.
A Pinkerton: [to Fields] You'd better be walking him home afterwards. [pulls on his collar and gags]
Charlie Utter: You'd better see to that yourself, 'cause if he don't make it, you'll be eating your spuds runnin' till I hunt you the fuck down.

Al Swearengen: [talking to the Indian head in the box] This fuckin' place is gonna be a fuckin' misery. Every fuckin' one of them, every fuckin' time I walk by, "Ooh, how could you? How could you?" With their big fuckin' cow eyes. The entire fuckin' gaggle of 'em is gonna have to bleed and quit before we can even hope for peace. What's the fuckin' alternative? I ain't fuckin' killing her that sat nights with me sick and takin' slaps to her mug that were some less than fuckin' fair. I should have fuckin' learned to use a gun, but I'm too fuckin' entrenched in my ways. And you ain't exactly the one to be levelin' criticisms on the score of being slow to adapt. You fuckin' people are the original slow fuckin' learners!

Charlie Utter: You done fuckin' good.
Seth Bullock: I did fuckin' nothin'.
Charlie Utter: That's often the tough one, in aid of the larger purpose.
Seth Bullock: Which is layin' head to pillow and not confusin' yourself with a sucker?
Charlie Utter: Far as I ever get.
Seth Bullock: 'Cause that's gonna be a project tonight.

Cast[edit]

External links[edit]

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