Deadwood/Season 2

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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.

A Lie Agreed Upon, Part One

Al Swearengen: [To Bullock] Sheriff! About his duties to the camp, huh? Luck trouble didn't jump out earlier, huh, Bullock? Might have found you mid-thrust at other business. [Bullock stops and stares] What is it? 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: [Watching Bullock and Al fight] 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?

A Lie Agreed Upon, Part Two

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

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: August commencement to my administration, standing stymied outside a saloon door, next to a degenerate tit licker!

Dan Dority: Do you want to leave him a message?

E.B. Farnum: In fact I do. "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." [Beat] You might add, as a post-script: "I also have the news you dispatched me to secure of the newly arrived cunt." Please.

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

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

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.

Doc Cochran:I do have some particular competence as to the implications of anatomical anomalies, congenital or consequent of previous illness, and I would hope that you would avail yourself of this notwithstanding my idiosyncrasies and-and-and defects of character.

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

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.

Francis Wolcott: [Muttering to himself] Past hope. Past kindness or consideration. Past justice. Past satisfaction. Past warmth or cold or comfort. Past love. But past surprise? What an endlessly unfolding tedium life would then become!

E.B. Was Left Out

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!

E.B. Farnum: The bald contempt of it. Why not come out five abreast? Cavorting and taunting, "E.B was left out! E.B was left out!" Cocksuckers! Cunt-lickers! I'll make you filthy gestures. Public service was never my primary career. Two come this way...

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.

E.B. Farnum: Thank you then. Am I still the Mayor?

Al Swearengen: For all of me? In perpetuity.

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

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 Hickok'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 girl?

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. [Alma tries to slap Miss Inringhausen, Miss Inringhausen catches Alma by the wrist] 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

Samuel Fields: [Talking to a horse before he and Hostetler [[w:castration|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.

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

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 Jarry: 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 this 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 penchant 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

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

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.