Deadwood/Season 3

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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.

Tell Your God to Ready For Blood

Mose Manuel: Miss Stubbs holds what I'm doing for honest.

Jane Canary: She no more needs a watchman than she does a fucking balloonist! And why should the young of this camp have to scurry past your man-toad figure to receive an education?

Mose Manuel: The time they come for schoolin', I'm in back and out of sight!

Jane Canary: Exposin' them to being terrified only when they use the privy!

Mose Manuel: Go get your load on, Jane!

Jane Canary: Do not instruct me how to spend my day! Or to itemize for you my crowded itinerary! [Pause] You tub of blubber and guts!

Doc Cochran: You must drink this.

Alma Ellsworth: I will not awaken that demon, Doctor.

Doc Cochran: This has nothing to do with demons, Mrs. Ellsworth. This has to do with allaying the pain to get you through. Leave the demons to God and trust the pain to me.

Al Swearengen: Quick prick-suck, Bullock? Sally fuckin' forth to meet the great man with unencumbered thoughts?

Al Swearengen: Lie the fuck back and listen 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: [To Richardson, who is worshipping antlers] Fucking pagan. Tell your God to ready for blood.

Jane Canary: Every day takes figuring out all over again how to fucking live.

I Am Not the Fine Man You Take Me For

Silas Adams: I just.. I feel shunted aside or the like, not involved as much as previous.

Al Swearengen: Adams, you were busy with Star.

Silas Adams: That you sent me off to see.

Al Swearengen: Thinking you'd be back before time for the murders.

Silas Adams: So it wasn't like a decision you made to have the murders while I was signing the papers?

Al Swearengen: You've no idea how fuckin' badly you're boring me. [Knock at the door] Yeah?

Dan Dority: That captain's brought over another envelope.

Al Swearengen: [To Silas] Won't you see with me what this might portend?

Johnny Burns: What's Al doing?

Dan Dority: Like I fuckin' know.

Silas Adams: If we was trailing water, we might get took for ducklings.

A.W. Merrick: These last months have made me expert. 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. Just as you owning a print press proves only an interest in the truth, meaning up to a fucking point, slightly more than us others maybe, but short of a fucking anointing or the shouldering of a sacred burden - unless of course the print press was gift of an angel. I'd want to be there for that hand-off myself. Maybe you should print an extra saying the speeches are on again.

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

A.W. Merrick: Erm, it occurs to me Al, as you and he are so evidently well-acquainted, the decent interval that Mr. Langrishe is owed to make his domestic arrangements I might spend hearing you talk of him.

Al Swearengen: Ever wonder if you expressed yourself more directly, Merrick, you might fucking weigh less?

A.W. Merrick: I see no logic in that whatever.

Al Swearengen: I don't want to talk of Langrishe, he makes me fucking nervous.

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.

Jack Langrishe: He takes his tone with you as a familiar.

A.W. Merrick: Oh, we're well-acquainted, Mr. Swearengen and I.

Jack Langrishe: Mmm, new friends, old campaigners.

Al Swearengen: The infrequent bloody win.

Jack Langrishe: Always superfluous, bloodshed. The deeper damage is best.

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.

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

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: [Giving Jack a tour of the camp] The Ellsworth house, richest claim next to Hearst, that woman.

Jack Langrishe: What sort of plays does she favor?

Al Swearengen: Oh, Christ, she told me and I fucking forgot. Goes through her men like Sherman to the fucking sea.

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

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: Where the fuck have you been?

Silas Adams: I was looking for someone whose name you told me never to say again.

Al Swearengen: Amongst further instructions including not to look for him when he's fucking disappeared.

Silas Adams: Well, I held off saying where I was.

Al Swearengen: I can repose no truth in someone who traffics with that type douche bag.

Silas Adams: I don't think Hawkeye's a douche bag. [Al slaps him]

Al Swearengen: Who you believe you can salvage, Adams, is the douche bag you must avoid and no effort of yours can preclude at some point finding past help. And you yourself, being his consort in similar fucking straits. And all the energies I've poured into you gone for naught. I vow on that fucking subject, I find you dead 'cause of him I'll kick your corpse in the ear for the waste of my fucking time.

Silas Adams: Anyways, what'd you want?

Al Swearengen: I've named you to represent me in my dealings with fucking Hearst. Tolliver too, in that connection.

Silas Adams: Tolliver in connection with Hearst?

Al Swearengen: As he's put us in tandem, fucking Hearst.

Silas Adams: You and Tolliver?

Al Swearengen: If I sought an echo, Adams, I'd now be addressing a fucking mountain. I'm in waters I don't know, nor soundings I can take. To bring me the knowledge I need, my second needs to seem capable of disloyalty.

Silas Adams: If that's supposed to be a compliment, thanks.

Al Swearengen: Which is to say, being loyal he can forego loyalty's display. Like not searching out a friend who don't want to be found, just hoping he makes his way back, hmm?

Silas Adams: How's Dan gonna take your choosing me?

Al Swearengen: That's my fucking problem to deal with.

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!

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.

A Two-Headed Beast

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: Did you just tell me to "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.

Tolliver: Don't be stupid, Bullock...

Bullock: Don't YOU be fucking stupid! [Grabs Hearst by the ear, drags him out of the Bella Union and then snarls into Hearst's ear] Fuck... you!

A Rich Find

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?

Johnny Burns: [Dan comes out to the bar groggy and starts drinking Johnny's coffee] You go on ahead and drink that, it's about my third damn cup. I'm Jangle-nerved already. Let me go on and get shaky-handed, pop my foot on the floor like I'm a-listen' to banjo music!

Charlie Utter: One thing: if he knew it was coming, Bill (Hickok) 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

A.W. Merrick: [Reading a letter written by Sheriff Bullock] "It becomes my painful duty to inform you that Pasco Carwen was killed earlier this week. His body was found in the road. It was not mutilated in any way. His death seems to have been instantaneous as he was stabbed through the heart. Pasco's funeral occurred today and was attended by coworkers and friends who all shared the same high opinion of him. Everything was done by kind hands that was possible under the circumstances, and a Christian burial was given him. I was not personally acquainted with Mr. Carwen, save for one encounter where he demonstrated grief and deep compassion at the passing of a friend. I knew him by reputation as an earnest worker and a diligent believer in right and wrong. His memory I am sure will always be with those who knew and loved him, among whose number I imagine you as first. A letter from you, which I found in his tent, causes me to convey this sad intelligence to you." [Pause] What shall I do with this, Mr. Bullock?

Al Swearengen: What the fuck is your paper for? You publish that letter, as witness!

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: [Reading a telegram for Hearst about an order for 25 "bricks"] Do you believe, Mr. Swearengen, Mr. Hearst orders more bricks?

Al Swearengen: No. What do you believe?

Blazanov: I believe he orders more humans --

A.W. Merrick: Reinforcements.

Blazanov: [Angrily thumps the table] To do harm! [Gestures to Merrick] As we saw on our walk! Leave to die in a country strange to them, men apart from their families, working to give them support! Fuck confidentiality of communications!

Al Swearengen: Why not fuck a woman instead?

Blazanov: I hope so, 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, revealed to be suffering from tuberculosis] 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

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

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

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

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

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.

Rutherford: [Patting Fields on the shoulder] And that settles that.

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.

Johnny Burns: Referring to Jen, who was murdered in place of Trixie] Did she suffer?

Al Swearengen: I was gentle as I was able, and that's the last we'll fuckin' speak of it. [Johnny wanders off] Wants me to tell him somethin' pretty.

Deadwood: The Movie

Calamity Jane: Ten years gone, approaching that self-same hill I thought to lay me down and rise no more. Gimme wide berth, that's just passed wind! Possibly worse. Before eyes close for good and all I'd once again see my Joanie Stubbs, show her a sign of...loving regret from Calamity Jane to her darling. And too at the grave of Wild Bill. [Jane pauses to take the last swig of liquor from a bottle before tossing it aside and beginning to ride off] Left-cheek ass blister is a percolatin' son of a bitch.

Alma Ellsworth: [As Trixie screams profanely at George Hearst from her balcony] Trixie hasn't lost her gift.

Charlie Utter: She ain't for a fact. Time can't touch that.

George Hearst: These placer acres that you own, Mr. Utter, captured my attention.

Charlie Utter: Scouts you sent previous made that clear.

George Hearst: People whose judgment I respect assay this property's market value at $3,500.

Charlie Utter: Seems I'm the lone holdout on the path of progress. [Charlie motions to other side of stream where men are erecting telephone poles]

George Hearst: By way of abbreviating our back and forth and, and maybe generating some good will, I'd go five hundred above. Offer you $4,000 even, cash money.

Charlie Utter: My father taught his boy, uh, "beat hell into him" might maybe be more accurate... [both men chuckle] how if, uh, early enough on, you credited the settlements was coming, bought acreage reasonable, developed 'em sensible, hung onto 'em until the market come right, of a day you might could wake up and find you made yourself a respectable investment.

George Hearst: Forward-thinking was your father then. And now, here's his boy to confirm his papa's prediction.

Charlie Utter: Contrary-wise, man might could come to certain special feelings. Partial, say, to a piece of ground. A river bending through the forest like so. [Charlie motions downstream where both men see Samuel Fields fishing] I decline your offer, Mr. Hearst, thanking you for your time and attention. [Takes swig from flask]

George Hearst: My experience over time has come to be: Customarily, I am he who starts a negotiation. Names its finish, too.

Charlie Utter: Maybe getting mother-fucked this morning in the thoroughfare, by a woman in the bargain, has somewhat got your back up. Not the accolade you'd looked for out your return to fuckin' camp.

George Hearst: Proffering that assessment, sir, is hardly your proper bailiwick.

Charlie Utter: Far as that, I went and proffered it any fuckin' way.

Doc Cochran: Name the day of the week, Al.

Al Swearengen: Fuck difference does the day make?

Doc Cochran: I'd have you but say the name.

Al Swearengen: Tuesday, then, you half-a-scarecrow-looking cocksucker.

Doc Cochran: Friday it is.

Al Swearengen: Oh, mistaking Friday for Tuesday. Well, secure my burial plot.

Al Swearengen: Ah... produce George Hearst Esquire, colossus of commerce, junior senator from California, who since our paths last crossed has went from strength to stronger strength still.

George Hearst: Even as you name me, a figure to be reckoned with in this camp, Mr. Swearengen, I have been made this morning, more than somewhat, to look an incompetent.

Al Swearengen: An incompetent? Now, how would that ever be?

George Hearst: These years now past, I'd have you recall my having been attacked. Shot, and near as not, done in by a whore, whose name, if I ever knew it, has now been lost to me.

Al Swearengen: I dimly recall the matter. The nameless whore embarked on a program of vengeance, and, by God, she nearly brought off.

George Hearst: Referring to her attempt to murder me.

Al Swearengen: Not to pretty the picture.

George Hearst: I have lived believing the matter had been settled. And I was satisfied in that belief. But now, I realize I was tricked. The whore you presented in the box was not the shooter at all.

Al Swearengen: Ah, you're going for the long, larger minded view... Senator.

George Hearst: Which depends on running telephone lines across the claims. On recognizing common ground, bringing the future to it. A brief illustration of my point...

Al Swearengen: [Cutting off Hearst] Does brevity exist in your repertoire, sir?

George Hearst: I am making an offer on Charlie Utter's land. Lumber for construction arrived this morning.

Al Swearengen: Confident, are we?

George Hearst: Back my bid to buy Utter's land. Use your position in the town to sway others and I will drop any counteraction against the whore... The pregnant whore.

Al Swearengen: Uncharacteristically straightforward, sir.

George Hearst: Discover your deepest nature, Mr. Swearengen. Walk with the future.

Al Swearengen: You ever think, Bullock, of not going straight at a thing?

Seth Bullock: [Pause] No.

Al Swearengen: Well, if it ain't for Hearst to follow the law, why the fuck should it be for you? [Bullock's eyes narrow] Now, how should I construe that look on your mug, Bullock?

Seth Bullock: My job ain't to follow the law, Al. My job is to interpret it, then enforce it accordingly.

Al Swearengen: You'd best counsel your partner proper. The safety of mother and child...

Seth Bullock: Sol and me'll see to it.

Al Swearengen: Hearst won't take long before he honors the rigors of his putrid fuckin' nature. He'll want an answer.

Seth Bullock: [Turns and walks out] I'll deliver your fuckin' answer. [Swearengen smiles knowingly]

George Hearst: I'm coming for you, Marshal.

Seth Bullock: I expect you will, Senator.

Al Swearengen: We're all of us haunted by our own fucking thoughts. So make friends with the ghost, it ain't going fuckin' anywhere.

Al Swearengen: No, not being either to say you have to run women. I strongly endorse that.

Samuel Fields: The Good Book, Marshal... says... the Lord chooses amongst His witnesses... them'd be thought least likely.

Seth Bullock: Is that so?

Samuel Fields: You might should outa know... before what happened... Mr. Utter... seemed to me... a different man. Like a weight had come off his shoulders. What else they say about the Lord's witnesses?

Seth Bullock: What else?

Samuel Fields: Their defects... notwithstanding, they testify to His wond'rous glory. Singing, he was, at the end, Marshal, 'bout walking the valley. Joyful to hear and behold. [Bullock begins crying] Singing.

[Last lines]

Trixie: Our Father, which art in Heaven...

Al Swearengen: Let Him... fucking... stay there.