Deadwood s02e11 Episode Script

Sorry, Bullock.
Can you abide me beside you Yankton's man is among us.
Even under the circumstances, he may try you to confirm we're allied.
If he does your nod'd advance the cause.
All right.
Yeah, you fat fuck, you're alive.
Let me die.
What, is that "thank you" in whale talk? - Drink this.
- No.
Drink it! Get up, get the doc, and tell him he's got a live one! Tell him, too, his rupture patient left here to convalesce at his own fucking place, you give him a shoulder to lean on as he was getting the fuck out.
Next time he opens his eyes, he's gonna think he died and went to heaven.
Cocksucker! Yeah, San Francisco cocksucker, Wu.
- Your mortal fucking enemy, huh? - Swedgin.
- Wu.
- Swedgin.
Yeah, I make these as burned-up whores that I smelled on the char this morning with your San Francisco rival turning the fucking spit.
Swedgin fucking knows.
- Swedgin know.
- I know about the burned-up whores, I know about the San Francisco cocksucker setting a match to them.
Now, here's the part you gotta listen to, Wu.
It's China.
- China.
- Yeah, Chung Kuo, China.
Celestial whores in the fire.
What? They their spirits are fucking nothing if their bones don't get back home? Is that it? And do you come to me to back your move against your San Francisco cocksucker rival? Am I getting the drift here, Wu? - Swedgin! - Swedgin fucking gets it.
Swedgin doesn't give a fuck! Back to Chink's Alley, Wu.
Fall to your fucking prayers.
I can use the plate if you want to leave that.
Why don't I back him? 'Cause Hearst is in the other Chink's corner.
Meaning Wu has to lose.
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, murmur best as I can through split lips, "Your man beat my man's balls off, Mr.
Hearst.
" But Hearst's Chink bossing that alley ain't to my fucking taste.
So what if something delays the battle of the Chinks? Say during 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, drawing little pictures of himself brandishing the lash, driving 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 opposing 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?" What delays Wu going after the other Chink? Or the other Chink going after Wu? That too.
Well, if the other Chink can be dissuaded, Wu we can put on ice.
Well, how do we dissuade the other Chink? I suppose laying eyes on him would be the first step.
My only question is push comes to shove, wearing them Chinese dresses, how well can you ladies fight? You're staying, Adams.
Cheyenne and Black Hills Telegraph Company.
- Telegrams for delivery.
- Mr.
Blazanov.
On our day of grief.
Our acquaintance is established, Blazanov, and for my part, our friendship.
- Thank you.
- You needn't announce yourself every morning and your purpose.
May I suggest as well that rather than you delivering your telegrams upstairs, interrupting the rest or secret depravities of well-armed guests, I could distribute them in these pigeonholes to be collected by the guests at their leisure? I am not permitted.
A man must put bread on his table, Mr.
Blazanov, I well understand.
Suppose, to compensate you for lost gratuities, I were to pay you $5 a day? Cheyenne and Black Hills Telegraph Company requires personal delivery by Blazanov.
I am not permitted.
Yet avarice is numbered among the sins, and stupidity omitted.
No Gem whores at the railings today.
- Why not? - Al won't permit them on the balcony.
He lets them on, they'll be leaping off.
Very dramatic we get at the passing of the fucking young.
Yesterday was a terrible day.
Do not even fucking ask me to account for my coming here, advising you how to answer Ellsworth.
You haven't changed your opinion, have you, Trixie, as to my accepting Ellsworth's marriage proposal? My new opinion is, few choices as are ours to make, others should stay the fuck out of the process.
Quiet like that since the boy's accident? Cheyenne and Black Hills Telegraph.
Telegram for Mr.
Wolcott.
- How are you today, Mr.
Blazanov? - Thank you.
Telegram for Mr.
Jarry.
Yes, I am he.
Thank you.
You've packed your things.
Thrown them, it looks like.
What is it you wish to say? That I'd hope in the throes of this day you'd not make any final decision.
I can't bear to stay.
The minister's here to discuss the service.
Reverend.
Mrs.
Bullock, my deep sympathies, which I conveyed to your husband last evening.
Thank you.
You wish to discuss William's service.
I suggested to Mr.
Bullock that we hold service in front of the house.
That would be fine.
As to the substance of the service, do you wish Psalms, a reading, my words, hymns chosen, speakers in memoriam, - a second reading? - Let the service be brief.
- Yes.
- Certainly.
Uh, do you wish to provide me a detail or two of William? I don't want that.
Do you have a favorite reading? Did he? - You choose something.
- Certainly.
And you'll announce that the burial is private.
I will.
Will there then be a passing-by of the casket after the service? No! Certainly.
Thank you, Reverend.
My condolences, Sheriff.
My deepest sympathies.
The answer is yes, Commissioner what you want to know.
Having to do with Mr.
Swearengen speaking with your voice? Yes.
That's all now.
My reluctance to intrude nearly kept me from coming at all.
Mose Manuel made it through.
Thank heavens.
The doc fixed Con's rupture too.
Go shoot some dope.
Thank you, sir.
It's been a hell of a trying evening.
I have a check for $50,000 I'd like to cash with you.
I show that courtesy to people who gamble in my joint.
I wish to afford you, Mr.
Tolliver, a chance to show my colleagues in Yankton that you are not blinded by parochial rivalry as to what the greater good requires.
You'd deliver the 50 to Swearengen? Who'd no doubt prefer the check, to have the bribe on record.
So this ain't you just being a twitch who likes rubbing people's noses in their losses.
Shall we transact our business in the cage, Mr.
Tolliver, where I was attacked the other day and you failed to come to my aid? I see you made it through the fucking night.
Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.
Oh, this is gonna be a pleasant fucking day, them wailing and gnashing their teeth.
Will they be allowed to pay their respects? By who? By you, most importantly, as always.
And should you in your greatness consent, will he let them in his fucking house? I won't object, but it's yours to keep them she-apes from disgracing me.
As to Bullock's feelings, get the Jew to find them out.
Should I, um, ask about you also? What the fuck would I want to go there for? Shut the fuck up! Hot! Hot! I mean, I know it's supposed to be, but I ain't fucking used to it.
Well, maybe wait a little.
Yeah, I'll wait a little bit before I fucking get in.
Did it ever occur to you strange, bathing in a tub you've dirtied coming out thinking you're clean? You need a bath, Jane.
And I'm gonna fucking take it! I'm raising the general fucking question.
If you want boots different from your regular No, I do not.
I will clean my fucking regular boots.
Should you do that before your bath? No! Turn around! Don't go! Dumb fucking luck it must have been me living this long without your fucking guidance.
I don't like new boots either.
I ain't afraid of newness it's the blisters give me pause.
I burned my fucking snatch! Or funerals.
Or funerals, what? Any more than I like new boots.
I don't like funerals.
I do! I do! I can't get to enough of them! Trixie.
He'd have me ask might the whores pay the dead boy their respects? The service is outside the home.
All in the camp are welcome.
They'd be sure to keep to their place.
Why did you go to him? Now, hold to this counter as I reveal this, Mr.
Star.
I've lived most of my life a whore, and as much as he's her misery, the pimp's a whore's familiar, so the sudden strange or violent draws her to him.
Not that I wouldn't learn another way.
Look fucking mournful.
Even more? Sad day, gentlemen, on which commerce must intrude.
Says who that it must? Because of the death of the sheriff's son.
You need to ask, you don't deserve an answer.
I should say that even in his hour of grief, Sheriff Bullock conveyed to me his reliance on you as his proxy.
And as his proxy, I don't do business on the day of my godson's passing.
I'm compelled to wonder, Mr.
Swearengen, if this show of grief is a pretext to some other purpose.
What a type you must consort with, that you not fear beating for such an insult.
If Montana, for example, had sweetened the terms in annexing this camp, and you'd delay the closing of our business not for piety, but to pursue your other negotiations Leave here with your sick fucking ghoulish thinking! I'll have further instructions within the day.
If not honor, practicality dictates granting Yankton further counter.
You come back here offering one more dollar than that 50, you'll find yourself face down in the horseshit.
But you would entertain enhancement of the offer other than cash? I do not discuss business on this day.
Silas.
You're buying yourself a fucking bum's rush, Commissioner.
When Mr.
Swearengen says go, he means it.
All right.
All right.
I'm not without imagination.
A counter without currency is in the offing.
You do remember me, Andy? Three times we've worked together Memphis, and on the river and in Kansas City.
And we were meant to here, but you fell ill.
I've changed.
You're bound to resent my presence in the camp.
Well, see, I haven't changed, or changed the rules, which against your having gone soft-headed, are fucking inviolate against you running a game in my territory without prior arrangement, and on my fucking terms set and agreed in advance.
I'm not running a game, Cy.
I fucking schooled you, Andy Cramed, to the variety that can be played.
I don't practice deception anymore.
The opening pronouncement of a dozen we both can name.
I was nursed last fall in the plague tent and saved to be born anew and preach the risen Lord.
The Lord risen, or the wheel, or the shell and pea in this camp, for you, it's by my leave.
I will suffer any indignity Which I still have not heard you solicit.
Interference with God's work, I will not suffer.
Then you had best be moving along, Andy, 'cause absent tribute, even as His employee you don't get to fucking operate.
Don't let me find you trying, Andy or it's into the woods once more, only this time, left nailed to a tree.
I don't know what you will understand of my speech and I don't give a fuck, or what terrorizing them human bonfires this morning intend towards the Chinks still under your thumb.
A white man's son is dead that you will be doing business with.
On the day of his son's burial, the smell of burning flesh ought not offend his nose.
The only showing you need make that you've understood our chat is a stop to them fucking fires.
And you might want to put off other violence while you're at it, as a decency to the day, you heathen fucking cocksucker.
Jesus fucking Christ! There will be no violence between you and Wu while the grieving goes on.
My God, act civilized even if you ain't.
I am a civilized person.
Then take your civilization and get the fuck out of here! He got the fucking message.
Wait on Wu if you want.
Wait until what? You want to go to the fucking service or fucking not? Don't have to ask us twice.
What the fuck I want to go for? What price will you take for your hotel, Mr.
Farnum? Why do you ask? Because I want to buy it.
Do you, sir? I presume as agent for other parties? Presume away.
Is it warm in here? - To me it seems chilly.
- Chilly, is it? Richardson, Mr.
Wolcott finds it chilly! Not around.
I'll see to it, sir.
If you are chilly in 10 minutes time, pray for my immortal soul, because some fatal mishap will have befallen me.
Short of which, I will not fail to dispel the chill now afflicting you.
Cocksuckers.
Think they can take away everything.
Oh, cocksucker.
Found it outside dead under the window.
Well, why'd you bring it inside? Poor little finch.
Throw it out and wipe your hands.
If a bird taps on a window or crashes into one, that means that there has been a death! We know there's been a death.
We know now, but that bird crashed into the window and died a while ago, before we knew for all we know.
I've shined me and Al's, but I ain't doing yours.
Oh, well, I got me some new boots.
They pinch bad, but they got that factory shine still.
Johnny, you can't wear nothing new to a funeral, especially not new footwear.
I ain't never heard that.
Maybe 'cause when they was telling it to you, you was too busy listening to that bullshit about birds flying into windows.
To be kept till after the after-funeral fuck rush is over fucking confiscated paraphernalia.
Boots on a bar? What is the fucking matter with you, Dan? Give me a fucking whiskey bottle.
I'm sprinkling it at the fucking doorways.
Or would you rather evil traipse past this fucking threshold? Must have brought that from the other side.
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.
Thank you, honey.
Shall we dress now and say goodbye to William Bullock? Let no one that's turned in a needle try eating the dope or shoving it up theirselves, as I will be checking eyes for signs before we fucking leave.
And no being drunk either, Jen.
Go wash your fucking mouth.
You got seven kinds of cock breath.
Yeah.
Underarms clean, cunts braided? They're ready.
You are accountable.
Why not come, make them accountable to you? Shut the fucking door behind you.
William Bullock beloved son of Martha and Seth, called to God age 11 years, as we are called by his passing.
Let us bow our heads.
From Psalm Number 23, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
He maketh me lie down in green pastures, He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul.
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake.
" "O, that my words were now written! That they were graven with an iron pen and lead in the rock forever.
For I know that my redeemer liveth, and He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.
And though after my skin, worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh I shall see God: Whom I shall see for myself, and my eyes shall behold and not another.
" From Psalm 121.
"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.
My help cometh from the Lord which made heaven and earth.
The Lord is thy keeper the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand.
The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.
The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: He shall preserve thy soul.
" Let the people come and say goodbye to William.
"The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even forevermore.
" At the request of the family, the burial is private.
On their behalf, at their request, I thank you all for coming.
Let them see him.
Those who wish to pay final respects to the corpse of William Bullock are invited now into the Bullock home.
The girls are gonna be awhile! They're viewing the corpse.
- Get Wu now? - Please.
At the ice house.
How should we set up the shifts? - What does he mean? - You know, guarding Wu.
Bring Wu here.
Put him in one of the whores' rooms, huh? Didn't make sense when he said it.
That's the first place Wu's people would look.
"Put him on ice," it's a figure of speech, Johnny.
Like "Got you by the balls.
" Up you go, little lady.
We picked flowers in William's graveyard.
Mmm? Me and Trixie.
"Trixie and l" is how that's supposed to go, I think.
Yes, Ellsworth.
Yes to the question you've asked me.
Swedgin.
Swedgin! No, Wu.
Swedgin! Ha ha ha! Swedgin! Uh, Mr.
Wu, why don't you just come with us like a gentleman? Seems to me, Wolcott, last your eyes had that unsettled look, matters got grave for some young girls.
What does it? Do you know? Or does the water just come on you quick? "Be ye afraid of the sword!" Jesus fucking Christ! "For wrath bringeth the punishments of the sword!" Get him the fuck out of here! You're a desperate man, aren't you, Tolliver? Desperate.
You feel your position weakening.
And what I do, situation like that instead of murdering helpless women, - I get on my hind legs and fight.
- Mr.
Wolcott.
I have nourished a suspicion that we might pass each other in the telegraph office.
I, of course, would be communicating with Yankton.
I wonder, would your messages be sent to Helena? Mr.
Hearst is not a partisan in territorial rivalries, Commissioner.
Oh God, I want to believe that.
The great man himself will allay your doubts.
He joins us within the week.
Does he for a fact? I would hope, sir, that by that time, Yankton's answer to my telegram would authorize me to offer, and I would have heard accepted, terms of annexation of this camp such that a huge banner would be hung across the thoroughfare "Welcome, George Hearst, to Deadwood of Dakota Territory.
" I don't envy you the interval, Commissioner.
Ain't it the idle hours that try us? Ain't they what lead us sometimes to the cliff, sometimes fucking over? I may have to ask Mr.
Hearst if that's his experience too, or of any of those that he may know.
Let me ask you something.
You think you're giving me a treat drooling on my fucking nuts? - Because I happen not to enjoy it.
- Sorry.
It's a strange fucking sensation.
Distracts me from my hard-on.
Fucking caskets bring out the dunce in the entire fucking community.
I took some fucking beating after my brother's fucking funeral.
Smacks coming from every fucking angle.
Still dizzy from the smack from the left, here comes a smack from the right.
Brain can't bounce around fast enough.
Headache I fucking had for three fucking weeks.
The fuck fault is it of mine if my fucking brother croaks? Ain't even my fucking brother.
Fucking people take me in, I didn't ask them to fucking take me in.
Huh.
Fucking flopping like a fish on the dock, my brother the perch.
Fucking falling sickness.
Let the old man beat you because he's sad and he has his load on.
I did better in the orphanage, if that fat-ass Mrs.
Anderson hadn't turned out a fucking pimp.
Anyways how was the funeral? Did you carry on, disgrace yourself? No.
Everyone was sad, I expect.
But it was pretty too.
Shut up.
Do you dye your hair? Whatever will let us live as we are now.