Deadwood

- Morning. - Good morning, Mr. Bullock.

Sophia: "Ox, box, fox."

- Mr. Bullock. - Good morning.

Good morning, Sophia.

Sorry to interrupt your lesson.

We're finished.

No, we're not, Sophia,

and we'll continue downstairs.

Adams: Hills get divided into three counties,

and each county has a commissioner.

- Al: Appointed by fucking who? - Adams: The governor.

When the fuck does that happen?

It already did.

Anyone I know?

They're all from Yankton.

Well, being as you're the bearer of unsettling news,

why don't you step the fuck inside?

No one from the fucking hills, huh?

All Pennington's people.

Saves time.

Just travel to one destination, murder the three of them.

See how they like being commissioner after they're dead.

Coach coming, Lila.

With your friend and her girls?

I don't know.

It's still way up in the hills.

You want me to come watch with you?

Oh, no, no.

Well, okay.

Well, do whatever you want, but I'll wait outside for you.

All the invoices other than this mission from Hendy Iron

- have been acted on. - I see.

You'll note, I've made partial payment to them...

Yes.

questioning a possible duplication.

- For the bill hooks? - Yes.

Is that my worth?

That's the amount on deposit.

Your worth is considerably more.

Thank you for your attention in all these matters,

Mr. Bullock.

You're welcome.

Adams: He wrote you a letter. Pennington.

That you held from me till now?

To say what I knew first.

Please be seated.

Yes, it has fallen to this.

Damn. - (insects buzzing)

Mr. Ellsworth!

Is the Garret gold in readiness

for shipment to Denver?

That it is.

I'd expect a delay before the owner blesses its passage.

While little Sophia is off with her tutor,

Mrs. Garret consults with Mr. Bullock.

All right.

In Bullock's capacity, of course,

as her claim's trustee.

That's all the cleverness on that subject

I'm inclined to hear from you.

Sophia: "Fat, cat."

Biscuits? Piping fresh.

Yeah, when both of us was young.

- Ah! - Anyways, I could use a bath.

"I urge you, Mr. Swearengen,

not to take as injury to your interests

my appointing only men from Yankton.

For not being of the region,

such men serving as commissioners

I hold less likely to obstruct those like yourself

who actively pursue their destinies in the hills.

In those brave endeavors, be assured of my best hopes,

high esteem and continued gratitude for your gestures of support.

"Governor Pennington."

Well, that's just the fucking sort...

chop them into pieces, and each of them happily slithers away,

still lying to your fucking face.

Well, what am I to make of this, huh?

He don't know yet what he wants to do.

Knew what to do with them fucking bribes I sent.

That's a gift they're born with.

Far as how hard to move on the camp,

he ain't sure yet all he'd be going against.

Maybe that is cause for cutting some throat.

That'd put you right where he wants you.

If you got other ways to move on him is what he ain't clear about.

Messages from invisible sources,

or what some people think of as progress.

Ain't the heathens used smoke signals all through recorded history?

How's that a fucking recommendation?

Well, it seems to me like, you know, letters posted one person to another

is just a slower version of the same idea.

When was the last time you got a fucking letter from a stranger?

- Bad news about Pa. - Bad news!

Or tries against our interests

is our sole communications from strangers,

So by all means, let's plant poles all across the country,

festoon the cocksucker with wires to hurry the sorry word

and blinker our judgments of motive, huh?

You've given it more thought than me.

Ain't the state of things cloudy enough?

Don't we face enough fucking imponderables?

Well, by God, you give the word, Al,

and them poles will be kindling.

After we've made love, are you sometimes happy?

Because I get up from the bed,

is that why you wonder?

I'll intend something, come to myself realizing

I've only stood or sat thinking about you.

Just now, that your toes are beautiful,

when I'd intended to replenish the kindling.

I was raised believing...

dereliction of duty is the one sure way to happiness.

So often with you, I've been perfectly happy.

Ellsworth: Can I start the shipment loading

to keep the men from falling to drink?

Yes, please.

Now I believe in you.

Ellsworth: Start loading.

Does Bullock think if I wanted,

them four horsemen with rifles would ward me off that woman's gold?

Dan: Maybe it's just precautions against the other operators.

No precautions of his protect her.

Them other operators forebear out of respect for me

and knowing what hot blood your blade would draw

if they ever fucking presumed.

Well, he don't intend it as insult.

Uh, Bullock, that's my point.

Horror is, you're fucking right!

He don't know if it's breathing

or taking it in through fucking gills.

He is that fucking cunt-struck.

They're afloat in some fairy fucking bubble,

lighter than air... him, her snatch

and his stupid fucking badge.

Where's that from?

My guess would be number 10.

Hope it ain't Tom Nuttall

taking the quick fucking way out.

No. No, there's himself.

Self-deceiving cocksucker I am,

I thought when America took us in,

Bullock would prove a fucking resource.

Look at him, striding out like some randy maniac bishop.

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.

Al: What is it?

Taken by a vision?

You would not want to be staring like that

at me.

It's only Bummer Dan.

But I think he's killed.

Be where I can find you.

I ain't going no place.

Dan: I'll, uh, go get my big gun.

Nah! That ain't how this wants to resolve.

You go down, Dan, see to the cunt and whiskey, huh?

- Adams: You want me up here? - You, go take your bath.

You want a donkey's attention...

bring a fucking pole down between his ears.

Jeez. Ow, fuck!

No ways did I wish that man harm

or take against him.

Seth: You did shoot him, huh?

Only on account of the jacket.

Charlie: I'll hear it from the other drunks.

Harry mistook Bummer Dan for Slippery Dan.

That had pulled his cock out previous,

- started filling the cuspidor yon! - You will keep this short.

Tom: Well, uh, Harry shouts for Slippery to stop,

but Slippery cast his johnson toward Harry,

pisses at him over the bar.

I pulled my gun, Sheriff. I told Slippery,

"Get out, you're ruled off for the day.

You darken that door before dawn tomorrow, I'll shoot you fucking dead."

Harry's shirtfront's urine-sopped still.

But this is Bummer Dan.

Man: Oh my God, it's true!

Tom: Well, that's Slippery.

Bummer's fucking dead.

They know that, you filthy piss-spraying beast!

Get up off your knees.

- Oh my God, Bummer... - Get up and tell your part in this.

My part, Sheriff, was putting Bummer in my jacket

and sending the poor fuck in here.

To what purpose?

Thinking maybe if Harry winged one at Bummer mistaking him for me,

he threatened to murder, it'd be funny.

Harry: What's my liability, Mr. Bullock?

Hey, ain't getting pissed on provocation?

You didn't kill who you meant to,

or mean to kill the man you did.

What's my liability?

Worse in some way?

Box him and see he's buried.

But I'm telling both of you, watch it!

- May I retrieve my jacket off him, Deputy? - Yeah, go ahead.

Gee, the worst fucking joke I ever played!

Oh, why I drink the way I do?