Trixie is staring out at the new day as Al blearily recounts to her a scene from his (even more sordid than now) past. Apparently, the guy he killed back in Chicago -- the murder for which a warrant was issued for his arrest, and for which Magistrate Claggett is trying to blackmail him after promising to fix it for a relatively small fee -- was a cop. "A slob mick cop from Chicago," Al clarifies. "I knifed the tub of guts." Trixie asks if Al will be able to "do business" with Adams, Claggett's bagman. "I'll fuckin' find that out shortly," he tells her. He asks her for a report on what she sees in the street. She tells him Bullock just rode out with Hostetler, from the livery, and E.B. has slithered across the street and into the Gem. With curiosity she adds that Jewel has just left. Al asks where she might be going, but Trixie doesn't know. He must be in a magnanimous mood this morning, because he tells Trixie to take half a day off if she likes to go and see Sophia. "Sally fuckin' forth," he says, "but now come back to bed." She does.
Meanwhile, Jewel is attempting to make her way through the nasty mud of the thoroughfare. She is repeatedly accosted by stupid idiots making fun of her infirmities, but she struggles on, carrying a book. She falls in the mud once, but it doesn't slow her down. She gets up, brushes back her hair, and keeps going until she gets to Doc's. He is surprised and unhappy to see her, thinking Al has made her walk all this way to get him. "I came here on my own, Doc," she corrects him. "I got something I want to show you! It's a book!" He vehemently resists it, saying he doesn't read books on the Civil War. "I don't need to look," he says. "I was goddamn there." But Jewel is persistent -- she wants him to see a diagram of something that will help her walk better. It's a leg brace that has been made for a soldier whose leg was shot up. Doc sits her down, explaining that the brace was made for a man who was able-bodied, not born with difficulties like hers. "I was just lookin' at the picture," she says, "and draggin' my leg really makes Al crazy." Doc does not even hesitate: "Fuck. Al," he says. "Everybody's got limits. You draggin' your leg is yours." Jewel apologizes, and Doc admonishes her, again. "Don't," he says. "Don't apologize to me." He looks at the book again, sighs, and tells her to let him hold onto it for a while.
In the thoroughfare, Merrick is practically dancing a jig. His camera, "an American Optical back-focus single-swing," has just been delivered. "Ah," he says, euphoric, "what William Henry Fox Talbot would have achieved in service of this fine apparatus." The two guys who unloaded the box are less than impressed, and Merrick nearly has a stroke as they roughly handle his precious cargo.
In the crowded dining room of the Grand Central, Charlie again runs into Joanie. She tells him that she thinks the problem of backing for new brothel may soon be solved. "I think I've been finicky over the location," she says, "'cause I wasn't comfortable with the backing." Good one, Joanie, seeing as how your original backing source, Cy, will actually be your final backing source when Eddie steals money from him to release you from being beholden to the asshole forever. Charlie is glad to hear her plans are looking up, but shares his own frustrations -- his new post as fire marshal is not making him any friends. At a nearby table, Ellsworth is telling Mrs. Garret that they are pretty close to being done pulling out the easy pickings on her gold claim. "If you want to make your claim show its colors," he says, "you're gonna need to sink a few shafts." In that case, he says, his use to her is also about to run out. "No!" she says, unwilling to lose her new friend. "I want you still to supervise. I trust you, Ellsworth, as an honorable man." Reaching across the table to squeeze his hand, she also adds that she takes great pleasure in his company. This earns an eyebrow raise from Sophia, and you can practically see Ellsworth's heart flutter out of his chest. "I feel the same," he says, huskily. "I look forward to our breakfasts and, I'll just say once, I know I'm too damn old for you." Aw. Mrs. G demurs and is about to respond when a man enters the restaurant, sees her, and calls out, "Button!" Mrs. G is overcome with shock. It's her father, a dandified New Yorker named Amos Russell. She makes the introductions to Ellsworth, who goes out of his way to deprecate himself, and to Sophia, who Amos assumes to be Ellsworth's daughter. "My ward," Mrs. G corrects him.
Back outside, the sick tent is being taken down, and all its contents burned. Andy Cramed strolls up to find Reverend Smith, leaning all cock-eyed against a post. The Rev does his best to be polite. Andy looks physically healthy, but says he's been trying out the other camps to no good effect. The Rev explains that the tent will no longer be needed -- the last patient took his leave yesterday, upright and well. "His name escapes me," the Rev says, sadly, as he tries to hold himself upright. "Are you not well, minister?" Andy asks, with sympathy. The Rev looks at him, half-crazy, and says that sometimes, he's quite well and full of energy. "At other times," he goes on, "I'm not well." Seems Andy's not that well, either. Apparently, he did some backsliding in the other camps. "At Gayville, I had the best intentions," he says, "but wound up at dice." Surely there are more entertaining vices in Gayville. He says he thought he'd come back to Deadwood where he had done good, honest work, but now sees that the tent is coming down. Loopy as he is, the Rev reaches out. "Ask God's help, Mr. Cramed," he says. "Wherever you find yourself, He will show you the path." Pitifully, Andy asks the Rev to help him pray, and the sweet preacher does his level best, trying out the Prayer of Saint Francis. Sadly, halfway through, he forgets it and wanders away, leaving Andy in the lurch.
At the Gem, Dan, Johnny, and E.B. are hashing out Al's recent dealings with Adams the bagman. "'Why don't you get a haircut, Adams? Looks like your mother fucked a monkey,'" Dan quotes. "I never seen Al warm up to anybody so quick." Indeed, such language from Al is tantamount to the bestowing of a BeFri necklace. E.B. figures this is all part of Al's plan to double-cross Adams's boss, the double-crossing Magistrate Claggett. "Al is merely probing Adams's willingness to betray the magistrate," E.B. explains. "In turn, his warmth is counterfeit."Upstairs on his balcony as a matter of fact, Al sees this object of his affections coming across the road and into the Gem. Going downstairs, he passes Jewel, asking where she's been. "At the Doc's," she says. He tells her to get him some coffee, and goes to meet Adams and his little leprechaun friend at the door. "Shorn and groomed to a fuckin' fare-thee-well," Al says to the newly haircutted bagman. "She'd never know you; have to smell you all over to know you was hers." Adams sighs, not loving this repeated joke. "My monkey mother," he smirks. They take a table by the wall and Jewel brings coffee. Al takes it from her, cracking that he'll pour since Adams has to be somewhere before nightfall, and asks what her purpose was at Doc's that morning. Jewel raises herself to her full height, smiles at Al, and says, "I'm knocked up." Good one, Jewel.
Adams wants to know what he's supposed to say to Claggett. "No envelopes," Al says. "And, to fuck himself." He goes on to say that he's glad they spent time together the night before, you know, killing a guy, because, having witnessed Al in action, Adams can now express to the magistrate how serious he is. Adams nods, saying he'll know exactly what to say. Al tells him to travel safe, and appears to be prepared to give him the brush when Adams opens a second line of thought. "They believe you're the man to deal with," he says with significance, speaking of the Yankton officials. "It's just the magistrate, looking to earn off that warrant," he continues. "But no one else even knows it's out on you." Al cuts directly to the chase. "Maybe the magistrate," he says, "needs to die." Hours upon end of flowery prose on every subject under the sun; endless exposition on the quality of whiskey and how to know if your favorite whore is lying to you; choking description of crimes and battles and various Black Hills treaties and laws; and THIS time he comes right out and says it? Makes the scene look like it was very hastily added, especially when Adams's line is "maybe he does." Yeah, maybe. They discuss the particulars -- Adams asks him to name his price. Al lowballs him -- two thousand dollars, he says, and seeing Adams's extreme consternation, reassures him. "Do it for two," he says. "You gotta believe the job would open the door to your future. And you gotta believe you'd make your ass hundreds of thousands back and forth between here and Yankton." It's an offer Adams can't refuse. They spit and shake on it.
Mrs. G welcomes her dad into her room at the hotel. "I always thought it was gonna end like this, Button," he jokes. "A rooming house in a mining camp on Indian territory; you, caring for a Norwegian foundling and operating a bonanza gold claim." Good one, Dad. Mrs. G giggles, asking what his own status is. "Always a little sketchy about me," he says. "I hope I'm here to help." Richardson comes to the door to deliver his room key, and Mr. Russell gives Sophia a coin to tip him; when the man goes, Russell does the kid magic trick, pulling another coin from behind Sophia's ear. Now Mrs. G ain't giggling; she looks away from her father and the girl quickly, as if her stomach is turning. Uh oh. He's a Bad Dad.He asks if caring for Sophia makes her happy, and she says it does, more every day. This is just a segue, however, to find out if she has any of her gold on her. She does. She picks up a huge chunk of it and proudly hands it over. His eyes practically have cartoon dollar signs in them as he takes it to the window to inspect it. He takes a little too much satisfaction when he delivers the news that her in-laws are suspicious that she perhaps killed off Brom. Mrs. G is both offended and defensive, saying repeatedly that she had nothing to do with his death, and telling him the whole story about Bullock seeing to her interests via Wild Bill. He smirks in surprise and says he'd like to meet this Bullock, and rises to go and get washed up. "Daddy..." Mrs. G says, before he can get out the door, and he realizes that, oh yeah, he was about to steal her gold. Oops!
Charlie is doing his frustrating duty down at Nuttall's. Apparently, ol' Tom has installed his stovepipes directly through the wood walls, with no sheet metal or iron as protection from fires. "Joints like to burn to cinders," Charlie tells him, saying it's dumb luck the place hasn't burned down -- dumb luck he shouldn't push, seeing as any fire in the camp could wipe out the whole town. Tom gets uppity about all this officiating, but Charlie reminds him that they were both at the same commissioners meeting and if Tom doesn't fix the stovepipes, he'll have to levy a fine against him. "Well," Tom announces, "I'd lick a bear's ass before I paid a fine to E.B. Farnum." Charlie tells him to fucking fix it, then, and stomps out, reminding him that "this ain't the goddamn Day of Judgment, Tom." But to Tom, see, it might as well be. "That's the kind of shit that ran me out of Wilkes-Barre," he tells his poker dealer, Con Stapleton. "It's where the camp's headed, Tom," the dude replies. Another thought strikes him, and he asks Tom why the group didn't appoint a sheriff. "Because Al Swearengen don't want one," Tom says. Stapleton continues, cocking his goofy hat to the side. What if, he says, the camp had a sheriff that Al trusted not to bother him, hint hint, and one that would happily tell off a so-called fire marshal. "I never thought of you as the type to be sheriff," Tom says, not able to avoid the dealer's boulder-sized hints. Stapleton says he'd be right for the camp, he thinks, but while Al and Tom have their fellow-pioneer bond, Al pretty much hates Con, and he'd like Tom to put in the good word for him. Even Tom, occasionally slow on the uptake, looks kind of queasy at the thought of putting up the gooftastic Stapleton for the job.
Cy is in his office when Leon finally makes an appearance back at the Bella Union. "Your habit get the best of you for a while, son?" Cy asks. Leon says, yeeeaaah, it sort of got the upper hand there for a time. He asks Cy if he's still got a job, considering his extended absence. "I'd need to hear more from you," Cy says. "What you've been up, who the fuck with, that kind of thing." Leon shuffles and says surely Cy already knows everything about everything. "Be that as it may..." Cy smugs, and Leon sits down and gives a succinct recap of the whole dope courier/smackhead/"Al SMASH" incident. Cy asks if Al now holds the strings on Leon, seeing as how Leon lived through this debacle. "I'm telling you what I seen because you asked me to," Leon says, but Cy continues to apply the screws. Except, see, in a Deadwood Dumbass Contest, Leon would actually give Johnny a run for his money, and he doesn't even get it. Cy's trying to turn him further against Al, reminding him that Al fed his friend to the pigs, but Leon doesn't catch on. "I'm saying," Cy spells it out, "that it's a hell of way to treat a white man...delivering him to a chink no matter what the transgression. Do you agree with me?" Leon: "Yes?" Cy: "So, it's your own opinion, too." Leon says yeah, sure. Well, Cy tells him, that's his new job -- to vigorously express his opinion of Al's behavior all over camp, and to make it sell, or he'll wish he got drowned in that bathhouse himself. In Al's office, Tom Nuttall is meeting with his old buddy. He takes a shot to steel his nerves and finally comes out with it, nervously asking if Al will make Con Stapleton sheriff, seeing that it's inevitable anyway. "How the fuck did that get to be inevitable?" Al asks. "I wouldn't appoint that cocksucker to empty my spittoons." Tom says no, the appointment of a sheriff is inevitable, and Con, he adds, has points in his favor. "I hope one's not getting to recover the bribe he paid you," he says, "when I don't give him the job." Tom swallows and tries his "inevitable" line again. "Tom," Al says, almost sweetly, "nothing Stapleton's got on you can't be solved by Dan Dority." I love Al so much. Seriously, I get by with a little help from my friends, but I'd get by so much easier if Al was one of them.
Tom fumbles further, causing Al not a little obvious concern. "The truth is," Tom says, "I feel like the camp's getting away from me, Al." He complains about the fire commissioner that's about to condemn his building when they're still on Indian land. Al nods, but wonders how Con Stapleton becoming sheriff is going to help him at all. "Well, I know him," Tom says. "Uh, he'd know I put in a word with you." Al is exhausted by this circuitous logic. "What the fuck good is that going to do you, Tom," he asks, "when that cocksucker can be bought for two pieces of day-old bread?" Tom sighs, saying that all makes sense, but reminds Al about their history in the camp together, pulling on his heart strings, saying it would help him having someone as sheriff that he knows. "Stapleton," Al says, kind of groaning. Tom makes one more salvo, sadly repeating that he does know the guy, "and I don't feel like I know anybody, no more." Al can't take it; he says Stapleton can be sheriff for all he cares, but "don't count on him to be loyal, Tom." Nuttall is happy. "No, no," he agrees, "just a familiar face." Al opens the office door. "No fucking paperwork," he adds, and Nuttall shakes his head, a thought occurring to him. "Hell," he says, "I don't even know if he can write."
At the hardware store, Sol is going over some figures when Trixie comes in. They chit-chat, recalling their last conversation about hammers and saws. Finally, Trixie cuts to the chase. "Would you," she asks, "want a free fuck?" Poor Sol looks crestfallen. "Why would you say that?" he asks. Trixie: "To know the answer?" He sighs, asking why she would say it THAT way. "For Christ's sake," Trixie says, impatient with his gentlemanly airs, "my cherry is obstructing my work. Sir, would you take from me, free?" He looks for a moment like he's going to rise above the situation, but...uh, no. He goes to the door, locking it, and turns back around, leading her to the back of the store where they immediately get down to business. The HARD-ware business, if you know what I mean, which...surely you do. Moments in, they are interrupted by Bullock, who uses to key to enter the store. Sol tries to recover swiftly, making polite introductions, but naturally, like any good fraternity brother, Bullock recognizes the situation and attempts to play it cool. "Oh," he says, wide-eyed. "Well...I just stopped for a moment..." He picks up a nearby clamp, holding it aloft as if it was the thing he came in for, and quickly leaves, saying he'll lock up. Awesome. They don't show it, but we can all imagine the "DUDE, leave a sock on the DOOR time or SOME-thing" conversation they have later. When he's gone, they resume activities, though Sol is rebuffed when he tries to kiss Trixie on the mouth. Not taking no for an answer, he takes her head in his hands. "Let me kiss you," he says, all romantical. "Well," she replies, "you're a goddamned Jew fool." That may be so, but he gets his kiss.At the Gem, the honorable mayor is swearing in the ridiculous sheriff, faithful Tom Nuttall at his side. Merrick gets to try out his new camera during the ceremony, but upon taking one shot, thinks another may be in order -- specifically, he asks Tom if he'll remove his "putrid" bar apron. "Uh, no," Tom says. "Let's drink." The men throw back some celebratory whiskey, and are surprised to see Bullock walk in. E.B. tells him all about the swearing-in ceremony. Stapleton tries to introduce himself to Bullock, but Bullock ain't having it. "We weren't to have a sheriff," Bullock says. "Well," Nuttall replies, "that's been reconsidered as inevitable." E.B. asks if he had designs on the post, getting a swift answer from Bullock -- no, he says, adding as explanation, I guess, that his wife and son will soon be joining him. Slamming back a shot, he goes up to see Al.
Speaking of Al, he's upstairs on his balcony, sadly watching the Rev get painfully nutty out in the thoroughfare. The poor minister is preaching to the cattle about circumcision when Bullock joins Al. Bullock wants to know why Al let Con Stapleton have a badge. He says it isn't right for the camp, but Al rolls his eyes, saying it's merely a ceremonial position. "That job," Bullock clenches strongly, "shouldn't go to a shitheel." Al disagrees. "As my feeling would be," he says, "it should go to a shitheel, because it's a shitheel's work." Bullock says it doesn't have to be, but Al has him sit down for a lesson on the law. He explains how he has been jumping through hoops to avoid becoming the subject of "fireside ditties" about a man who worked hard to get his territory annexed by the country, only to have a murder warrant served on him and get hanged. "Into the cocksucking magistrate's pocket the money goes," Al says, "after which he sends a message: The five thousand will need company if I'm to be off the hook." He raises the whiskey bottle to the clenching Bullock. "I give you," he closes, "the law." Bullock, never one to appreciate the art of storytelling, says again that the law doesn't have to be like that. Well, Al says, if Bullock were sheriff, he'd get a lot more respect, "because you're not a fuckin' whore." Bullock says no, he has personal responsibilities that preclude him from being a lawman. Al isn't listening, though. He says he'd happily attend Bullock's swearing in, and he'd follow his career with interest "because you're one of those pains in the balls who thinks the law can be honest." Bullock's getting pissed. "I don't want it," he says, just about clenching his teeth into dust. Al is slightly incredulous. "I do lots of things I don't want to do," he says. "I think you'd be all right as sheriff." Bullock sighs. "Listen," he says, frustrated, "I'm only talkin' to you 'cause my partner's fuckin' that whore." Oops. Al's eyebrows tell Bullock that he has just let the cat out of the bag. "Anyways..." he trails off, and walks out, clenching with regret. Meanwhile, the whore in question is just coming back through the front door. "He's back open," Trixie whispers to Bullock, passing him on the stairs.
Al's back on the balcony, swigging hard, watching the Rev, who is apparently giving the longform to the variety of men and animals in the street, warming to the theme of Romans 8:35. Al is so disturbed by the pathetic sight, he has to turn his back on the Rev, who continues to go on about how no powers on Earth or in Heaven, now or in the future can separate us from the love of God. I have to hand it to the writers of this show -- someone among them received a church education. I can practically smell their angst at having spent so many hours under the thumb of a maniacal choral scholar. They pick the most upstanding English hymns and the most literary Bible passages. Whoever you are, you good Methodist, I feel you. And Al feels you, too -- because his eyes when looking down at the crazy, soothsaying Rev, are full of fear.Back at the hardware store, Bullock has returned to find Sol stacking up his stuff. "We have an agreement with Swearengen," Bullock says, "as to the use we put this establishment to." Aw, man, Bullock, SHUT UP. You'd deny your buddy a piece when all he does all day long is take care of your smug ass? Sol, for his part, agrees that perhaps the store is not the most appropriate location for such a thing but, he says, "she come lookin' for good...and things took a turn." Hee! Bullock concedes that that can happen. He says maybe he's not the only one that should be out looking for a place to live. By the way, he adds, he's going to make an offer on Hostetler's land and start building as soon as possible. Sol is happy to hear this, saying it will be good for Bullock to get a leg up on the construction before his wife and son arrive.
They are interrupted by the arrival of Alma Garret's father, who comes in to pompously introduce himself and invite them to dinner that night. Sol politely begs off, but Bullock agrees to meet him and Mrs. G at six. I like Bad Dad less every time he's on screen.
Back at the Gem, Doc finds Jewel sweeping up in one of the rooms. "First thing to say," he starts, "I regret the tone that I had with you earlier." Jewel is all forgiveness. "Okay," she says, simply, but Doc feels like he needs to explain. "If we hold with the Greeks that we're made of humors," he says, "I guess my bile was in its ascendant." Jewel laughs, again saying okay. Doc continues his little medical lesson. "'Primum non nocere,'" he says, "and that means 'first, do no harm.'" He says that has been of great concern to him in Jewel's case. He doesn't want to interfere in any way with her health and have her misjudge her capacities and hurt herself. "I do not want," he says, "to fuck you up." Jewel smiles. "No," she says, "we wouldn't want that." Having said all that, Doc is excited to show her what he's come up with for her leg, saying he thinks they should give it a try. She smiles again. "Let's," she says.
Downstairs, Trixie's busted. Al's good and drunk and quizzing her on how she enjoyed her afternoon out, playing like he thinks she went out to see Sophia as he suggested. He goes on and on, saying pointedly how relaxed she seems. She catches on and is starting to look nauseated when he tells her to get away from him so he can talk to Doc. "[Jewel] told me she was knocked up," Al says, "but I assumed that was her gimp sense of humor." Doc sighs, explaining about the boot she asked him to make so that the sound of her leg dragging didn't bother Al so much. "So what'd you tell her?" Al asks. Doc sighs again. "Not to worry about your moods," he says, "that you generate those yourself and then you find your excuse for having them." Al says those are saucy words coming from the Doc and it's a good thing he's so handy with the snatch. Thing is, Doc's not any more scared of Al than he is of anything else in the world, so he just sighs again, saying he just came over to measure Jewel for the boot. "If you treat her as successfully as you did the minister," Al snarks, hitting below the belt, "she'll be kicking up her heels in no fucking time." Mean, Al. Doc merely shakes his head. "I will leave you now," he says, "to pursue another excuse." I guess Al's senses are dulled by whiskey tonight, because he can't think of a last word in time before Doc walks out. Instead, he stops Johnny on his way in, telling him to go out again and "get that Jew over here." At the hotel over what constitutes a formal meal in Deadwood, Amos Russell is quizzing Bullock on his relationship with Wild Bill. He's sort of being an ass about it, too, and Mrs. G has to subtly explain, in front of Sophia, how Bullock and Hickok rescued a child in the wilderness and brought to justice the man who killed her family. "And how was justice meted out?" Russell says, in a tone that suggests he is not impressed. Quickly and flatly, Bullock responds, "We shot him." They are interrupted by E.B. and Richardson in their Sunday best, doing what they can to impress their wealthiest tenant. Bad Dad blathers rudely on, pretty much ignoring Mrs. G, speaking only to Bullock about her claim and what should be done with it. Clenching, Bullock tells him that it's all Mrs. G's affair, and that she can and has been making the decisions necessary to work the claim. Concealed behind the door, E.B. eavesdrops. "The man's a charlatan, Richardson," he says. "A cheat, a broad-tosser and a clip." Well, E.B. ought to know. "Brass that would be," he says. "To gull your own flesh and blood."
Johnny has dutifully delivered Sol to the Gem and, at the bar, Al gets right to it. "You owe me five dollars," he says, boozed up. "If you ass-fucked her, you owe me seven." Why do I recap a show that requires me to type and hyphenate the words "ass-fucked"? Sometimes I have to wash my own mouth out with soap. Sol looks nervous, but stands his ground, saying no. "I'm not paying you," he says. "It wasn't to do with you; it wasn't business." Al calls Trixie over before going on. "Don't think I don't understand," he says. "I mean, what could every one of us ever fucking hope for, huh?" He says sure, all anyone wants is a moment here and there with a person who doesn't want to rob, steal, or murder them. Trixie looks even more scared, but doesn't interrupt. "Everybody needs that," Al concludes. "It becomes precious to 'em. They don't want to see it fucked with." You gotta see Al's point sometimes. I mean, sure, we've seen him rape and almost beat Trixie to death, and yeah, nearly drive her to suicide, but come on. He gave her this afternoon OFF! Obviously, he loves her! Sol again says he won't pay, but Al disabuses him of that notion. "You pay," he says, nodding to Trixie, "or she pays." Sol's beaten, throwing five dollars on the bar, and casting one last look over his shoulder at the imprisoned and mournful Trixie, he leaves. Gathering up the money and ordering another bottle of booze, Al mutters over his shoulder to Trixie to get back to work. "Tonight," he says, "you sleep amongst your own."
From her hotel window, Mrs. G watches her father and Bullock smoke in the street. She snippily explains to Sophia that if there had been one to retire to, the two of them would have been relegated to the kitchen after dinner to gossip while the bigshot men decided their fates. She's right. Outside, Bad Dad is smarmily blathering to Bullock about his daughter. He...basically attempts to pimp Alma out to Bullock, making no attempt to hide that he hopes they get together and Bullock comes into control of her holdings. Bullock clenches out a goodnight and tries to politely extricate himself, but the dude won't shut up. "If I've offended you, Mr. Bullock," he says, "I've accomplished the opposite of my intention, which would not be an unprecedented result." Bullock clenches again. "I just want to say goodnight," he says. Back upstairs, Mrs. G and Sophia are still watching. "If we didn't hate them so much to be curious about the world," Mrs. Garret says, "we'd wonder what they'd had to say." Cy is moodily running the craps table over at the Bella Union when, to his delight, Eddie returns in what appears to be a great mood. "Back in action if you'll have me," Eddie says. Cy smiles, and says all right. "You need to take it back about that boy, Cy," Eddie gives his one stipulation, "[about] me bein' interested that way." Cy smirks. "Aw, hell, Eddie," he says, placatingly. "You know me. I get in a brown study, I say any goddamn thing comes to mind. Withdrawn, with apologies." This seems to be all Eddie needs to hear, and he returns with a smile to his craps duties just in time to hear Leon, at the bar, putting on a performance of a lifetime. Well, more like a performance in a Lifetime Movie, so thick is he laying it on. He chews off big pieces of scenery, going loudly on and on about how humanity has sunk so low that white men are now bowing down to celestials, preaching about how he was robbed by a Chinese courier and his friend, Jimmy Irons, was killed by Al, pawn of the "chink boss," in the course of their trying to medicate their personal weaknesses. Nobody cares. He's getting so carried away that even Cy advises that he take it down a few notches. Meanwhile, Joanie arrives and sees Eddie back at his post. She asks, winkingly, if he's reconciled with their boss. "Thick as thieves," he says, not a little ironically. "And if I weren't as good at what I did, you'd see I just palmed eighty in chips for the Joanie Stubbs Construction Fund." Cy walks over to note Joanie's return, asking if she's come home. "I gave up," she says, "waiting for that search party you didn't send, Cy." Cy chuckles, asking if she's found her a new place, and hearing that she hasn't, he wonders if she's considered a plot down by Doc's shack. She says those seem to have mostly been bought up by the Chinese. "Well," he knowingly smarms, "you never know how that shit's gonna shake out."
At the hardware store, Bullock is clenching about Mrs. G's dad and how much he sucks. "That man's not here to help his daughter," he says. "He's looking to root at her claim." A bit distractedly, he asks Sol if he's been to see "that whore" again. Sol's had his heart bruised, you know, so he's down on Trixie, telling Bullock how Al sent for him and demanded his fee. "I guess she told him where she'd been," he says. Bullock clenches anew. "It might have been me he found out from, Sol," he says, apologetic. "Because I'm sometimes that stupid." Hope dawns in Sol's face -- maybe his prostitute girlfriend HADN'T sold him out to her pimp! Hooray? Bullock regretfully says, yeah, he probably said something about Trixie to Al when he was over there bitching about Stapleton being made sheriff. "I used poor fuckin' judgment," he says. Sol, of course, is understanding. "Sorry Mrs. Garret's pa turns out a shitheel," he says. Bullock nods. "Cold enough world," he says, "without gettin' gone against by your own." In his room at the Gem, Al begins what will become known as, over the course of this show, one of his famous Blow Job Monologues. "I was fucking her," he boozes to the voluptuous Dolly, whom he has brought in as a Trixie substitute, "but now, I'm gonna fuck you." Al's upset. About a lot of things. Mostly, however, he is tormented about the crazy Rev. "The point is," he says, disrobing, "this minister's gotta fucking die. He's making a fucking jerk of himself. Why go on with that?" Dolly listens in silence, as she has been commanded, as he absolutely rants about it, saying when something has to be ended, you just have to be a man and end it, not go around weeping about it. "You gotta shut the fuck up," he says. "Don't be sorry, don't look the fuck back, because...believe me, no one gives a fuck." Well fucking said, Al. Dolly agrees, saying "yeah," and this bit of dialogue is too much for him. He tells her to shut up and attend to the dick-sucking, which she does, with vigor. "Whoa, whoa, whoa..." he stops her. "You got a stagecoach to catch or something, huh?" Hilarious. He continues his unbelievable speech, explaining to Dolly that the orphanage where he bought her happened to have been run by one Mrs. Fat Fucking Anderson, who, as it happened, had once run the boys' orphanage on Euclid Avenue where Al's own mother had once dropped him off on her way to be a whore in Georgia. Al shouldn't drink so much at night, I think, because these are memories one can't drown with whiskey or an army of Dollys. Damning the fat-ass Anderson once more, he gives his whore du jour the "faster" order and is, ahem, relieved for a moment of his trouble. Politely, he tells her she doesn't have to swallow and can go and spit it out. Taking one more swig to drown out his past, he sighs. "Anyways..." he says, and the screen goes black.