Johnny comes into his own a little when he defends the dubious honor of one of the Gem girls, calling upon his years of Al/Dan training.
Destiny arrives for Steve in an ironic package -- when trying to unshod the NG's horse, he gets kicked in the head and ends up in a vegetative state from which he is unlikely to return.
Having endured the long weeks of the delightful but seemingly inconsequential storyline of Langrishe's troupe, we are rewarded with the much-anticipated passing of Chesterton, who dies a quiet, extremely moving death with his friend at his side.
Langrishe, by the way, has offered his quasi-chiropractic back healing services to Hearst. He does not, unfortunately, shank him when he has the chance, which is a shame, as, just when everyone thinks they are going to have a peaceful night's rest, Hearst's goons arrive in town.
It's early morning in Deadwood, and Merrick, assisted by Blazanov, comes out of his office to deliver The Pioneer. In the relative quiet they cross the more-disgusting-than-usual thoroughfare and make their way into the Grand Central, where Richardson is sweeping the dining room. They acknowledge him with polite bows and leave their stack of issues. Richardson wastes no time in scurrying happily over to pick up a copy. He shakes it open and "reads" intently with a soft smile on his face. Surely, y'all, Richardson can't read. Even if he can, however, it only endears him to me more that he would so enjoy the machinations of reading the paper.
Merrick and Blazy make their way to the Gem where Johnny is wiping down the bar in near darkness. Merrick quietly leaves him a stack, also, and heads out. I love the way this sequence is lit -- it makes the set feel and look very real. Johnny picks up a copy and is joined by one of the Gem girls who looks over his shoulder as he points to each word and reads aloud. Aw! In my last poll, I threw something in there about Johnny finding love. I didn't mean anything by it, other than to joke, and now here he is teaching one of the whores to read and being awfully sweet. Did I make this happen with my mind? If so... week, Hearst will be killed by a raging bull who sweeps through town and carries him out on his horns!
At the Bullocks', a classic Married People fight is going down. The sheriff is jerking his coat around, getting ready to stomp out. Evidently, they have been arguing about the new schoolhouse. It's ready for the kids to move in, but Martha isn't quite ready to move them. For some reason, this goes all over Bullock, though Lord only knows why. "I fail to understand," Martha says, frustrated, "if I, who am most affected, am not disturbed, why you should be." Bullock is all pissy and says that maybe he's upset for a reason she doesn't even know. She patiently snarks back that he should forgive her, then, for believing the reason he gave her in the first place. Good one, Martha. He finally says that he disapproves of the move date being changed every day. "What disturbs me," he goes on, "is your accepting the uncertainty without quarrel." Clench, this control-freakiness has got to stop. Roll off for a second, damn. You ain't the schoolmarm! She says that whatever reason the theater people have for their delay, the larger point is that she doesn't want the children to vacate their school without seeing that it will be used for something else. Now, yes, this reasoning is maybe a bit of contrivance created so that we can see them fight, but...I don't know, people have weird reasons for things all the time, and really, she sees no point in rushing the move. "Fine, Martha," her husband clenches. Fine. When we saw this, my husband and I smiled and shook our heads. It's amazing how two grown-ass adults will revert to such sarcastic teenagerisms, but this is what it's like sometimes. Let this be a sign unto you, single people. Being married can be so great -- I love it, as a matter of fact -- but there will be mornings that you will wonder how you made it this far without whipping out a switchblade on your one true love because...why don't they just shut up and quit bugging you for five seconds, huh? That's exactly what Mrs. B is thinking when she mildly launches her final zinger. "It seems you waked intent we quarrel," she says. Bullock clenches and breathes like he's about to go off, but she doesn't let that stop her. "Nor, may I say, claiming that you were pleased with the outcome of your meeting with the other men of the camp," she goes on, "did you retire last night with your customary sweetness." HA! I love them SO MUCH. Olyphant is awesome as he lurches into his jacket and tries to deliver his sarcastic retort. "Do please then forgive me, for Christâs sake," he snaps, but doesn't even get to the door before he thinks better of it and genuinely apologizes.
He walks outside to start the day and finds, as Al does from his balcony, a wagon team riding up the thoroughfare. All the guys on the wagon are whooping and celebrating and announce that they have just survived a road agent attack. Al's eyebrows do a little dance at this. Bullock asks if anyone was hurt. The wagon guy says that the road agents had dropped a tree across the road and that all would have been lost had it not been for their two saviors who rode up out of nowhere and fended off the baddies. The heroes of which he speaks, two brothers, dismount now -- the older one, hot and stern looking; the younger a bantam badass. "I'd like to buy you both a fucking drink," the wagon driver tells them. "That's a big fucking yes from the both of us," the little one shouts. Bullock asks the older guy if they actually killed any of these road agents. "No," the older one says, "we were just trying to drive 'em off, sheriff." Bullock seems a little skeptical and asks some more probing questions, but the heroes fend him off. "I heard one of 'em shout like you winged 'em," the little one pipes up. "They was dodging behind stumps and making for cover." Big brother, clearly trying to play it cool, which his sidekick does not get, suggests he run along to the bar. "I'm Wyatt -- and going in there to get drunk is Morgan -- Earp," the older brother says. "I was a lawman in Dodge City; before that in Wichita. But I ain't looking for none of that here." Well, Wyatt, Bullock wasn't looking for it either, by God. Greatness was thrust upon him, as the saying goes, by the edge of Al's knife.
Bullock, who has never heard of one of the West's most famous lawmen, asks what the Earps have come to town for. "We got a timber lease," Wyatt says, nothing but friendly. But, Bullock, you know, doesn't know how to make friends at all -- he is obviously doubtful that anyone would bring such a dumbass as Morgan to work a timber lease, and believes no doubt that they are here as Hearst's strong-armers. Wyatt, of course, has got to be wondering why Bullock would roll up on him with his bitch on so early in the morning. "Whatâs your name?" he asks, still attempting politeness. They exchange clenched nods until they are interrupted by Dan who hobbles out to tell Wyatt that Al wants to buy him a drink. Bullock is mad -- he had not yet begun to clench and does not appreciate the interruption.
Extreme poignancy is taking place over in Joanie's rooms at Shaunessey's. Oh, the painful realizations of the morning after. Joanie is all dressed for the day and finally has to wake up Jane, who is asleep on the floor. Jane comes to and remembers the events of last night in one fell swoop. She can't get herself up and out fast enough, while Joanie lamely tries to get her to stay. "I got errands all morning myself," Jane sniffs, adding: "If you just heard me fart, excuse me." Siiiiigh. First of all, as if Jane has ever run an errand besides "8:30 a.m. -- Be sure rotgut is purchased prior to making attempt at gut rotting." Secondly, is it not bad enough that Joanie has been subjected to years of farting and sweating and otherwise disgusting men? Now she has to stand here in her beautiful velvet dress and delicious hat and endure the hungover gas of Ms. Closet 1879? Jane, you're here, you're queer...come ON. But no, she's all antsy and uncomfortable and not looking Joanie in the face, and it breaks my heart anew. She won't even say if she's coming back to sleep there tonight. Things only get worse when they go outside and get bashed by the landlord. "I'll not have vile affections or uncleanness on these premises," Shaunessey, Deadwood's biggest self-hater, snits. "Find my specific meaning at Romans 1:24-6..." he says, clutching one of his handy signs inscribed with the verse. Jane leans in, as if to read, and points to each word as she translates into the New Revised Jane Version: "Fuck yourself with a fist punch up your ass, today, at the present moment," she yells, hitting him in the stomach for added emphasis. "I gotta go," she mumbles to Joanie, not even stopping. "I'm moving outta that fucking place," Joanie calls after her. "Not me! Not me!" Jane yells back. "I never fuckin' moved in." She stomps off, no doubt in search of something to make her day and her life even worse than she's already made it. Damn you, Jane.
Steve's washing his face in the horse's water trough as the NG saddles up to leave. I guess slobbery horse water is about as good as one can hope for in Deadwood. You know that bathhouse water will give you the floating crabs, for one thing, and a sponge bath from anywhere would only be as good as the syph-encrusted sponge. I just totally made up "the floating crabs," by the way, but I promise you, you don't want to catch that. It occurs to Steve that he has not met his asshole quota today, so he starts right in on the NG. "Don't think you was offered a job here last night," he says, backpedaling like Floyd Landis in front of the doping board. "Gauging the fucking level you'd fucking presume to was all that was." The NG is not even bothered enough to roll his eyes and keeps on getting his horse ready. "Maybe you declined 'cause you thought you ought to be partners in the fuckin' business," Steve yells, "name on the signage like a human's or God hadn't set man apart from the fucking beasts!" Listen, Steve. Let me give you some advice. I learned this recently at a conference: if you want someone to help you at work, the whole tar the employee/engage in verbal abuse/drive their friend to suicide tactic is no longer the number one choice in management circles for recruitment and retention. Times are changing. Sars, for example, gave up that old cat-o'-nine-tails months ago, and I am so relieved. ["Gave up using it on you, maybe. Teacher's pet." -- Joe R]
The NG is over this and says he has one errand to run before going to San Francisco and wearily heads toward the Grand Central. Steve, however, can't accept that his reverse psychology isn't working. He ramps it up. "We will never be equal, sign or fucking no," he shouts. "And if I agreed to your name on the signage, we would know the fucking truth still." I don't know how the NG can resist such great offers, but he does, wordlessly continuing toward his destination. "Fucking n*gger bastard!" Steve launches into a soliloquy of complaints to the NG's horse. "Assuming to leave without my consent!" he huffs. "Not without a fucking saddle, he won't. Not if I hide his fucking saddle till he reveals fucking Hostetler's n*gger voodoo ciphering methods, so accounts ain't constantly to be carried around in the man's mind till he lives in terror of taking a drink!" Yes, brilliant scheme. The horse, for his part, gives him a look of full-on "Yyyeah...You know what? I'm gonna stay out of it" look. I don't know how they trained him to do that, but the damn horse is a genius. "Implying what by that fucking lordly look?" Steve asks, catching his eye. "That he'll outflank my tactics buying a new fucking saddle?" He grabs up a shoe pick, or whatever it's called that they use to unshod a horse. I fear for a moment that his brilliant idea will be to break the horse's leg -- the horse fears it, too, I can tell -- but no, he just plans to remove ol' Lamar's (this is the name I have decided on for the horse) shoes. But, see, Lamar ain't down for that. He bucks and neighs, causing Steve great consternation. "That's right. Harp and fucking criticize until there's a fucking solution in the offing, and then become fucking obstinate," he bitches. "Now, for the last fucking time, give me a fucking hoof."
Meanwhile, the NG has gone over to see Aunt Lou to return the Odell-bribe money she gave him. She tells him about Odell's plans to meet up with Hearst's man in New York and travel to Liberia. The NG gets a worried look but tries to assuage her fears and agrees that Odell will probably be okay. She offers to make him some food before he goes, and his soft eyes are very grateful.
Upstairs at the Gem, Al is explaining to Wyatt Earp how stuff gets done in Deadwood. Wyatt is, well, a little embarrassed when Al makes it clear that their whole Road Agent Rescue story is obviously bullshit. "Road agents, story goes, don't work these hills but by my leave," he says. "Which, if that's true, explains why I'm fucking interested in what you're telling." Wyatt tries to play it off and says that well, maybe it wasn't road agents -- maybe it was just unknown parties that he and his brother fought off. Al smirks and rolls his eyes to Dan. "Ears flat back to the head, nose without boils, fucking modest..." he says. "A proper hero, Dan." Wyatt tries to keep up the unkown parties pretense and says he can't describe the guys they attacked. Al insists. "My meaning would be, them firing, I didn't get a good fucking look at them," Wyatt shoots back. "I'd also say you're fucking free with your reprehending tone." Whoa, now. Wait a second, new guy. You're cute and all, but...are you kidding me with that? I know he only has nine fingers, but do you understand the magnitude of badass you're dealing with, here? Did you maybe also hear, just now, Dan pull out his knife? Let me assure you that a season one Al would have already ordered your garroting. Lucky for you, Al has bigger worries and cuts to the chase. "My opinion, may come out of vanity, your tale's full of shit. I say, or else I'd have known of 'em, there was no road agents," he says, with considerable eyebrow. "I say, to make a hero's entrance into camp, you and your friend kicked up dust, whooped and hollered and played all the parts yourselves." Finally, Wyatt gives it up. The whole road agents scheme and subsequent Earp Brothers entrance into camp was his idea. Now, see? That's all Al wanted to hear. He's all about honesty. "Any others?" he asks, quick to explain that he means not brothers, but ideas on how to spend time in camp.
Wyatt says he has a timber lease, won in a card game in Custer City. Al takes a final swig and puts away his bottle. "Small chance that you want to explore options to working your lease," he says. "Anyone hires your gun, you report to me. I'll double what they're paying you." Wyatt nods as Al offers some parting advice: "But your story ought be true, you understand?" he says. "I'll test the sense of it, that knows more of this place and, I guess, every other than you do." Suggesting that he buy his timber supplies at Bullock & Star Hardware, Al sends Wyatt Earp on his way. He's barely out the door before Dan asks Al if he thinks Hearst will move in on the Earps.
The NG is returning to the livery with his Aunt Lou takeout order, grumbling about having to leave town, wishing he could have someone like Aunt Lou to stay with, and bitching about Steve, who he sees leaning against the livery wall, apparently taking it easy. "How the wicked live," the NG snarks. "Always at fuckin' ease..." Except, well, Steve is not exactly at ease. Seems Lamar had about enough of getting his shoes pried off and has kicked the damn idiot in the head and there he sits, cross-eyed and barely breathing. Has there ever been justice more poetic? I think not. Damn this damn show to hell -- why have they got to make me feel bad for Steve like that? The sight of him is pitiful and the NG looks scared.
Wyatt comes downstairs at the Gem to find his brother chatting with Jen, the girl Johnny was giving reading lessons to this morning. Morgan is attempting to convince her that he loaned her sister, Mary Bess -- who is a whore at the Yellow Bird in Gunnison -- eleven dollars. Morgan's a little pissant dickweed (which my spell check changed to "puissant duckweed"), and even Wyatt has no patience with him. Seeing Johnny starting a concerned stroll towards them, Wyatt clenches to Morgan that he and Jen can talk about the alleged loan later and pushes him out the door. Jen smiles at Johnny, her conquering hero, and exhales a long breath of cigarette smoke.
On the boardwalk, Wyatt pushes some money into Morgan's hands and commands him to go buy their timber supplies while he moves on to "the step in my fuckin' plan." Morgan is frustrated with his brother's lack of confidence in him. He asks what Al wanted upstairs. "You ain't got time for me to get into that," Wyatt says, and with that, he heads into the Bella Union.
Just now I am wondering what it was about this episode that made me rave about it so in the recaplet. Admittedly, I have the short-term memory of gnat, but I've yet to recall or come across whatever it was that I loved so much. I mean, that one Earp is pretty cute, but...wait. Was it Steve getting kicked in the head? Possibly.
Merrick is brushing down his press when he is rudely interrupted by Hearst, who charges in acting unnaturally friendly, making a pointed joke about The Pioneer's election countdown calendar. He asks if Merrick plans to keep that up. "As long as my presses stay intact," Merrick laughs, uncomfortable. "Thanks, too," Hearst says, "for publishing Sheriff Bullock's letter of condolence to the family of that murdered worker of mine. I suppose I should have written them myself." Merrick politely says that he'd not presumed to suppose in that regard, one way or another. "Was the Sheriff's making his letter part of the public record meant to embarrass or reproach me?" Hearst asks, revealing now how pissed he is about the letter. Merrick quietly says he'd not suppose in that connection either. "I'm to take you for majestically neutral?" Hearst snarks. Hey, now, Hearst, I hate you enough already without you strongarming Merrick, who is just a nice man trying to get by in this ridiculous place. "I'd make the less exalted claim," Merrick says, pulling himself up nobly, "as a journalist, of keeping my opinions to myself." "You are less majestically neutral, then, than cloaking your cowardice in principle," Hearst says, taking Merrick's breath away with his UTTER ASSHOLERY. Very quietly, and with much dignity, Merrick answers that he can only say that perhaps events have not yet disclosed to him all that he is. "Those kind of events could be in the weather, Merrick," Hearst says, waving the paper in his face. "You might have a second calendar for them." Poor Merrick. I hope when the great Day of Judgment comes, he is allowed to get in one good stab. Brilliant scene for McRaney, but Jeffrey Jones steals it.
Cy comes downstairs at the Bella Union to find Wyatt playing craps at Leon's table. Seeing an opportunity to schmooze with what he perceives to be potential new muscle that he can provide for Hearst, he oozes over to the table and lays it on thick. "Elrod Eulaham from Galena, Illinois," he says, faking a familiarity out so that he can learn the new guy's real identity. Dude -- Elrod Eulaham? Has there ever been a better name -- I mean, besides Engelbert Humperdinck? That is awesome. Wyatt is having a hard turn at the craps table, but Cy brushes it off, continuing his ploy to get in the good graces of the new guy. He makes a big show of thanking him for knocking out the road agents, but Wyatt demurs beneath his mustache, saying it wasn't anything special and going on to tell about the timber lease he's come to work with his brother. "...a timber lease," Cy chuckles. "I guess you're even more a hero, guns being out of your line." Wyatt must have forgotten the little talk he just had with Al. "I didn't call them a fully foreign subject, now," he says, smirking, and this is just what Cy wanted to hear. When he craps out and Leon goes to take his chips, Cy stops the dealer. "Pay the man, Leon," he says. Wyatt is confused. "But I didn't make my point," he says. Waggling his eyebrows, Cy says: "You did to me." Haaa! Are you kidding me? The writers of Deadwood are resorting to puns now? Wait -- did I fall asleep and wake up during a Gilmore Girls recap? That's happened before.
Langrishe is standing at the foot of Chesterton's bed, visibly pained by his friend's continued ill health. Perhaps knowing that his time is limited, Chesterton suggests that they attempt to cross the thoroughfare today so that he can see the new playhouse. Langrishe advises against it, but the old man wheezily insists. "You're the producer, Jack," he says. "You'll manage." With this, he goes into a serious hacking fit and Langrishe, after pausing to comfort him, goes quickly into the hall where he is confronted with Hearst, who is moaning in back pain. Langrishe pauses. "Forgive my presumption, sir," he says, officiously, waving his hand around his own back. "Have you lanceolate pains hereabouts?" Hearst looks slightly concerned that this colorful little man is speaking to him, but he cannot lie. "Yes," he says. "Intermittent, but sudden, sharp in the onset, occasioned by a tilt of a shoulder, a shift of weight?" Langrishe asks. Hearst is apparently not impressed with his diagnosis, and moves to unlock his door. "I may try ice-water dousing," he says, hoping to get away, but Langrishe won't have it. "Oooohhh," he groans, as if "ice water dousing" was tantamount to using leeches. "A German Doctor in Virginia City urged me to it," Hearst explains. "A vogue, if you would permit me to say, now quite exploded, even recognized as possibly harmful," Langrishe says, all dramatic. "The cold causing too rapid and painful a contraction of muscles already knotted in spasm." Hearst is intrigued by Langrishe's apparent knowledge of old-timey chiropractic medicine, especially when he says he is aware of a technique -- " taught me by a former Odabashi of the Turkish artillery, come himself to be afflicted through chronic lifting of cast-iron cannonballs" -- that can relieve his pain. Cannonballs! The big man is going for this in a big way. He asks Langrishe if he will treat him, and they decide to start later that day.
Downstairs, Langrishe tells the other members of the troupe to make arrangements for Chesterton's transport to the theater. Today's the day. "Will you help me?" the fruity Bellegard asks, and Langrishe gruffs him off with an Al-like response. "I've other fucking business," he says, and strides from the hotel.
Morgan is back at the Gem, chatting up a different whore when Johnny rolls up on him, holding a big gun. "I didn't order any shotgun," Morgan smirks, but Johnny's in no mood to joke. He is, however, in the mood to stretch the limits of the English language with this sentence: "I'm doing you the courtesy of allowing you not to think I'm as stupid as evidently you believe that girl off who you tore that piece of pussy off of is." That doesn't even make country sense, y'all. And I can translate that stuff, no problem, because I am like, trilingual in all redneck dialects. For example, when I asked my brother recently if I should move my tomato plants to a different part of the garden, he responded: "Now, Al. I don't know if you ought not do that." Which means: "I don't reckon you should." Which means: "Don't do it." But what Johnny said up there? That's some shit that even in darkest Alabama would get a laugh, because there are some extra words in there, added for toughness, that even the NASCARiest individual would throw out. "The girl's sister owed me money," Morgan tries to insist. "From the Yellow Bird in Gunnison." Johnny puffs out his chest and sets the shotgun on the bar in front of Dan. "Well, Jen claims you worked that information from her," he says. "Well, did she tell you how I did it?" Morgan snarks. "'Cause I'd sure like to remember for the time I'm short." Again, Morg, Johnny is in no joking mood about his favorite whore. "Worked it from her at this very bar in idle chatter," Johnny says, like Perry Mason on a cross examine, "having a sister who whored at the Yellow Bird in Gunnison, and only then alleged the supposed owed eleven dollars. Morgan whistles. "How long you been wearing shoes, counselor?" he laughs. For everyone's good, Wyatt arrives, already annoyed with Morgan. "Did you fuck off the full eleven?" he asks, all pissy. Johnny, though he is shorter and weaker than every man in the room, stays strong. "She claims five dollars was owed," he says, "but my inkling is the right total is seven." Wyatt shoots a look over at Dan who is backing his man all the way. Frustrated, he counts out seven dollars, and puts it on the table. Johnny thanks him and walks back to the bar. "Where are the tools, Morgan?" Wyatt asks his dumbass brother. "That," Morgan answers jauntily, "is a story in itself." Dan watches them go as Johnny returns to Jen. He hands over the balance of the money from Morgan. "You say it weren't an ass fuck," he whispers. "I believe you." Now, only Johnny could make me kind of misty-eyed over something about ass fucking. He turns around in time to catch the shotgun tossed back to him by Dan, a clear sign of confidence.
Outside, Bullock comes clenching up to the Earps. "You buying those goddamned tools, or not?" he angrily asks Morgan who is still holding a cigar and behaving like a tough guy. "I wouldn't have chose them not meaning to buy," he says, ticking off the sheriff who probably doesn't have time to stride around the thoroughfare all day looking after his hardware interests. He gets pissy. "As opposed to leaving chosen goods piled in the middle of the fucking store for every other piece of business to be conducted over and around," he snarks. "It's customary to stand by till the transaction's finished." I feel you, Bullock. I myself have worked a thankless retail job, and the lady who says she just wants to set something down on the counter while she "finishes up" her shopping is my mortal enemy unto death. Morgan says he was called elsewhere. "Elsewhere," Bullock snaps, "meaning the Gem." Wyatt doesn't like his tone. "You wouldn't be doubting my brother's word?" he asks, all steely. He and Bullock exchange VERY HOT CLENCHES, I must say, and you know Bullock considers kicking ass, but instead decides to control himself this time. "Pay for the tools and remove them, and I'll cease to doubt your ability to do so," he says, and turns to Wyatt. "How's that?"
Cy has taken his ass-kissing show on the road and is now over at Hearst's rooms, telling him all about the cute new maybe-gunslinger in town and how, perhaps, it would be a great idea to get this guy in a gunfight with Bullock in which they both die. I often pray that same prayer when Tennessee plays Auburn, two teams I hate so much I can't decide which I hate more. "If only, Lord, they could play each other and somehow both lose..." Cy suggests to "let the matter be joined aright, whether Bullock or this gunsel stood at the finish." That way, he says "there's no losing in it." Hearst is bored and annoyed. "What does "joined aright" mean?" he asks, pulling an awesome sour face like he just wishes Cy would evaporate. "Say Bullock was first provoked out the public eye, so his throwing down in public seemed...overquick," Cy explains. "There's all kinds of implications to that. Legal and political, too." Hearst sighs. "Have you taken steps to join this matter aright?" he asks. Cy says the only step he's taken so far was to come tell Hearst all about his big idea. "As to what steps will be required if you give the go-ahead, easy as the Sheriff sparks, and cocky look as this kid wears," he says, "the number should be few." As distasteful as Hearst finds Cy, he sees the logic, especially when Cy suggests "to keep you fucking protected, that the kid should think I'm at the helm."
"Very circumspect," Hearst says, sighing. "Very considerate." The brilliant Powers Boothe shrugs a little and smiles, as if to say "that's just the kind of guy I am."Bellegarde is performing what has to be one of the more difficult scenes of his life as he prepares the wretchedly ill, but sweet, Chesterton for transport. He cringes throughout each of Chesterton's coughing spasms, hating every moment of it. He has the stroke of genius to wrap Chesterton up tight to make carrying him easier. We shall swaddle you," he says, "like the baby Jesus. Making the most simple and economical of transactions to transfer to you the Countess and Claudia's chair once they arrive."
Speaking of dying people, Doc is over at the livery checking out Steve while the NG looks on, agitated and ready to leave. Doc says that Steve isn't dead yet, but he's in a really bad way. The NG whips out some money, hands it to the Doc saying it's for Steve's care and burial, and says he's leaving. "And let the bank know," he adds. "Someone don't take over this place, that loan they made Steve is going bad." Doc asks why he doesn't tell the bank, himself. "'Cause I'm a n*gger, Doc, that don't care what stands or falls." Doc: "Hostetler was, too." The NG doesn't miss a beat. "Hostetler," he says, "was taller than me." He steps in leans over the befuddled Steve. "Fuck you, Steve!" he yells. He looks up to the sky and adds more quietly: "Fuck you, Hostetler," before turning to his horse. "And fuck you too!" Doc stands amazed but says he'll get Jane to come by and do some nursing on Steve. The NG, much too noble for his own good, sighs. "See to her bringing back a bottle while you're at it," he says. "I'll linger, look to these animals till the bank sends someone over."
Bullock is in Al's office, complaining about the Earps. "Are those assholes working for you?" he asks. "Those heroes that saved the stage?" Al drones. He tells Bullock that once Wyatt confessed to the fabrication of the story, he got him on the hook. "Two hundred dollars in merchandise in the middle of our store like an interrupted shit!" Bullock complains. Al gives him his own version of the old adage about the customer always being right. "Commerce," he says. "Every hump above ground's your master." Bullock changes the subject. He's worried that the letter Merrick published was a wrong move. "No," Al tells him, simply, but Bullock rages on. "I'm not waiting on Hearst, I'll tell you that right now," I am not on his fucking timetable, or at his fucking beck and call." Al shakes his head at the resurgence of Bullock's crazy temper. They are interrupted by the arrival of Merrick and Blazanov outside the office door. "Is the sheriff inside?" Blazy asks. "Only briefly," Al jokes. "He's out of sorts and going downstairs for a blowjob." Heee! Good one, Al. Even Bullock kind of smiles. They come in and Blazanov delivers a telegram to sheriff. "What reaction to your publication of Bullock's letter?" Al asks Merrick. Merrick looks a little shy to tell the tale. "The great man himself took, um, umbrage," he says. Al swiftly turns to Bullock before he can say anything. "It was not a mistake, and we are waiting on Hearst," he says. "Unless you think those two assholes are his response." Bullock holds up the telegram as he heads out the door. "Not likely," he says, indicating that the message has proved otherwise. Merrick and Blazanov stand meekly in the silence. "Uh," Blazanov mumbles, "the sheriff is going for blowjob...?"
Wyatt has finished the bidness at the hardware store when Bullock arrives back there. "I've had a wire says your statement is true, far as having worked as a lawman," Bullock says. "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." Eeeeverybody clenches. "Some do that," Bullock emphasizes, all I'm not talking about you guys! It takes a second, but everybody relaxes and the Earps step past him to leave. "I took the badge off myself once," Bullock says as Wyatt passes, "without losing my impulse to beat on certain types." Wyatt gets it. "No," he says, kind of sad, "'that seems never to go." Aw. One law man to another. I smell love in the air.
Hearst is pacing in his room when Aunt Lou comes in with the brooch she wanted Odell to take with him on his trip. "I'd pay a man three weeks of my wages, Mr. Hearst, [who] rode quick to catch my son and give him this from his mama," she says, desperately. "Would you send somebody, sir?" Hearst looks at her for a long beat. "My imagination resists the approach, in that however quickly he might catch Odell, until he did, the man would know he rode in the service of a colored person," he says. This causes me to renew my hatred of him by about a zillion percent. He suggests they pack it and ship it to New York, instead. Dude. Do you even understand what a crap shoot it is to ship something in 2006? You think United Pony Services are gonna get that brooch to New York? Lou doesn't look thrilled about it, either." Are you afraid that by his not receiving today the token of your love, something untoward might befall Odell?" he asks, full of portent. "Are you superstitious that way, Aunt Lou?" She doesn't answer, and I hope in the silence that she is cursing him with eternal back pain and neverending gout, because that's certainly what I'm doing. She simply picks up his boots to be cleaned. "Thanks for seeing to those," he says, thinking he's put her in her place. "It's the reason I thought you'd knocked."
Back at the Bella Union, the Earps are taking in the scene. Wyatt looks kind of nervous and suggests that maybe they ought to head on out to the timber lease tonight. Morgan reminds him he doesn't know where it is. "Second look, he don't seem such a bad sort, that fucking sheriff," he adds. "Maybe we ought to be fucking deputies, work our lease on the fucking side." Wyatt points out that Bullock didn't exactly offer them jobs. "Well, then let's kill him and take his job," Morgan half-jokes, and Wyatt can't help but smile. Cy, who Wyatt whispers might actually have some work for them, comes down to chat. There is some allusion made to Cy's potential job offer factoring into some plan Wyatt has, but it is not explained. Wyatt makes introductions. "What a beautiful fucking joint," Morgan exclaims. Cy: "Well, we like to think so."
It's dinner time at the livery! Ew. Except in this case, Jane is struggling to feed the unresponsive Steve, who continues to stare blankly ahead. "Come on, you fucknut," she says, trying to push some porridge in his mouth. "Without a day's education, medical or otherwise, I vouchsafe this fucking truth: Those as don't eat, without exception, fail to survive." Steve remains vegetative. Jane finally has to give up. "Fuck it," she says, slopping the pan back down. "He's all yours," she says, defeated, to the boozing NG. He thanks her for her help and is left alone with his fallen nemesis.
All this bullshit has finally gotten to the NG. He gives Steve a sly, sideways glance. "You heard her, Steve," he says, smiling. "Them that goes on have got to fucking eat!" With that, he slings spoon after spoon of mush into Steve's face. "Cocksucker," he laughs. "Cocksucker!"
HEARST'S NAKED ASS! Uh, hello. Yes, Hearst is lying on his stomach on a table in his room, BUCK WILD, preparing to be worked on by Langrishe's special brand of back magic. The Countess, who I assume Jack has brought along as a witness, looks austerely on as Jack goes dramatically about his preparations. "Do for me, Mr. Hearst, and much more for yourself, this one important thing: breeeeeeeeeeathe, sir," he says, waving his hands above Hearst's back all new agey. "Breathe deeply, hungrily, as if your life depended on it!" Hearst inhales rapidly. "And yet slowly!" Langrishe cries. "As with the rhythm of the waves of the sea, the while, Mr. Hearst, allowing influx of my motion's heat." He waves his hands more strenuously back and forth above Hearst's body. The Countess nods her approval of this performance. "Do you begin to feel it, man?" Langrishe asks significantly. Hearst, overwhelmed by all this, says he thinks so. "Then too," Jack says, intensifying the energy-moving motions he's using, "begin to feel this: One towards the neck and one towards the coccyx." He pauses above those areas with his palms and cries out suddenly, as if he has transferred Hearst's pain to himself. "Some release in tension?" he asks, strained. "Yes," Hearst laughs, amazed. "Yes, by God!" Langrishe groans and collapses, stepping back to take the Countess' hand. Hearst begins to get up, but Jack insists otherwise. "Now, lie still, sir," he says, "as your nodals settle to the adjustment. Try to sleep." Hearst mumbles that he doesn't want to sleep. "I'm waiting for something," he says. Jack and The Countess are making a swift exit as Jack calls back over his shoulder, "Very well, please yourself."
At the livery, the NG is feeling drunk and miserable about the depths to which he's sunk. He stares at Steve, whose face is so deservedly covered in porridge, and shakes his head. With great sadness, he picks up a rag and goes to clean up the bastard. "One sorry-ass, shit eating cocksucker," he sighs, and may Franklin Ajaye, who so very sweetly plays the NG, live long and prosper.
And now, after many death scenes watched in three seasons, and after I thought they could never top the Rev's exit, this damn show goes and knocks another one right out of the park. Chesterton, swaddled and sitting in his chair, sits in the dark theater, holding Jack's hand. Langrishe describes the fabrics that will be hung in the space and how Claudia and the Countess have incorporated the symbols for comedy and tragedy into the designs." Big lie, the masks" Chesterton wheezes. "Same damn thing, Jack -- comedy and tragedy." (In that case, is this the funniest show on TV, or what?") Jack pauses and paints a picture with words for his friend. "The curtain rises. The stage is set before us," he says. "What's the rake?" the dying Chesterton asks. "Eighteen to one, old trouper," Langrishe answers. Chesterton begins to nod off. "Dost thou know Dover? There is a cliff whose high unbending head looks fearfully on the confined deep. Bring me back to the brim of it, and from that place...I shall no leading need." Could be so cheesy, but y'all, it is devastatingly moving. Brian Cox and Aubrey Morris, you old devils. "Here's the fly tower," he continues, giving a little stage direction for this, Chesterton's final act. "If you mount up, take firm a rail in each hand..." he looks sweetly at his friend, "I'll boost your bum, darling." Chesterton smiles a little, eyes still closed. "Here's the place," he mumbles, holding Jack's hand and back to the Lear. "How fearful and dizzy it is to cast one's eyes so low," he says. "Set me where you stand," Chesterton tells him, smiling. "Let go my hand." Jack slips his hand out from the man's grasp and tells him "you're now within a foot." And he is. Fading, calling out for one last line, Chesterton dies. Jack heaves a heavy sigh and, as the rest of the troupe emerges from the shadows where they have been watching this final performance, he crosses himself and says the Lord's prayer.
Wyatt and Morgan are still at the Bella Union, living it up gambling and pinching the whores' asses. "That is my big brother, who I'm going to be assisting on some very important business for the man you work for," Morgan tells the girls, "and for whom I may put in a good word for you depending on how good you are to me." Shut up, ugly one.
Brian Cox must have been freaking exhausted after this episode, for now he is back in Al's office, killing me softly once again in conjunction with a sympathetic Ian McShane. "You seem blue, Jack," Al tells him. "That old actor I spoke of...passed," Langrishe explains. Al gives him about as heartfelt a "sorry" as he could ever give anyone, and takes a swig of whiskey. Langrishe moves on from this sad topic. "Perhaps, Al, given the sleigh ride which ensues," he says, "the best connection to leviathan may not be by harpoon." Al squints. "Explain yourself," he says. So Jack does explain, telling him all about his back adjustment flim flam of earlier in the day, and how this may be of use in the future to occupy Hearst. Al asks how. "Campaign towards relief protracted, punctuated by Pentecostal whoops and manual pushes and prods while invoking arcane authorities," Langrishe explains, "the host's unhealthy soul reliable to sustain his symptoms."
They step out on the balcony where they see Hearst, the bastard, himself wandering up and down his roof. "You were good to try a net on that cocksucker, Jack," Al thanks his friend, "on such a sorry day." Jack swigs and calls to Hearst across the way, drunkenly asking if his back is still feeling better. Hearst says that overall it is much improved. "A winning skirmish in a long campaign!" Jack boozes. Hearst nods and greets Al. "Old friends!" Jack yells, pointing back and forth between himself and Al, though why on Earth he'd want to reveal it, I have no idea. He adds that Hearst shouldn't stay out to long in the cold night. "Waiting for something," Hearst says, and neither Al nor I like the sound of it at all.
At the Bullock's, Martha tells Seth about the theater people moving into the Chez Amie, thus closing the loop on that transaction. "Thank you for telling me," Bullock sighs, still probably feeling bad about that morning, "without quarrel." She walks over to him, taking his hand. "And you acknowledge your lack of sweetness on retiring last evening?" she says, kind of flirtatiously. "I do," Bullock admits, "being uneasy about my letter's publication." He smiles a little, though he tries not to show it, and lowers his head. "Perhaps tonight," he says, shy, "will be twice as sweet." Hot! Married! Action! I love it.
But no. It's ruined, as everything else probably will be, when they see a posse of men ride in carrying torches. Everybody sees it. "Sweet mother of Jesus," Cy says from his own balcony, as the gang stops in front of the hotel to acknowledge Hearst, who smiles and nods them down the street. "Take them amateurs off the fucking sugar tit," Cy tells Con of the Earp brothers. "Mr. Hearst brought the pros to town." Al watches them ride by with a stern look. "Leviathan," he says to Jack, "fucking smiles."