Tell Him Something Pretty

S03E12

What a long, filthy trip it's been. The cocksuckers end the series not with a bang, but with a fizzle when Alma finally, against every fiber in her being, sells out to Hearst.

It's like Christmas for the asshole -- he also demands the death of the whore that shot him. Al, though, can't let that happen to Trixie, and uses poor Jen in her stead, despite the pain this brings to Johnny. Much to the buttface's added delight, early returns indicate that Bullock has lost the sheriff election.

Hawkeye arrives in town with the hired muscle, and Wu's Chinese mercenaries show up, but it looks like they won't be needed after all. Hearst, having gotten what he wants, leaves Deadwood without the threatened bloodbath. Good riddance to him, but not to this brilliant series and these wonderful characters that will be so sorely missed.

Well, it's come to this. Let's just get it out of the way: I'm depressed. I've put off starting this recap until the last minute, just because I don't want this to be the end -- and, I'll be so very honest with you, recapping this show is not easy. At all. It's like three days from Butte in a stagecoach with a farting soap salesman sometimes. I don't want to kick y'all when you're down, or anything, but cast your mind back to all that Yankton mess and consider my resulting bruised frontal lobe and carpal tunnel syndrome. Remember when we thought Al's attempted buyout of Brom Garret's gold claim was complicated? Right? Those were the salad days, weren't they? Despite the brain sprain, despite the long hours and reference checking and cringing at swear words heretofore unknown to my pristine ears, I have enjoyed the fuck out of this cocksucking assignment, and feel that so deeply examining these characters was a job for which I was perfectly suited at this time in my life. When I started, I was just about as mad and as mean as Al Swearengen. Like him, I had my reasons. Well, I've mellowed with Al. Not to say, as he might agree, I don't occasionally feel the need to stab someone, still, but I feel like I've taken a few from the world, given a few back, and now can stoically regard whatever else comes as inevitable, but not insurmountable. Al, the ultimate anti-hero, was heroic to me. So. What I'm saying is, you're welcome, and thank you. I've enjoyed it, and I hope they give us a shot at the alleged two follow-up films. Let's get to the finale (sob).

It's the middle of the night in Deadwood, and Hearst is laid out on the floor of his room. We gasp, hoping against hope that this means the writers have laughed in the face of history and given us the death scene for which we have all been secretly yearning. But no. He just slept on the floor and is now being awakened by a considerably stern knock. He looks furious that someone would dare make such a noise and opens to find Charlie Utter. "A casket's come with your name on it," Charlie says, matter-of-fact. Hearst is put out -- I am assuming it's Odell's body inside -- and bitches that Charlie will find out in the morning what he wants done with it. He tries to slam the door in Charlie's face, but, you know something? Charlie's not having it. This town is OVER George Hearst. Charlie tells Mr. Big he doesn't appreciate his tone. Hearst gets even more uppity. "Who are you, Mr. Utter," he asks, "for me to care what you like or don't?" Charlie, not even slightly intimidated, gives him the answer: "I'm the guy that the time you see me, you'd better take a different fuckin' tone with." Hearst has the balls to scoff. "Given whatâs in store," he smarts off, "I'm not sure I'll ever learn what price I'd have paid for not complyin'." Charlie shoots it right back, playground style: "Oooh, I guess someone lookin' hard might could find you in there somewheres, peekin' from under the covers to make a fuckin' threat." Good one, Charlie. (MAN, I'll miss Charlie.) Hearst, full of hate, slams the door and Charlie walks out the front door of the hotel, pausing for a moment to tip his hat to Aunt Lou.

At the theater, Langrishe is worrying about the troupe's opening with Claudia. No matter how good their productions are, he says, it will make no difference if no one comes to see them. In extreme frustration, he provides us a brilliant recap of the season: "The man Hearst is a murderous engine; my friend Swearengen, aware their combat is unequal, feels the appeal of the gory finish; others I've just come to know stand candidates in the elections, whose results they know may be moot," he lists. "What, one is disposed to ask, in fuck ought a theater man to do?" He says that there's no question they must at least delay their opening, but that he can't stand the thought of canceling outright. "To prevent that, if need be," he declares, even off the boards, one would take steps of one's fuckin' own!" Claudia watches as he paces the stage. "Why did you bring me here?" she asks, quietly. He sighs. "I don't know, child," he says. Well, we don't know, either, and if they don't make those damn films, I guess we never will. Hate you so much, HBO.

In the morning, Adams and Johnny emerge from Wu's meat locker with a rack of meat each over their shoulders. Johnny wonders why they've bothered leaving Al's I.O.U.s for Wu, when he can't even read English. "Wu gets back," Adams (hotly) explains, "he'll take Al the I.O.U.s for interpretin', find out Al did the rightful thing while he was gone." Johnny thinks on this. "That's big point with Al, ain't it?" he asks. Adams nods. "When he ain't lyin'," he says, "Al's the most honorable man you'll ever meet." Beautiful.

Not so beautiful, what Adams sees : Hawkeye, staggered up against the side of a building, trying to stay upright having clearly drunk his weight in booze. Adams goes white. He shoves his rack off on Johnny and tells him to go inside. "What are you gon' do?" Johnny asks, confused. Adams, never taking his eyes of his leprechaun friend, merely mutters under his breath: "murder." I kind of wish he would, too. I know he's Adams's buddy and all, but damn, I'm beginning to think Al was right about this little dude. Hawkeye blurbs out that he and his men have been camped up at the Spearfish Meadows, so as not to tip Hearst off until Al can deploy them. "I mean, I rode into town to tell you," he boozily adds, "but I fell one saloon short." Adams grabs him and heads down the thoroughfare. "Lots of chinks in that meadows up there," Hawkeye continues drunkenly. "Is the railroad comin' to camp?"

Alma, once again in her widow's weeds (and let's face it, she looks great in black), is brushing out Sophia's hair, explaining, through frustrated tears, the current state of affairs. She's selling the claim to Hearst. To have kept it they'd have had to both leave Deadwood and hire goons to out-goon Hearst's expert goons. She's sick about it. Yes, Hearst will be paying her a ridiculous amount of money, she says, but "how I hate to give that man what he wants." She sighs and stops her vigorous brushing. "Your hair has survived my diatribe," she tells Sophia, who has remained single-minded through it all. "If we left, we wouldn't be able to see Mr. Ellsworth," the little girl says. Alma takes a ragged breath and turns Sophia to face her: "And we are not leaving." Downstairs, Jane is there to babysit Sophia while Bullock and Star accompany the widow to the Hearst meeting.

By Al Lowe

Over at the bathhouse, Hawkeye is washing the stink off while Adams brushes down his jacket. Poor Adams and his clothes-horsiness in this damn camp. How many of his off hours must he have spent laundering and lint rolling? Even Wu probably couldn't get out every stain, you know, ancient Chinese secret or not. He is no doubt thinking along these lines as he snarks to his friend. "Your fuckin' throat's gonna be at risk, Hawkeye, in case you don't fuckin' realize," he says, "which wouldn't bother me except mine's gonna be too."

A nauseating business is taking place in Hearst's rooms and this time I don't refer to his cobbler gobbling. Alma, looking austere and superior in her black hat and dress takes great pains to rise above Hearst's insufferable yammering as the claim is signed over and the deal is done. When Bullock says that they'll accept his payment at the bank where it can be put into the safe, Hearst has the unbelievable brass to be offended and, even more unbelievably, looks to Alma to defend him, saying that taking such a precaution is juvenile on Bullock's part. "I do not find the precaution juvenile," she says quietly, but with a voice full of razors, "so many having been murdered with whom you've had dealings in this camp." Aw, snap. Here's Hearst's chance to get over himself for the five seconds it would take for Alma to walk out the door, but he just can't do it. He has to smart back that at least she acknowledges the whole bank/safe precaution was an insult. Alma, righteous, has had her limit of his bullshit. "I acknowledge the pretense to civility, in a man so brutally vicious, as vapid and grotesque," she says and, in a great shot, they both stand swiftly putting them practically nose to nose. Alma gives him dead eyes, as Hearst goes on a stupid rant to his goon about taking the gold over to the bank and letting Alma assay it -- he manages to make a Jews/greed insult and then goes on a side rant to the nervous Sol about the election. Bullock can't take another second of Hearst's bloviating. "Can't shut up!" he sneers. "Every bully I ever met can't shut his fuckin' mouth...except when he's afraid." Sweet one, Bullock. May you clench for all eternity! Hearst tries to come back with kind of an I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I, but to my mind, it fails miserably. "You mistake for fear, Mr. Bullock, what is in fact preoccupation," he says. "I'm having a conversation you cannot hear." Oh, fuck off. Wait -- can you hear me now? Fuck OFF. Alma, severely framed in the doorway during this exchange, leaves with a roll of her eyes.

By Al Lowe

At the Ellsworth house, Sophia is playing Slap the Drunk. Hee! No, no. She and Jane are playing that slap-hands game that I am sure has a name but I don't know it and this time Wikipedia probably won't help me. ["I got you, Al. One for the road." -- Joe R] A knock at the door reveals Joanie, who just came by in her latest stunning ensemble and signature grey hat to say hello to Jane and Sophia and ask if they need anything. Jane jokes to Sophia that Joanie could read her mind that she needed unguent to deal with the violent slaps the girl was administering. "That's my purpose [going to] the center [of town]," Joanie plays along. "Stopped to ask if you needed aught else." Jane is being downright flirtatious and says if she did need something, she believes Joanie would already know about it -- wink, wink. Hey, hey, now. None of that in front of the kid. Joanie nods a little and looks at Sophia. "Hit her a good one for me," she tells the girl, and Sophia says she will. She will, too -- the child slaps harder than Naomi Campbell in an airplane full of maids.

Hearst is back on the floor when he is disturbed again by E.B. at his door. E.B. is a mess, y'all. I mean, more than usual. He squeaks that he's looking for Mr. Hearst. "Well," Hearst rudely calls out from the floor, "who do you think you're talkin' to?" E.B. admits that "of late, I'm at pains to be certain which voices are within me and which without." Hearst doesn't have time for this nonsense and tells him to come in. Rest assured, however, that E.B.'s nonsense has only just begun. "I've sensed for some while we owed each other a talk," he tells Hearst. "Let the outcome be grim or worse, I'll at least be relieved that it's past." Saying nothing, Hearst holds up a letter. E.B. squints and creeps close, shielding his face from any spitbomb sneak attacks Hearst may be planning. "May I look at the addressee?" he asks, playing the sycophant like only he can play it and enraging Hearst in the process. "How will you know to whom it is to be delivered if you do not?" the butthole asks and, seeing the letter's intended recipient, E.B. goes pale beneath the grease on his face and goes on his way.

Finally, we are in Al's office where E.B. has come to deliver the letter from Hearst. It was for Al, of course. I can't believe that, in what may be the last episode ever, they didn't show us Al until minute nineteen. That ain't right. It should have been Al from start to finish just walking around kicking people in the nuts. Even in the face of what could be a big disaster, Al finds time to rib E.B. "You don't expect me to believe," he jokes, "you didn't steam this open and reseal it for me to open again." E.B. sullenly says he didn't want to know what was in the letter. Al holds the magnifying glass up to read the thing before slamming it all down on the table and emphatically cursing Hearst: "This motherfucker!" Oh, it's Al at his most pure. Y'all, seriously, Al has had it with Hearst. He has HAD IT. Has he not endured enough at the hands of this blustering bastard? What with the finger-chopping and the Dan-fighting and the election-fixing and the Ellsworth-killing? I mean, come ON. Not surprisingly, though, E.B. thinks it's all about him. "For my complicity in his shooting," he says, thinking he's divined the note's contents, "he orders my death." Al delightfully sticks it to him again: "You did read it!" he says, smiling. E.B. practically swoons into a chair and, exposing his neck, asks that Al finish him off, quickly. "Your complicity's mostly in your noggin', E.B.," Al regrettably informs him. "It's the whore he wants dead." E.B. fans himself, both relieved and disgusted. "By what vile method then?" he asks, shaking his fists at the ceiling. "Is Trixie to be drawn and quartered and set aflame?"

Al dryly tells him to tell Hearst he'll have his answer in an hour, but E.B. is not done falling apart. "I can't, Al," he begs. "I can't engage him in further conversation. When I hear his voice, I see the inside of his skull! Phantoms grin out at me, oozing gruesome goo." During this panic attack, Al whips out a piece of paper and pencil, and writes a message for Hearst. "Slide this under his door then," he says to the histrionic E.B. who, seeing that Al has given him the easier option, decides to gird up his loins and take the hard road of delivering it in person. "Fear," he says, walking tall as he makes his exit, "is every man's portion." Ain't it the damn truth?

For whatever reason, Joanie has gone to the Bella Union to visit Cy. I hate to brush this off, I really do, because I love Joanie and honestly, I love Cy, as well. I feel like the whole Bella Union staff got the shaft this season (insert joke here re: Con's shaft ["And insert 'insert Con's shaft' joke right after that. And then throw up." -- Joe R]) and this scene does little to redeem the damage already done. The gist is, Joanie has come to, in spite of everything, thank Cy for keeping her alive all those years, not letting her kill herself, and trying to make her happy. She's found some happiness now, she says, and she wants to make peace with him. He's all drunk and ugly and when she tries to engage him in conversation about all the Hearst bidness, he makes a snide remark about her relationship with Jane. It's pitiful, really, how he's fallen to this state of self-loathing, and she sees it and leaves him to wallow, walking out with her head held high.

Back in Al's office, a much more upsetting employee/manager conversation is going on. Al has called Johnny into his office and is pouring him a man-to-man shot. Like a dad telling his kid that they're having to put down the family dog, Al breaks it to Johnny that his favorite Gem girl, Jen, will have to die in Trixie's place. God, it is awful. "Hearst won't stand for an empty coffin," Al says, as Johnny's lower lip begins to quiver. "Likely, he paid most attention to Trixie's tits and snatch, so Jen'll adequately pass." They both throw back a painful shot, each. Johnny falls into a chair: "Jesus Christ." Al is genuinely sympathetic. "I know," he says. "You like her." Johnny nods. "She's a nice girl," he says as Al pours another shot. "She's learning to read..." My heart breaks yet again when Al tells him to go and spend some time with Jen and then let him know when he's done. This is too much for Johnny and his face goes through every stage of grief as he tells Al that Jen will be scared of him. Al doesn't get mad. "I've done it once or twice, Johnny," he assures his crying henchman. "She won't know that's what I'm there for." Johnny is a mess. "She won't need to," he says, breaking down. "You scare her no matter what." He tears up again, slams his fist on the table and tells Al to just give him the fucking knife. Stomping out the door, he turns back in anger. "Fucking Trixie!" he complains and, again, Al is all understanding: "Don't get me started."

Speaking of Trixie, damn her bad shot, she's over at Sol's lacing up her boots. He asks her where she's going. "Going for a stroll to the polls," she tells him. "One vote for Star buys a hand job, repeaters get a suck." It's 2004 in Florida all over again! Sol doesn't want her leaving, fearing Hearst's retribution, but she's stir-crazy and determined. "I'm through staying inside," she says. "If something's to happen, let it happen to me." Well, that tears it. Sol has had it with everybody else getting to act like pre-menstrual teenagers and always having to be Mr. Nice Guy. He calls her a selfish c*nt, which hello, is a bit extreme, and she snaps right back at him. "No one asked you to put me up," she points out and he says that's right, it was his choice and he's not afraid of anything that may happen to him as a result of harboring her. She's says she's not afraid, either, and he modifies it that she's clearly not afraid of dying. See, the thing is, Trixie has about enough people telling her what to do and calling her names, Sol. "Well, ain't you clever?" she spits. "Ain't you fucking clever, you deep thinkin' fuckin' Jew!" Both of them are at their very edges and this sends Sol right over. "Why bother with your boots then, Trixie," he screams as he grabs her by the shoulders and shoves her toward the door, "if you're going to be on your knees?" She tries to hit him, and yells for him to let her walk out by herself, but he's too far gone. "The fuck if I will!" he rages. "At least I can say I threw you out if you'd rather die than live with me!" With that, he opens the door, slings her outside and slams it. Immediately, he regrets the whole thing and falls into a chair, burying his face in his hands. Trixie is sorry, too. A quiet knock on the door reveals her outside, and when he lets her back in, she falls into his arms and sobs with him.

By Al Lowe

Jen the Damned is back at the Gem, coaching one of the other girls on how to treat what I assume to be a yeast infection. There is a crude bottle/tube instrument to be employed, and... well, let's say no more about it. Johnny comes in as the other whore is leaving and says he wants to talk to Jen. Well, she's been around long enough to know what that means, I guess, and hikes up her skirt before starting to bend over a piece of furniture. "No, I mean it, Jen," Johnny says, hurriedly. "I wanna talk." Surreptitiously, he takes the knife from his belt and hides it behind his back. "Pure conversation," he says, putting his arm around her shoulder and turning her to face the wall with him. "Nothing for you to be alarmed about." They stare at the wall together for a moment before Johnny asks her what it is. "A wall?" she answers, as if it's a trick question. Johnny takes a big breath and tries his best to instill a deeper meaning. I wish this keyboard had about fifty extra keys on it that would make it possible for me to phonetically describe what he says and how he says it. He tells her that yes, on the surface, it's a wall. "But inside, many creatures go about their lives, such as ants," he adds. Jen stares in confusion as the lesson continues. "They got a whole operation going," Johnny says of the ants, gripping the knife behind his back, trying to steel himself for what's to come. "They got soldier ants and worker ants and whore ants to fuck the soldiers and the workers, right inside that wall, baby ants. Everyone's got a task to hew to, Jen. You understand me?" When she nods, he realizes he just can't do it. Poor, poor Johnny. "Jesus Christ's fucking sake," he says, nearly breaking down again. "We'll talk about this later." With that, he steps out into the hall where Al is waiting, and emotionally reports that he's not up to the task. Al is not surprised and tells Johnny to give him the knife, then. Johnny's clearly taken leave of his senses, and says no. "Give me," Al growls, his patience at an end, "the fucking knife." Johnny again says no -- "She ain't stole or been quarrelsome or set the bedding afire." All good points, Johnny, but Al's not having it and demands that he get out of the fucking way. "It ain't fair to fuckin' kill her," Johnny pleads and Al looks him dead in the eye. "Since when," he asks, "did that begin entering in?" Johnny understands, finally, that he's not to be reasoned with. Summoning all the courage in his tiny brain, he stands firm. "I won't let you pass, boss," he says, and I nearly burst into tears, because for a split second, Al looks proud. "You're willing to die in her stead?" he asks, incredulous, and Johnny sighs that he will, if he has to, preferring of course that Al handle things differently. Yeah, no kidding. Al, though frustrated, is moved. He strides to Dan and under his breath tells him to make sure that Jen doesn't leave, and to "let Johnny cool down, then knock him the fuck out." Dan asks what's going to happen. "What's gonna happen is," Al sighs, "I'm gonna go look and see if, perchance, I mightn't be the owner of another fucking knife." I pause the Tivo to give Sean Bridgers the slow clap because, if this is indeed the last time we're ever to see these characters, it's heartening to me that Johnny, Deadwood's most realistic Everyman is going out on a strong note. He may not get his way, but for once he's standing on principle.

Joanie has been watching all of this from the sidelines and Charlie now apologizes for all the commotion. She smiles and says that's all right. "I got something at the jail for you and the other one," he says, talking about Jane, "'cept right now I'm pretty agitated." She smiles again. "Well, I got time," she says. "Maybe you'll calm down as we walk." They go off together. I very much wish Joanie had ended up with Charlie. As much as I love the ladies who love the ladies, and though I regard Jane as noble in spite of her flaws, she ain't no prize as a long-term prospect, you have to admit.

Sol is whispering with Al in a corner of the Gem. "How do you make your way, Star," Al asks, "not sometimes buying silence by punching her in the fucking mouth?" Al, your tactics just don't work for everyone, is the thing. Sol ignores this and says that Trixie is worried that for one thing, Hearst will want her dead and for another that Al will kill one of the other girls in her place. Um...is Trixie reading this recap over my shoulder, or something? Al lets this tip from the Psychic Hotline wash over him before putting on his show. "Jesus Christ!" he says. "I already fucking did!" Sol incredulously asks if this is true, and Al shoos him off. "Don't waste your Jew's time wondering what's true and what ain't," he says. "You go over there, tell fucking Hearst the whore Trixie has been killed, and then tell Joan of Arc that instead of flames lapping at her tippy-toes, you'd have her live to fuck in the morning -- and after to you tell fucking Hearst, [and] before you tell that loudmouth c*nt, tell your fucking partner I need him here." Sol has had an emotional day and tries to defend Trixie: "Don't talk about her that way." Al gives him both eyebrows, full barrel. "Oh, I fucking recant," dripping with sarcasm. "Off you fucking go." He tells him not to forget to summon Bullock, alluding to the insanity about to be born of this whole Hearst conflagration, saying that "water comes to a boil." As Sol walks out, he passes Jen, who happens to still be quite alive.

At the bar, Adams stands talking to Hawkeye. Al steps between them puts his back to the leprechaun and pretends he's not there. "How many has he got?" he asks Adams who tries to make the best of it. "The ride from Cheyenne winnowed the wheat from the chaff," he says, putting on a positive spin. Al cuts right to the chase, asking how many of the promised twenty-three Hawkeye actually arrived with. From behind him, Hawkeye has the temerity to pipe up: "Almost eighteen, Mr. Swearengen, camped in Spearfish Meadows, ready to join in the issue!" Al doesn't even blink in his direction. "What does he mean," he drones to Adams, "by 'almost eighteen'?" Adams calmly answers that Hawkeye has "seventeen normal size...and a short one that's hell with a knife." Al's eyes roll all the way over to Dan, behind the bar. "Turn me loose," Dan smirks, knowing Al would like nothing more than for him to twelve-point Hawkeye right now. Thank Buddah for everyone's sake, Wu arrives at this moment, no doubt distracting Al from a murderous rage. "Go with him to get the men," he tells Adams. "Station in Cochran's alley. Send word you're positioned with the midget." He strides away towards Wu and Hawkeye looks at Adams with genuine surprise: "That went off well!" he stupidly says. I suppose, since he's still alive and not hanging upside down, bleeding from an assortment of wounds, he's technically right.

Joanie has made it back to her room and found Jane in her more typical state. "What happened Jane?" she says, surprised at finding her this way after having seen her last with Sophia. "Nothing out of the ordinary," Jane slurs. "The bank lady took her child to Ellsworth's grave and I got drunk." How did she even have time? Just how powerful is that rotgut? Joanie, who needs to go to Al-Anon worse than anybody in the history of the world, takes Jane's nonsensical abuse without complaint. Jane accuses her of ignoring her invitation to come in and play with Sophia earlier. Joanie says there was no such invite, and that she would have come in if asked. Jane's so ranty and drunk, Joanie finally has to give her a patented Deadwood "anyways." She then tries to give her a run down of her afternoon, attempting to breeze past the whole Cy meeting, but even drunk Jane is too quick for that one. "Is that so?" she sneers. "Oh, so did you go see Cy real quick? Did you pay a quick call on Cy? Did they stick some quick pricks in you?" Joanie assures her it wasn't like that. "Who gives a fuck?" Jane groans. "Not me." Yeah, obviously. I swear, I wish Joanie would smother her with a pillow, but instead she goes on, trying to keep it light. "I saw at the voting what I guess you knowed about Mr. Utter all these years, and Mr. Hickok musta knowed," she says of Charlie. "What he's like in a tightâone he didn't even need to be in." Jane grumpily acknowledges that yes, he's okay in those. Joanie says that's what she wants to be to Jane, someone she can count on, "even when we don't get along." Aw, now, that cracked her shell. Jane smirks that she and Charlie have that don't-get-along part down perfect. "Of course," she says, "we had years of practice." Joanie smiles and it's time for the big reveal -- this whole conversation's been a setup. She goes out into the hall and brings in a big coat that Charlie sent over with her. Jane is filled with joy. "That's Bill Hickok's robe you got there," she says, covering herself with it, "that's whose that is." They snuggle up on the bed together, and I change my mind entirely about their relationship.

If I complained before about not having enough Al in this episode, the writers make it up to me now. He is in his office, talking to his best sounding board: Chief Head in the Box. "This fucking place is gonna be a fuckin' misery," he says, already aware that he'll pay dearly with the other whores for what he's about to do to Jen. "Every fucking one of them, every fucking time I walk by, 'Ooh, how could you? How could you?" with their big fuckin' cow eyes." He points out that the entire gaggle of them will have to grieve for a month before he can hope for peace. "What's the fucking alternative?" he asks the HitB. "I ain't fuckin' killing her that sat nights with me sick and taking slaps to her mug that were some less than fucking fair." His eyes get huge as he gestures around, waving his knife. "I should have fucking learned to use a gun, but I'm too fucking entrenched in my ways, and you," he adds, narrowing his eyes at the HitB, "ain't exactly the one to be leveling criticisms on the score of being slow to adapt. You fucking people are the original slow fucking learners!" He slams the cabinet door and in less than a minute makes all my down-to-the-wire, 11:59:30 PM recap send-offs worth the trouble.

By Al Lowe

Dan's at the Gem's bar when Al comes down from upstairs. "Box her in my office," Al says with a tinge of regret, and Dan asks if he wants Jewel sent up to clean the mess. "If I'm having her boxed in my fucking office, don't I want the blood left for the cocksucker to see?" Al asks. Dan nods and heads upstairs to do the job. "And when that's over," Al asks, "if we're still alive, I'll clean my own fuckin' mess up." As Dan goes up, Al adds one final, tired instruction: "Look in on Johnny, see if he's grown the fuck up."

Merrick and Blazanov come in with early results from the Sturgis voting. It's a landslide for Harry Manning. "Heavy turnout among the bivouacked military," Merrick says, blue. They all see Trixie come in the back door, carrying clothes, followed by Bullock and Sol, who reports that Hearst should be there within the hour. Al looks at Bullock. "How do you think you might enjoy private life?" he asks. Bullock: "Sturgis?" Blazanov:"970 votes for Harry Manning, 68 votes for Mr. Bullock." Bullock clenches, but he's not surprised.

Upstairs, Dan has arrived in Al's office with Jen's coffin to find Trixie truly grieving over the body. "Don't I want to put my dress on her first, you fucking moron?" she snaps, unnecessarily, at Dan. With kindness, Dan tells her he'll do the boxing after he checks on Johnny. Downstairs, Al's whole team -- Bullock, Sol, Charlie, Merrick and Blazy -- has gathered for this big Whorescapade. He gives what he fears could be his final speech to the camp's elders. "We show united in the prelude when he's making his entrance and the fucking like," he says. He says when it's time to view the body, he will go in with Hearst, alone. "The deception failing," he continues, "I'll make a pass at him with my blade. In the aftermath, play the lie as mine, knowing I speak of you in heaven." You know, the oft-mentioned Gem Employee Manual has a very handy section on contingency planning. Hee. No, I hate to make a joke -- that's some beautiful writing, and all gathered look stoically on as Al takes a bracing swig of whiskey.

Dan's missed all this, of course, looking in Johnny who is not happy AT ALL. "Fffffuck you, DAN!" he spits through his gag. "Fffuck yew!" Dan tries to reason with him. "You got my condolences," he says. "As sorrowful as the passing of Jen is, you know that Al, he didn't have no choice." Johnny calls bullshit, but Dan reasons on. "Feeling how he feels about Trixie, is what I'm saying. Come on, Johnny, you side with your feelings," he says. "Right or wrong, you side with your feelings. Now can you come to yourself in time to be of some fucking use?"

At the Bella Union, Cy has received his most recent communiquÃ© from Hearst. Eaten up with whatever you want to call it -- thief's guilt? asshole's admonitions? -- Cy is less than thrilled to have been made Hearst's go-to Igor in all matters Deadwood, but he agrees to it, seeing no other choice.

Back at the Gem, Trixie has completed her sad duty and Dan comes in to box up Jen. On Jen's dress, Trixie has pinned her beloved cameo brooch. As Dan places the girl in the coffin and puts in a few nails to make it convincing, Trixie cries and stares at the pool of blood on the floor.

On his balcony at the Bella Union...Cy has rounded the bend. "All but sucked your prick," he sneers across the thoroughfare toward Hearst's hole in the wall, "you'd have me be your fucking quartermaster." Aha. Maybe Cy's biggest problem is that his loyalty to Hearst has not increased his junior status in camp at all. Anyway, whatever his main problem, he's...got problems. In his head. He's dragged his much-abused Janine and the hopped-up Leon out onto the balcony with him to observe the action down below. He bitches about Wu's band of Chinese mercenaries who are arming up right now down in the alley. He complains about Al's little gang of camp elders. Basically, what I'm saying is, Cy hates everybody, mostly himself. Leon is less than sympathetic, because he is more than high --he is flying on dope, giggling and tittering like a junkie -- and this pisses Cy off more than anything. "You are a fucking beauty, Leon," Cy snarls. "Lifts me up to be with you." And, to really drive it home that he's being sarcastic, he STABS LEON in the THIGH. Leon, his faithful junkie! Leon, faro dealer and back-up craps stickman to the stars! Well, frankly, no one's more surprised than Leon. He sobers up real quick as he falls to the floor, bleeding out. "Jesus!" he cries. "What the fuck did you do to me, sir?" Cy, who, though he got the plotline shaft this season, still often got the best one-liners, doesn't miss a beat: "I believe I fuckin' stabbed you."

Hearst, the same tough guy who made a point to tell Sol earlier how safe he felt in camp, arrives at the Gem with a whole goon platoon. No turning back now. Al takes a deep breath and stands by Bullock to greet him. "Any word yet on how the camps have voted?" Hearst snarks at Bullock. Before he can even clench, Al clears his throat hard and leads Hearst upstairs. All the Pinkertons and Bullock follow. Hearst can't quit needling Bullock about the election, and though he seems to be trying to control his reaction, Bullock finally responds. "If I'm beat," he says, "it owes to Yankton's whore-buying cavalry repeaters in Sturgis." Hearst puts on a big show: "Why, sir, then you must protest! Camp in Yankton! Protest and demand justice! Grab the legislators by their ears!" Sensing that Bullock is nanoseconds away from the Clench Heard 'Round the Hills, Al interrupts again. "Ain't you here to confirm a croaker?" he asks and Hearst looks into the office and sees the coffin. "Mr. Newman," Hearst says, referring to one of his bricks, "and so many of his cohorts as he deems appropriate will precede us." Al looks at him. "You don't mind," he says, "if I go in alone, huh?" Hearst, his men, and Al all step in the office and slam the door behind them. Left outside, Charlie and Bullock eye each other nervously.

By Al Lowe

In Hearst's rooms, Langrishe pays a call and, after some small talk about Hearst's recent wounds and his back ailment, goes full-on Greek Chorus on our asses. I'm already on page two trillion, so allow me, please, to break it down. He tells Hearst that Deadwood is not the town in which Fate has chosen Hearst to meet his Destiny, but that the same cannot be said of his friend, Al. "And Mr. Bullock," Hearst smarts, "who took me by the ear?" Langrishe says that Bullock, too, "less possessing his character than possessed by it," is also someone for whom the outcome must be soon. But for Hearst, Langrishe says, the earth entertains some larger purpose to be told to him elsewhere, and at another time. Ah, now Jack is speaking his language -- that whole "Boy the Earth Talks To" thing we so love to hear Hearst repeat. Not. "I imagine she still speaks to me still, the earth," Hearst says, "what's inside her, how to get it out." Ugh. Langrishe somehow listens to this without calling Hearst a drama queen, and says that listening and following the directions of the earth can mean a lonely life for any man. "The mountain I must go up on, Mr. Langrishe, I have ascended before," Hearst tells him. "It's in Montana, and I came down it with silver, suspecting there was copper too, and now I'm told that's true." Jack is shocked. "Do I understand you to say," he gapes, "[that] you're leaving us?" Hearst: "For the Anaconda, yes," he says. That's right! He's taking his ball and going home! But first, he says, he'll hear the election returns and see the whore who shot him in her coffin. Yes, well... priorities, right? Langrishe leaves, his face registering much shock.

By Al Lowe

Unthinkably, we're thrown back to Cy, who continues to expound over the dying Leon while poor Janine daps at the geyser of blood coming out of the junkie's leg. Now, Janine, I know your training is in...another area, but have you never seen anyone get stabbed before? Damn, throw a tourniquet on there, somewhere. "Hearst moves his operating headquarters to Lead," Cy is saying. "I get to see to all his other-than-mining interests here in the camp." Even in his time of trial, Leon plays the underling. "Congratulations, sir," he gasps as Janine pokes his wound. "Thank you, Leon," Cy growls. "If those are your last words here on earth, you tell the Lord you went out stupid." See what I mean about Cy? Evil, but not smart. He had the talent, but not the brains, in other words, and thus he ended up a lackey. Of course, he may end up a living lackey, unlike Al who has chosen the more noble way and who is right now trying not swallow his mustache while Hearst looks over the throat-slit body of the substitute whore.

It's a tense moment. Al's holding his knife, trying to be cool while the goons train their guns on him and Hearst tests the girl's neck to see if she's really dead. What does he think, that Langrishe and Co. snuck over and whipped up some stage makeup? Well, it would have given them something to do, now that you mention it. Satisfied, he wipes the blood off his shoe where's he's stepped in it, and walks out. "Does she have family ought be notified?" Bullock asks as he and Al stand and contemplate everything that's just happened. "She's a sister, whores in Gunnison. 'Jen's Sister,' you could write to, 'care of the Yellow Bird.'" Bullock leaves without another word. They're both sickened and relieved. Al turns to Dan and asks for the only thing that makes him feel better at such times, a cleaning utensil: "I'd take that fuckin' scrub brush."

Outside, Hearst is hopping up on his wagon to take another look around camp when Merrick finally gets up the nerve to come and get his digs in, asking what Hearst thought about him not publishing an account of his shooting. It goes the opposite of how he planned. "I've stopped reading your paper, Merrick," Hearst says, blowing him off. "I'll have my people here start another oneâto lie the other way." In the background we see Hawkeye's now unnecessary gang of 17.5 men. The midget is kind of killing me.

By Al Lowe

Up on his balcony, Cy continues to be a menace only to himself. Dramatically, he makes a big show of whipping out his gun and threatening (within earshot of only Janine) to shoot Hearst and then himself. I get kind of excited for a minute -- this I'd like to see -- but he fails yet again to make the big score when he loses his nerve, finally turning the gun on Janine who desperately begs for her life, offering her only currency, her naked body as recompense.

And now we come to Bullock's perfect final scene -- just when it looks like everyone is going to make it out of this bullshit with their lives, Bullock can't keep his damn clench to himself long enough to let Hearst get out of town. "You've looked at your last body. You're done tipping your fucking hat," he says. "Get out of here or I'll drag you out by the ear." Nice one, Bullock, but the ass was leaving ANYWAY. With the smuggest smirk you ever saw, while every gun in the thoroughfare points at the scene, Hearst tells his the wagon driver to drive on. Sayonara, cocksucker. I loved to hate you.

"You done fucking good," Charlie says, walking up behind Bullock as he shares a lingering look with Alma as she passes on her way to the cemetery. Bullock sighs. "I did fucking nothing," he says. Charlie says that doing nothing is often the hardest choice, when it serves the larger purpose. "Which is laying head to pillow, not confusing yourself with a sucker?" Bullock asks. Charlie: "Far as I ever get." Bullock: "'Cause that's gonna be a project tonight." Across the thoroughfare, Bullock sees Trixie traveling under shroud, accompanied by Sol. He kind of smiles. Patting Charlie, he makes his slow-mo walk through the thoroughfare. This is not your typical Western, so there's no hero's sunset, but it's implied.

From the hole in the Grand Central, E.B. emerges. Proudly, he stands with his hands on his hips, no doubt amazed that he's made it out alive.

And thus we've come to the final scene. Al's working out his demons on the bloodstains when Johnny comes in, long in the face. "Did she suffer?" he asks his suffering boss. Al stops scrubbing. "I was gentle as I was able, and that's the last we'll fuckin' speak of it, Johnny," he says, and then, when Johnny walks away, mutters in amazement to himself: "Wants me to tell him something pretty," and goes again to try and scrub out the stain.