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A show set in the late 1800s, revolving around the characters of Deadwood, South Dakota; a town of deep corruption and crime.
Al Swearengen: Pain or damage don't end the world. Or despair or fucking beatings. The world ends when you're dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man... and give some back.
Mr. Wu: San Francisco Cocksucker!
E.B. Farnum: Be brief. Calamity Jane: Be fucked!
Al Swearengen: God rest the souls of that poor family... and pussy's half price for the next 15 minutes.
Al Swearengen: You want a blow job while I talk to you? Judge: No. Al Swearengen: I wasn't offering personally.
Al Swearengen: In life you have to do a lot of things you don't fucking want to do. Many times, that's what the fuck life is... one vile fucking task after another.
Al Swearengen: Announcin' your plans is a good way to hear god laugh.
Al Swearengen: What was your purpose at Doc's? Jewel: I'm knocked up!
Joanie Stubbs: Will you keep a girl company? Ellsworth: I will, but I'm expensive.
Calamity Jane: Maybe I will have a fuckin' drink, for sociability's sake and 'cause I'm a fuckin' drunk. Joanie Stubbs: What's your preference? Calamity Jane: That it ain't been previously swallowed.
[Jack has just been found not-guilty of killing Wild Bill Hickock] Al Swearengen: What's your name, it's Jack, ain't it? Jack McCall: Yes, sir! You buy me a drink, I'll make my mark. Al Swearengen: Stick around camp, Jack- I'll make mine for you. Jack McCall: What in the hell is that supposed to mean? Al Swearengen: Means there's a horse waiting for you outside you'll want to get on before somebody murders you who gives a fuck about right and wrong- or I do. [Jack stares, dumbfounded] Al Swearengen: It's the paint, Jack. Right outside my joint. [whispering] Al Swearengen: Run for your fucking life.
Seth Bullock: There's a blood stain on your floor. Al Swearengen: Yeah, I'm... I'm gonna get to that.
Al Swearengen: Welcome to fucking Deadwood!
Al Swearengen: [to Cy Tolliver] You do no wanna be a dirt-worshipping heathen from this fucking point forward, [to Joannie Stubbs] Al Swearengen: pardon my French. Joanie Stubbs: Oh, I speak French.
Wild Bill Hickok: You know the sound of thunder, Mrs. Garret? Alma Garret: Of course. Wild Bill Hickok: Can you imagine that sound if I asked you to? Alma Garret: Yes, I can, Mr. Hickok. Wild Bill Hickok: Your husband and me had this talk, and I told him to head home to avoid a dark result. But I didn't say it in thunder. Ma'am, listen to the thunder.
Seth Bullock: [demanding conditions on buying the lot] 1,000, now. If anyone in that tent, or the building we put up, turns a playing card or pours a drink or offers a woman's services, you get the title back and keep our fuckin' money. Al Swearengen: What makes you talk to me in that tone of voice? Seth Bullock: I'm makin' a counter offer. Al Swearengen: You come into camp, rent my lot, within six hours you blow in a guy's eye with Wild Bill Hickok backin' your play. Next day, I'm supposed to sell you the lot, put you in business, without askin' who the fuck you are or what the fuck you're doin' here? Seth Bullock: As far as what happened in the street, with Bill Hickok bein' involved, that was a turn of events. Al Swearengen: A what? Seth Bullock: It was a turn... of events. Al Swearengen: Oh, a turn of events. Your partner calls it a coincidence. So, what with this coincidence and turn of events starin' me in the fuckin' face and five other fuckin' things I'm supposed to be payin' attention to, I still make you a sensible proposal and you answer by insulting me in my own joint. Sol Star: Seth didn't mean to insult you, Mr. Swearengen. Al Swearengen: You stay out of this! You don't know nothin' about this! You weren't here and you don't have his proxy, so why don't you do whatever you people do when you're not running your mouths off or cheatin' people out of what they earn by Christian work. Seth Bullock: You don't want to be talkin' that way! Al Swearengen: Oh, don't tell me how to talk in my own fuckin' place! Now, here's my counter offer to your counter offer - go *fuck* yourself! Sol Star: Seth... Al Swearengen: Get him... away from me!
Wild Bill Hickok: Sure you wanna quit playing, Jack? The game's always between you and getting called a cunt. Tom Nuttall: Meeting adjourned, fellas, take it outside. Wild Bill Hickok: That dropped eye of yours looks like the hood on a cunt to me, Jack. When you talk, your mouth looks like a cunt moving. Jack McCall: I ain't gonna get in no gun fight with you, Hickok. Wild Bill Hickok: But you will run your cunt mouth at me. And I will take it, to play poker.
Wild Bill Hickok: Some goddamn point a man's due to stop arguing with his-self and feeling twice the goddamn fool he knows he is 'cause he can't be something he tries to be every goddamn day without once getting to dinnertime and fucking it up. I don't want to fight it anymore, understand me Charlie? And I don't want you pissing in my ear about it. Can you let me go to hell the way I want to?
Al Swearengen: Sometimes I wish we could just hit 'em over the head, rob 'em, and throw their bodies in the creek. Cy Tolliver: But that would be wrong.
Reverend H.W. Smith: When I read the Scriptures, I do not feel Christ's love as I used to. Calamity Jane: Aw, is that so? That is too bad! Join the fuckin' club of most of us!
Jack McCall: Should we shake hands or something, relieve the atmosphere? I mean how stupid do you think I am? Wild Bill Hickok: I don't know. I just met you.
Tom Nuttall: My bicycle masters boardwalk and quagmire with aplomb. Those that doubt me... suck cock by choice.
E.B. Farnum: [Pacing, practicing his reply to Mrs. Garrett's offer of purchasing his hotel] Madam, in the chambers of my heart beats a love for every crooked timber of this shitbox of a structure, this building. This building, its warped floorboards and... Richardson: [drops dishes in the background] Fie! E.B. Farnum: Why, even in Richardson, my chef, my eyes see a beloved household pet somehow walking upright - see in Richardson a half-witted child, nonetheless adored.
Al Swearengen: Don't fucking call me Al!
Al Swearengen: If I bleat when I speak it's because I just got fuckin' fleeced.
Al Swearengen: I want to know who cut the fucking cheese.
E.B. Farnum: Hickok's half-women friend's off somewheres on a tear. The orphan square head's in the widow's care. The widow feels put upon. She's asked me to find her some help. I suggested the gimp.
Al Swearengen: [to Seth Bullock] You would not want to be staring like that at me.
Al Swearengen: Wild Bill Hickok and those two guys that walked past you downstairs save the squarehead kid; tell Ned to stick around so they see what the kid has to say about him. Persimon Phil: Wild Bill Hickok? Al Swearengen: And Ned throws down... Persimon Phil: Against Wild Bill Hickok? Al Swearengen: Against Hickok and this other cocksucker who draws almost as fast, so it's a toss-up who blew Ned's head off.
E.B. Farnum: Some ancient Italian maxim fits our situation, whose particulars escape me. Francis Wolcott: Is the gist that I'm shit out of luck? E.B. Farnum: Did they speak that way then?
Al Swearengen: My oath on this; everyday that the widow sits on her ass in New York City, looks west at sunset, and thinks to herself "God bless you ignorant cocksuckers in Deadwood who strive mightily and have little money, to add to my ever increasing fortune," she'll be safe from the whiles of Al Swearengen.
Al Swearengen: [while having his prick sucked] Wo-wo-wo-woah, you got a stage to catch or somethin'? Slow... the fuck... up.
Reverend H.W. Smith: This is God's purpose, but not knowing the purpose is my portion of suffering. Doc Cochran: If this is His will, He is a son of a bitch.
Al Swearengen: Wave a penny under the Jew's nose; if they got living breath in them, brings them right around.
Ellsworth: Well'm, I've got myself a working gold claim. Joanie Stubbs: Well, sir, is that a damn fact? Ellsworth: A hell of a working gold claim, and if we knew each other better I'd throw "fucking" in there somewhere. Joanie Stubbs: If you did I'd try to catch it. Ellsworth: A working fucking gold claim, Joanie, and thank you for allowing me my full range of expression.
Calamity Jane: I'm drunk. Correct. What the fuck is it to you?
Cy Tolliver: Cy Tolliver, Mr. Wolcott, how do you do? And, what do you drink? Francis Wolcott: Kentucky bourbon, if you've got it. Cy Tolliver: Pour Mr. Wolcott a bourbon, Jack, and tell him it's from Kentucky.
Calamity Jane: You with that ugly fuck by your own free will, Doc? Doc Cochran: Yes, yes I am. I'd rather be lucky than smart.
Al Swearengen: Don't forget to kill Tim.
Calamity Jane: Them what gets cured by Calamity Jane STAYS fuckin' cured.
Hugo Jarry: And you, Mr. Wolcott, I find you the most severe disappointment of all. Francis Wolcott: Often to myself, as well.
Al Swearengen: Underarms clean? Cunts braided?
E.B. Farnum: God damned quagmire of piss and bull shit!
Al Swearengen: How's that pussy-lotion? Should I try some on my ass?
Trixie: Tread lightly who lives in hope of pussy.
Al Swearengen: Be in my joint in two hours, we're forming a fuckin' government.
E.B. Farnum: Separate rooms, I'll arrange that by tomorrow, but today I can't fix it, unless you kill a guest.
Miles Anderson: God bless you, Mr. Swearengen. Al Swearengen: Well, not likely. But my prospects have just improved.
Calamity Jane: [about Wild Bill] I won't be a drunk where he's buried, and I can't stay sober.
Wild Bill Hickok: [on his nickname for Seth] "Montana" OK with you? Seth Bullock: Only nickname I ever had was "Sloth." Wild Bill Hickok: Don't seem to fit ya.
Doc Cochran: When you giggle you leak piss.
Francis Wolcott: I am a sinner that does not expect forgiveness. But I am not a government official.
[Mose Manuel demands refund for his spending at the Bella Union] Francis Wolcott: Including youth, Mr. Manuel? And why not beauty? Not credibly restored, perhaps, but as a new non-negotiable term? Would you not have, too, your brother Charlie resurrected? Would you stipulate your envy of him being purged? Surely, you insist that Charlie retain certain defects - his ineffable self-deceptions, for example, which were your joy in life to rebuke, and purpose, so far as you had one. I suppose you would see removed those qualities which caused you to love him, and the obliviousness to danger which allowed you to shed his blood. Francis Wolcott: [Mose draws his gun and is shot by Bella Union guards] I want to talk to Bullock. Cy Tolliver: Get the fucking doc! I could have cooled that out. Francis Wolcott: On my order, Mr. Tolliver, Lee will burn this building, mutilating you before, during or after, as I specify, or when he chooses unless I forbid. Cy Tolliver: Oh, my full attention is at your disposal.
Trixie: I spoke of looking out for an axe and a saw, and if I got 'em, they wouldn't be applied to buildin' nothin'. Anyways, would you want a free fuck?
Cy Tolliver: Sayin' questions in that tone and pointin' your finger at me will get you told to fuck yourself.
Reverend H.W. Smith: Lord, grant that I may seek rather to comfort than to be comforted, to understand, than to be understood, to love, than to be loved... and the rest I forget.
Sol Star: Dulled faculties!
E.B. Farnum: Lying? I?
Seth Bullock: Any more gunplay gets answered. You call the law in Sampson, you don't get to call it off just cause you're liquored up and popular on payday.
Cy Tolliver: You're tough to be a friend to. Francis Wolcott: You make a good point.
Al Swearengen: They butt into other people's business; and make the business of other's their own - these bought-out, no good cocksuckers. Tom Mason: Hickok, you talkin' bout? Al Swearengen: Oh, fuckin' big shot he is. Persimon Phil: Big fuckin' shot, when he's standing in front of you. Al Swearengen: One in his ear from behind, I'd like to see how fucking tough he was.
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