Deadwood (2004–2006): Season 3, Episode 7 - Unauthorized Cinnamon - full transcript

He's gone up
with your son.

Wants notice when you're ready
to serve.

I knocked holes
in these walls.

Confinement gives me
the fidgets.

Set yourself
up comfortable.

Let me confide
as well, Odell,

that when people only say to me
with other words

what I have just said to them,
I quickly grow impatient.

- All right, sir.
- Tell me about the gold.

I will, sir...

what little I know to say,
hoping you will learn me the rest.



This is what they call an assay
and metallurgist report.

Yes, I've heard
of those.

Sit down, boy.
Sit down.

"Third Baptist Congregation,
Monrovia Settlement."

The congregation
has title to the find.

How are you connected
to the congregation?

- I'm first deacon, sir.
- I see. Congratulations.

Being you were known to me
through my mama's letters,

when the proposals
started to come to us...

- Proposals?
- The different English proposals.

From Great Britain,
you mean?

To develop the find,
yes, sir.

I was sent to ask
if you'd guide us.

Does your congregation conceive
some sort of a partnership, Odell?



However you thought
we should do.

I do take in partners
with the understanding

that in dealing with the color,
mine is the deciding voice.

Dealing
with the color, sir?

The gold... securing
and exploiting the gold.

Do you want to see
the gold now, sir?

- Do you want to show it to me?
- They give it to me to show you, sir.

Suppose
we oughtn't...

let the congregation
down.

I can't imagine your mother's
not nearly prepared our supper.

What do you think
of the gold?

It makes me hungry,
Odell.

Harry should be
at the meeting.

I ain't saying he shouldn't.
I wasn't told to invite him.

Candidate for public office.

Please convey to Al
that short of being forbidden,

I intend to bring
Harry with me.

I'll convey that
word for word.

And what would be
my position?

Oughtn't I attend
as the livery's new owner?

Hostetler
never attended.

Prior to blowing off
his fucking head,

Hostetler
was a nigger.

Last I looked
I'm white!

True, as far
as it goes.

I can abstain from attending
if that closes the can of peas.

You are a candidate
for public office

with a chance to put
the fire wagon on the table.

If it's a question
of room,

shove two fucking
tables together!

Room is not
the issue, Steve,

if you have to see
my down card.

I do not vouch
for you,

nor presume to bring
you uninvited, as I do Harry,

because you are not the same
quality person.

Meaning
I'm not fanatic

for fucking fire wagons
like Harry

and all the other
five-year-olds.

Anyways I've still got
the doc to invite.

Is this the quickest
way to the cabin here...

Tell Al add
an extra peach dish.

Can you certify the purity
of your blood, Steve?

I only ask because
your nose is... broad.

Take your apron off, and consider
changing your shirt,

which I fucking
suggested yesterday.

Will you mind
very much

if we have our dinner
quickly?

Camp business, dear?

Come to cases,

I will get sent
to hire guns...

quick time,

bouncing in
the fucking saddle

and howling at every
goddamn hoof-fall,

aches
in every bone.

- I put out cinnamon.
- Where?

- The meeting table.
- On whose instruction?

Cinnamon's good
with peaches.

Do not put unauthorized cinnamon
on the goddamn meeting table.

That's all
the fuck we need.

It's available
as a choice.

Which is not your province
to offer, Jewel.

If food's not my province, then you
can make your own fucking breakfast.

I had best not come out
of this goddamn kitchen

and find goddamn cinnamon
on the fucking meeting table.

Leg up to Cheyenne by now,
I'd be heading there

in a civilized
fucking gait.

Doc!

Johnny Burns, Doc!

You remember you-you
come to that...

that meeting before

to set the pest tent up
and the like?

And E.B.
was made mayor?

Hey, Doc.

You can't talk?

Anyway, Al's got another
of them meetings.

You can't come?

Jesus, Doc.

All right, all right. I'll tell him...
you can't come.

Anyway, look, I hope...
I hope you feel better.

My best efforts, Odell, do not yet
persuade your mother

to be indifferent to the opinions
of others.

If it's all right
with you, Mr. Hearst,

it's all all right with me.

- This looks wonderful, Mama.
- Thank you.

I suppose you've told your mama
about being first deacon

of your congregation
in Liberia.

I haven't yet had the chance
to give her the news.

Does your congregation
have no strictures, Odell,

against its deacons
drinking?

It does, yes, sir.

Yet the smell of liquor's
on your breath.

Do I mistake?

No, sir, Mr. Hearst,
you don't.

Did you have one drink
of liquor, Odell,

from nervousness
about our talk?

- I admit I did, sir, yes.
- Did you drink

on the ship
from Liberia?

- No, sir.
- Or coming overland from New York?

No, sir, Mr. Hearst.

Would the liquor I smell then be
the first you've ever consumed?

I've had some
before, sir.

Prior to becoming deacon
of Third Baptist of Monrovia

or after?

I guess a little of both.

Showing gold
thousands of miles

from its purported source
to authenticate a find,

I would associate less with our Savior's
qualities of character

than Adam's, or someone pretending
to his innocence.

Before he met
the serpent.

Hmm.

The combative note in that
pleases me, Odell,

as against what till now
has seemed haphazard

and sloven
and slipshod

in your approach
to fleecing me.

My mistake was thinking that you'd
want your niggers praising Jesus.

What the hell are we
talking about this for?

Did the assay
make sense or not?

Ten dollars'll buy
a report

that proves a find of pure ore
in your ass, Odell.

I guess that's why I didn't figure
till you'd had someone over there,

we'd be drawing up
any papers.

Figured this'd be a
getting-to-know-each-other conversation,

seeing if we'd want
to go any further.

Far as I'm concerned,
we don't.

Calm down.
Now just calm down, son.

If I have mistook you
in some regard,

you'll find I'm man enough
to apologize.

Now, just sit down,

we'll finish
our meal,

and then maybe afterwards
we'll take in the camp

and, if you have any vices beyond
your drinking,

I might even
offer you a cigar.

How's he doing?

Holding
his fucking own.

...then I asked, "What good am I
to myself or the camp

standing sentinel
over a coffee pot?"

was why I came home.

I wish you wouldn't
smoke in here.

I wish, when asleep, you wouldn't snore
and fucking fart.

I have no choice
about either of those.

If I extinguish
this fucking cigarette,

it'll be in the middle
of your fucking forehead.

Ah.

I'm glad she
fucking fired me.

I hate that fucking bank.

It's the context, I think,
that disturbs you,

that she's back
to using dope.

Yes yes! That she's back
on the dope disturbs me.

And why,
even as we speak,

your own life hangs
by a fucking thread.

What's to become
of that child?

- Johnny Burns, Mr. Star!
- What is it?

Well, Al's called a meeting
like the ones you've come to before.

Does Sheriff Bullock
know?

Seemed to me they halfway
called it together.

All right,
I'm coming.

If you ain't et
dessert yet, don't.

- All right.
- Al's broke out the canned peaches.

All right.

The Bullocks
could take her.

Or we could.

You'd have us
care for a child?

Now more than
previously, Sofia,

Mr. Ellsworth will...

spend time
at the diggings.

Did he not come home
last night?

I'm not sure,
darling.

Possibly
he did not.

And maybe that's why
you didn't waken.

I didn't feel
his beard.

Possibly
that's why.

But he will be
seeing you.

And everything
will be all right.

I gave him a foolproof
fucking approach

to wind up with
that woman's claim,

and I could have been
shit drawing flies.

Hearst is that
fucking focused

on Bullock
pulling his ear.

Yeah?

All collected
but Doc.

- Where the fuck is he?
- He ain't up to it, he says.

- Cinnamon's out for the peaches.
- Huh?

That wasn't
my fucking doing.

Giving Hearst Bullock is the only move
that don't end with the camp in flames.

And that one only
gets us up to 50-50.

It sounds as if Cochran's turned
face to the wall.

His fucking lungs.

There's quite a falling off among
the other sawbones in camp.

We might put notice
in the Eastern papers.

Once we've ceased
our weeping.

Got a meeting.

Had he known
our might and guile,

Hearst would have never
left the Comstock.

Ernie, you got credit for a free tug
tomorrow. Let's go.

I'll spank it myself.
Just watch me.

You'll spank it in front of a goddamn
mule team.

Sirs, if I
might explain.

In my vision,
I leapt from the coach

and straight
come to see him.

Al's got a meeting
tonight, Gustave.

Tell him your vision
tomorrow.

Mr. Swearengen!

It's just
as I imagined!

I have something
so important to give to you.

What?

You mustn't ask me what.
And you mustn't ask me why.

You must go
fuck yourself.

And don't speak
disgusting to me

or answer
for Mr. Swearengen

what is a very
important answer.

Let me know
when Bullock arrives.

Ah.

Oh, Tom Nuttall's coming
and he's bringing Harry Manning.

Bullock!

Guess if you've got a pussy,

even owning a bank
don't get you to that table.

Jesus Christ,
easy easy easy easy.

There'll be conversations
left and right.

Don't get too far up there
on the fucking wrist.

- Do you want to use the sponge?
- That's not the fucking point.

You just not be starting
length and breadth conversations

throughout the fucking camp
or territory or so on.

Or do I suppose now I take off
my fucking undershirt

or the like and show
my tits and so forth!?

I'll leave you
to wash that part.

Who the fuck am I fucking kidding
or putting on airs in front of?

I been disrobed
in front of every...

barnyard creature
that hunts

or pecks or rolls
in the fucking mud.

Who the fuck should I have
shyness before

or pride or the like,
for Christ's sake?

What difference
does it make?

What the fuck do I have to be ashamed of
at this late fucking date?

Who cares anyway?!

Now go ahead and sponge
my fucking tits

and get it over with
if that's what you fucking do.

It's nothing
like that, Jane.

Well, what's it like then?
I never had a sister.

I had two.

And I slept
with both of them.

I don't know why
God let me or...

if He forgives me
when I pray, but...

but I'd never
hurt you, Jane,

or touch you
if you didn't want.

I believe that.

But I don't want
to open my eyes.

But you can go ahead and kiss me
if that's what you fucking do.

What possesses me to buy
all of these swatches?

Even though I have
no reason why I should!

Because who back
at that camp

would wear suits
of such colors?

But I have learned
sometimes

if you have a thing, the reason
for the thing is that you have it!

And when I am
in New York City,

I have a letter
from a friend.

In the news
from the camp, he says,

"And Mr. Swearengen

has lost the top part
of his middle finger

to an accident
some kind."

And I say, "I will
take these swatches

to Mr. Swearengen,"
and, "I like the look of his vest

when he is out
in the morning,

out on the balcony,
drinking his coffee,

and he is very much
a handsome man at those times,

and maybe he would like
one for his stump.

Or maybe more...
a different swatch

for every day, why not?"

Give me your stump. Don't think
about it. Just give it to me.

Now this corner
of the swatch

we pretend is
the lost child.

The little boy goes
up the mountain,

around the bend,

always looking
for Mama.

And where does he
finally find her?

Where?

Here she is!
Here's Mama!

Wrapping herself
around you

tight tight tight.

Mama's got you, Little Al.
Everything's all right!

I like that color
very very much.

Do you?

Please God,
come in.

Bullock.

Thank you, Gustave.
Please leave.

Before the color,
no white man...

no man of any hue
moved to civilize

or improve a place like this had reason
to make the effort.

The color brought
commerce here,

and such order
as has been attained.

Yes, sir.

Do you want to help
Liberia, Odell?

I want
to help myself.

If Liberia is where
my chance is,

it's all right
with me.

Gold is
your chance.

- Thank you, sir.
- Gold is every man's opportunity.

Why do I make
that argument?

Because every
defect in a man

and in others'
way of taking him,

our agreement
that gold has value

gives us power
to rise above.

Fond as you are
of my mother,

without that gold
I showed you,

I don't expect we'd
be out here talking.

That is correct.

And, for your effrontery at our meal
a moment ago...

I'd have seen you shot or hanged
without a second thought.

The value
I gave the gold

restrained me,
you see...

your utility
in connection to it.

And because of my gold,
those at the other tables

deferred
to my restraint.

Gold confers power.

Power comes to any man
who has the color.

Even if
he's black?

That is our
species' hope:

that uniformly agreeing
on its value,

we organize to seek
the color.

Just before
you and I met, Odell,

the camp's sheriff
released me from a jail cell.

- That's hard for me to feature.
- I hate these places, Odell,

because the truth
that I know,

the promise
that I bring,

the necessities I'm prepared to accept
make me outcast.

Isn't that foolish?

Isn't that foolishness?

An old man
disabused long ago

of certain yearnings
and hopes

as to how he would be held
by his fellows,

and yet I weep.

Anyway, sir,

you want to send
someone back with me?

Yes, I do.

Yes, I do, son.

I want to send you
to help your people...

and take this place down
like Gomorrah.

All being affected,

we might consider
some facts as a group.

I arrested Hearst, acting in the name
of the camp.

Without the camp's
previous fucking say-so.

Do you propose that?

Getting a say-so
before I do my duty?

Might be a good open...
showing Hearst it's off of him.

Bullock's tin won't
placate Hearst.

Give it the fuck
back to him.

Add to your statement
or shut the fuck up.

I'm done.

Shall I, as Mayor,
initiate proceedings

by giving
my own opinions,

however titular

and insubstantial

and merely honorific
the position?

Which argues
against my doing so.

How is Hearst
likely to answer?

Ought steps to be taken
in preemption?

My instinct's
to act alone,

chart the course
for fucking carnage.

That this
would be general

among 'em whose parents were so dim
as to bring them...

the fucking innocence is
what gives me fucking pause.

I invite the suggestions
of others

against my instinct
to send for the guns.

As I've expressed
to the sheriff

and Mr. Star,

and siding
with your instincts,

to protect the innocents,
I'd send them from the camp.

Then fall on Hearst
and his in their lair

before they fall
on us in ours.

As Wild Bill
would have done.

This is
a letter.

Who's the fucking letter to?

What the fuck
is going on?

- Last of those Cornishmen murdered.
- Pasco.

- His family.
- Read the letter.

"It becomes my painful duty
to inform you that Pasco Carwen

- was killed earlier this week."
- Stop poking your head out.

I'm seeing who's using
the cinnamon,

and Harry Manning's
using it plenty.

"...was not mutilated
in any way.

His death seems
to have been instantaneous

as he was stabbed
through the heart.

Pasco's funeral
occurred today

and was attended
by coworkers and friends

who all shared the same
high opinion of him.

Everything was done
by kind hands

that was possible
under the circumstances,

and a Christian burial
was given him.

I was not personally
acquainted with Mr. Carwen,

save for one encounter
where he demonstrated grief

and deep compassion
at the passing of a friend.

I knew him by reputation
as an earnest worker

and a diligent believer
in right and wrong.

His memory I am sure
will always be

with those
who knew and loved him,

among whose number
I imagine you as first.

A letter from you
which I found in his tent

causes me to convey
this sad intelligence to you.

Sincerely yours,
Seth Bullock."

What shall I do
with this, Mr. Bullock?

What's your fucking
paper for?

You fucking publish
as witness,

for Hearst
and others to read.

That's a very nice
fucking letter.

Mr. Blazanov,

had you much traffic tonight
on your apparatus?

Some traffic, yes.

I hope your important meeting
had a good result.

As free men

facing important
challenges,

we choose
to be optimistic.

Sir, I ask you

take me
to Mr. Swearengen's place.

Well, I... I will,
of course, Mr. Blazanov,

though no activity
you may contemplate,

for example, the making of friends
with his female employees,

requires Mr. Swearengen's
personal approval.

I wish to see him
for another purpose.

All right.

Shall we go now?

Certainly.

Mmm.

Come on.

Lovely letter,
wasn't it?

Didn't you...

come back sick from one
of them meetings?

Last year,
from the peaches.

Which is why I refrained
this time around.

Far as
the fire wagon,

I gather you felt
as I did,

the moment was wrong
to broach it.

My... my throat

is all
fucking tight.

Where did you lay
your hands on liquor, Harry?

Harry?

Help! Harry?

Harry! Help!

Oh.

Look, Jack.

White lumps on my tongue.

Reel it in,
for God's sake.

I'm so sorry.

It's close, Jack.

It's very close.

I feel it's...
it's at breath.

I hear it whispering
in my ear.

"Forget your name.

We go to black."

The downstairs buffet
is quite passable.

Oh.

As like to kill you
as take passage

with you to Liberia,

his man you meeting
in New York.

If Mr. Hearst
wanted me killed, Mama,

- he could see it done here.
- Don't you ever believe

you know what'd
please that man,

or salt him
to come after you.

And you look a fool
holding that cigar!

I've played one
for smaller stakes.

And the gold
ain't playing.

I ain't trying
to steal nothing.

I'll work my way
up the hog.

And ain't you sent me out there
so I can turn out a man?

I sent you so the hell that was coming
here for niggers wouldn't burn you up.

There's plenty
of fire in Liberia.

I can't undo
what I done, Odell,

any more than you can,
searching out hurt.

I ain't searching
no hurt out.

We all get our portion.
We don't need to draw it to us.

You hear me, Mama?
I ain't searching no goddamn hurt out.

I done told you to mind
who you talking to.

All right, Mama.
No bad language.

If you'd kept me
to raise me, maybe I'd know.

He got $742 for you,

the little nigger
at the livery.

And this brooch here too,
you can take.

I can't find it.

I can't
find it.

Lord Jesus,
forgive me!

When I read you had
stayed in the Comstock,

I tried to come
here quick,

be gone before he
sent for you to come.

I ain't come here
to hurt you.

I never said
you come to do me hurt.

So's you wouldn't
have to see me.

I prayed to see you
every day you was gone.

My God, Odell,
what's wrong with you?

No joy to seeing
my boy!

- I'm sorry, son.
- Hush, Mama. Hush. Hush.

Oh, do what you
think you got to.

I couldn't find
the right.

Hush now, Mama.
Hush.

Oh!

I got you now.

"Bricks."
You see there?

Yes, I see.

"Bricks.
25 bricks. Stop.

Addition to initial
order. Stop.

First means
of delivery. Stop."

And, Blazanov?

Do you believe,
Mr. Swearengen,

Mr. Hearst orders
more bricks?

No.

What do
you believe?

I believe he orders
more humans.

- Reinforcements.
- To do harm!

As we saw
on our walk.

Leave to die in a country
strange to them,

men apart
from their families,

working to give
them support.

Fuck confidentiality
of communications.

- Why not fuck a woman instead?
- I hope so eventually.

Now I deliver
under seal

his message
to Mr. Hearst.

I'll dispose
of this, Blazanov.

How are you occupying
yourself, Richardson?

I'm praying
the meeting went well.

Very touching.

Now clear your mind
of the meeting

and account for
the Negro with Hearst.

They're both
in her room.

Despite your best efforts,
Richardson,

an answer
of some ambiguity.

Is she with them?

- One.
- One what?

Of them.
Is with her.

- Who?
- Aunt Lou.

- Who is with Aunt Lou?
- Her son.

And where is Hearst?

His room.

Then I will
retire to mine.

Well, how was
the meeting?

I imagine the pool
that spawned you.

I am filling it
with rocks.

I am holding shut
your gills

to prevent you
from taking in air.

I suppose the meeting
went quite well.

I itch.

- Dust.
- No matter how much

regularity of cleaning or consideration
for the children,

a place like this
is filled with dust.

He's dead.

Chesterton is
with us still,

though to bring him in the evening chill
would be imprudent.

We'll bring him
tomorrow

when this room
is less cold.

After the children have gone and before
you bring him,

I will give the place
a good dust.

Then the carpentry
will begin.

You've engaged
the carpenters?

Yes.

He is close to the end,
isn't he?

Yes, Bellegarde!

For Christ's sake!

Haunted.

Drafts from all over.

From the walls,
from the side,

swooping down
from the ceiling.

I will dust anyway
for Chesterton,

even though after,
the carpenters come.

Uh, the attitude
on people leaving

definitely stepped forward
from the attitude they wore coming in.

I mean, no one's trying
to quarrel about that.

Then what's your quarrel?

I'm asking
what was decided.

They're publishing
the letter as witness.

- Witness?
- A witness in the sense that...

Witness the letter...
its content.

Yeah, the letter's
contents is witness

that...

Bullock wrote
a nice fucking letter.

And it proves...

that that's the sort
we are here,

the caring sort that
would write a letter of that ilk.

Furthermore, we don't
give a fuck who knows it,

George fucking Hearst
included.

Fucking Hearst
especially.

Is the witness?

Better late than
fucking never, Johnny.

Hey! Little Miss
Fucking Cinnamon.

I wanna be good.

I wanna be good.

Good evening.

Good evening.

For being gone, I...

I notice
I'm frequently back.

I come to kiss her
good night.

I tried to persuade her
you'd done so last night.

My beard always
wakes her.

She said so,
refuting me.

The thing I did

that made you leave
last night,

the thing I was coming home
to do again...

I pray now
to forego forever.

Not having me in this house is gonna
improve your odds.

I started using spirits
at 17, Ellsworth,

with no premonition
we'd marry.

Well, my feeling's
that being vessel

of purposes not your own,
your eye was out for relief.

But glimpsing since

how being your own vessel
is preferable,

let the pressure
come off

and you're liable
to do all right.

You are no pressure.

My...

friendly hands'll

always be out
to both of you.

May I interrupt
her sleep with this beard?

She'd be so glad
if you did.

- Yes?
- Cheyenne and Black Hills Telegraph.

Yes, all right.

- Evening.
- Telegram for Mr. Hearst.

Ah, thank you.

I wonder if you might remain
just a moment while I read it,

on the chance
I'll want to answer.

Of course.

- "Additional shipment of bricks."
- Yes, sir.

Yeah, this is fine.
This is fine.

- There'll be no answer.
- This is $20, sir.

It's all right, son.
Thanks for doing your job well.

You're most welcome.

John Langrishe, Al.

Come on, Jack.

- Early finish below?
- We'd a meeting.

I ought to have
asked you to.

What topic commended
my presence?

Reprobates?
The elderly?

Fucking Hearst...

that took an axe
to my left middle digit,

sends for 25 more thugs
to take the tool

to the whole
fucking camp.

Why am I fucking
optimistic?

Did your meeting find
a strategy in counterpoise?

We heard the fucking
reading of a letter.

- Ah.
- Writ by Bullock,

to a miner's family after Hearst had
had him murdered.

Exhorting they charge
Hearst with the crime?

Never once
mentioning Hearst.

Expressing sympathy
to the family,

respect for the way
the man lived.

We decided Merrick would
publish in the paper.

Strategy some
may call ingenuous,

others merely
off the point.

I sit mystified
I was moved to endorse it.

Mystified, Al,

at proclaiming a law beyond law
to a man who's beyond law himself?

Its publication
invoking a decency

whose scrutiny applies to him
as to all his fellows.

I call that strategy
cunningly sophisticated,

befitting and becoming
the man who sits before me.

Open the place
back up!

Tell the whores if their legs
ain't in the air,

they'd better be
off their asses!

So what progress
in your affairs?

Our opening is delayed.

An old man is dying...
one of my actors.

And...

I'm sad.

Oh...

perhaps just the one.

- In?
- Folded up on the boardwalk beside me

- like a goddamned accordion.
- So you've remarked.

I believe
I'll take my leave...

You're wheezing bad as me, Doc.
Did you eat cinnamon too?

...lest I distract
from the business at hand

by requesting
a fucking drink!

Have you adverse reactions to other food
or condiments, Harry?

Eggplant shreds
the roof of my mouth

if it's any of your
fucking business.

Irritability at the bowel, we know
you suffer from.

You're all right.

Don't eat
cinnamon anymore.

- Or eggplant?
- Not if it shreds your mouth.

Hope you don't mind my absconding
with you from your cabin, Doc.

- No.
- Campaigning any threat

to Harry's health?

- How was the meeting?
- Oh, it was all right.

Um, needless to say,
we missed you.

I am so glad your mother
isn't alive

to see you
in this condition.

Doc, get up here.

Not tonight.

Tonight.
Now.

Leave your kit.
I'll have Johnny go get it.

I'm not gonna leave
my fucking kit.

I wonder what you think
you're fucking doing.

I'm laying down before
I leave in the morning.

I will ask
the questions here!

This is my place.

Do you think it's yours?
It is not.

It is mine,
bought and paid for.

And if I wanted to shit this instant
in the middle of this stable,

no man, black or white,
could gainsay me!

You've already
fucked a horse.

Nor will I stoop

to explaining the mistake
in that statement,

to a nigger lemur

or some other small
form of monkey.

Where you going
in the morning?

West...
San Francisco.

I'm hoping that chestnut's owner
might go with me.

The demon nigger
that appeared at the bar.

The very same.

I don't suppose...

knowing I'd be vigilant

against theft
and intolerant to tardiness...

you'd be inclined
to stay on and work here.

No.

Nor would I want
to fucking have you!

And do not come and try
to murder me as I sleep!

And...

I will not come

and try to murder you.

Black fucking bastard.

What did you want?

- Fucking sick, I'm told.
- I have a chest cold.

You're a lunger.

Fucking samples, Doc.

Notions
from that tailor

as to how
we cover my stump.

I've believed for
the last dozen years

that disease
is airborne,

and I won't make
others sick.

No one gets out
alive, Doc.

Jesus Christ!

The fucking gimp finds
something useful to do

in the fucking brace
you made her!

Do you think you could treat
being Johnny...

always struggling
to fashion a thought?!

Every fucking night

I, that could cut a throat
but sleep the sleep of the just,

spend six fucking wakings

trying to find a piss pot
with my dribble,

and wondering
when I got to be so old.

Pick a fucking swatch
for a spit rag,

use the others for masks,
and go about your fucking business!

I ain't learning
a new doc's quirks!