Now, I'm halfway thinking this exaggerates the condition rather than alleviate it. If I might should query the doc, but then that cocksucker will only ask after gleets. Oh my God! Take it out. Take it out! Remove your fucking thumb! Why, if I was moving forward to get away from you, would you have fucking pursued me? When I stopped, pressed on yourself, to drive your thumb into my intestine?
That Bullock is a fucking strategist, ain't he? Sets terms to publicly humiliate me, and my penalty if I don't comply is he walks into the bar downstairs and takes fifteen bullets in the chest. And that ain't no hooplehead, you know. Bullock, he's one of those special fucking cases, you don't know what in fucks going on in their mind, and he's big with Montana. Big. I heard that today. Because the news earlier from Yankton and the fucking commissioners wasn't adequately confusing. Not to mention the fucking telegraph coming in and four whores that I don't know who the fuck they work for.
Shut the fuck up! I suppose I do fucking understand. So fucking confused and disgusted and wanting it to end and looking for the blessing of a quick way out. Sets himself to a higher fucking standard than our natures, and he wants execution 'cause he's failed.
I offer these, and I hope you'll wear them a good long fucking time in this fucking camp, whose ever fucking thumb we're under. And where it come to me just a few moments ago that the Reverend Smith, may he rest his soul, he was found on the road, apparently murdered by heathens just some months ago. What he said on the subject of you: 'Mr. Bullock raises a camp up' and I hope he'll reside with us and improve our general fucking atmosphere for a good long fucking time, even with all the personal complications and fucking disasters that we all fucking have, and where, running away solves absolutely fucking nothing.
Al, if you're not dead and already moldering, I send news to revive you. A fish to rival the fabled Leviathan has swum into our waters. Get well soon and we'll land the cocksucker together. Your friend, E.B.
Good. Because the man the mayor expects to digest is going to toy and play with Mr. Farnum from camouflage for as long as he finds it amusing. And then make him a meal of his own.
Because them as poke around Miz Garret's workings without a by-your-leave ain't welcome, Mr. Wolcott, and you ought not to repeat your fuckin' mistake.
Just as a man opposed to inevitable change needn't invariably be called a Luddite, another choice might be simply to describe him as slow in his processes.
EEllsworth
You tell that cocksucker you work for the next surrogate he sends oughtn't to be bloodied from the Comstock.
It is no disloyalty to be a realist, Richardson. We are mortal. One hopes for the best. One perseveres. One re-evaluates constantly. One is an asshole if one doesn't. Loyalty expanded is not loyalty betrayed. I contemplate no disloyalty to Al Swearengen. I feel exposed. I don't like being weak, and I know that I am. I yearn to rely on a stronger will. I fear what I'm capable of in its absence. Whereas you, Richardson, know nothing of yourself. Are you shitting or going blind? Or on foot or horseback? You vile fucking lump!
