All language subtitles for Deadwood S02E11 The Whores Can Come (1080p x265 10bit Joy)

[THEME MUSIC PLAYING]

[SNIFFS]

[WU SCREAMING IN CHINESE]

[SCREAMS]

[SPITS]

Sorry, Bullock.

Can you abide me beside you

20 paces or so?

Yankton's man is among us.

Even under the circumstances,

he may try you to confirm we're allied.

If he does...

your nod would advance the cause.

All right.

[COUGHS]

Yeah, you fat fuck, you're alive.

[COUGHS]

[MOSE FAINTLY]
Let me die.

What, is that "thank you"
in whale talk?

-[COUGHS]
-Drink this.

No.

Drink it!

[FAINT SNORE]

Get up, get the doc and tell him
he's got a live one!

Tell him too,
his rupture patient left here

to convalesce
at his own fucking place.

You give him a shoulder to lean on

as he was getting the fuck out.

Next time he opens his eyes,

he's gonna think he died
and went to heaven.

[SOFT KNOCK]

-WU: Cocksucker!
-AL: Yeah, San Francisco cocksucker, Wu.

-Your mortal fucking enemy, huh?
-Swedgin.

-Wu.
-Swedgin.

Yeah, I make these as burned-up whores
that I smelled on the char this morning

with your San Francisco rival
turning the fucking spit.

Swedgin fucking knows.

-Swedgin know.
-I know about the burned-up whores,

I know about the San Francisco cocksucker
setting a match to them.

Now here's the part
you gotta listen to, Wu.

[SPEAKS CHINESE]

It's China.

[SPEAKS CHINESE]
China.

Yeah, Chung Kuo, China.

Celestial whores in the fire.

What?
They... their spirits are fucking nothing

if their bones don't get back home?
Is that it?

And do you come to me to back your move
against your San Francisco cocksucker rival?

-Am I getting the fucking drift here, Wu?
-Swedgin!

Swedgin fucking gets it.

Swedgin doesn't give a fuck!

Back to Chink's Alley, Wu.

Fall to your fucking prayers.

I can use the plate
if you want to leave that.

Why don't I back him?

'Cause Hearst is in
the other Chink's corner.

Meaning Wu has to lose.

It wouldn't be the worst thing...

backing a loser to Hearst.

Let him pick me up
from the canvas after,

dust me the fuck off.

I raise the great man's hand,

murmur best as I can through split lips,

"Your man beat my man's
balls off, Mr. Hearst."

But Hearst's Chink bossing that alley

ain't to my fucking taste.

So what if something delays
the battle of the Chinks?

Say during that interval

I get to show my ass
a few times to Mr. Hearst.

Meanwhile, that pain in the balls Wu
is sketching up a storm,

drawing little pictures
of himself brandishing the lash,

driving from a delivery ship
a quota of Chinks

to be blown to pieces by dynamite
working in the mines for Hearst

at half the fee per Chink that Hearst is
paying the San Francisco cocksucker.

Now, by this time, Hearst has
seen my ass so many times

he knows I'm no long-term threat,

so some brief opposition of our interests

ain't gonna make him feel like he needs
to engage me in a death struggle,

say, by opposing local elections.

Those circumstances,

we can risk backing Wu.

And the great man figures,

"I am damaged by neither outcome.

Why not retire to a neutral corner,

and test my import against the locals?"

What delays Wu going after
the other Chink?

Or the other Chink going after Wu?

-That too.
-If the other Chink can be dissuaded,

Wu we can put on ice.

Well, how do we dissuade the other Chink?

I suppose laying eyes on him
would be the first step.

My only question is

push comes to shove,

wearing them Chinese dresses,

how well can you ladies fight?

AL: You're staying, Adams.

Cheyenne and Black Hills
Telegraph Company.

-Telegrams for delivery.
-Mr. Blazanov...

on our day of grief.

Our acquaintance
is established, Blazanov,

and for my part, our friendship.

-Thank you.
-You needn't announce yourself

every morning and your purpose.

May I suggest as well that rather than
you delivering your telegrams upstairs,

interrupting the rest or secret
depravities of well-armed guests,

I could distribute them
in these pigeonholes

to be collected by the guests
at their leisure?

I am not permitted.

A man must put bread on his table,

Mr. Blazanov, I well understand.

Suppose to compensate you
for lost gratuities,

I were to pay you $5 a day?

Cheyenne and Black Hills
Telegraph Company

requires personal delivery
by Blazanov.

I am not permitted.

Yet avarice is numbered
among the sins,

and stupidity omitted.

No Gem whores at the railings today.

-Why not?
-Al won't permit them on the balcony.

[SIGHS] He lets them on,
they'll be leaping off.

Very dramatic we get
at the passing of the fucking young.

Yesterday was a terrible day.

Do not even fucking ask me
to account for my coming here,

advising you how
to answer Ellsworth.

You haven't changed your opinion,
have you, Trixie,

as to my accepting
Ellsworth's marriage proposal?

My new opinion is

few choices as are ours to make,

others should stay
the fuck out of the process.

Quiet like that
since the boy's accident?

[SNIFFS]

Cheyenne and Black Hills
Telegraph.

Telegram for Mr. Wolcott.

-How are you today, Mr. Blazanov?
-Thank you.

Telegram for Mr. Jarry.

Yes, I am he.

-[SLAMS]
-Thank you.

You've packed your things.

Thrown them, it looks like.

What is it you wish to say?

That I'd hope in the throes of this day

you'd not make any final decision.

I can't bear to stay.

[KNOCKS AT DOOR]

The minister's here
to discuss the service.

SETH: Reverend.

Mrs. Bullock, my deep sympathies,

which I conveyed
to your husband last evening.

Thank you.

You wish to discuss
William's service.

I suggested to Mr. Bullock that we
hold service in front of the house.

That would be fine.

Cramed:
As to the substance of the service,

do you wish Psalms,
a reading, my words,

hymns chosen,
speakers in memoriam,

-a second reading?
-Let the service be brief.

-Yes.
-Certainly.

Uh, do you wish to provide me
a detail or two of William?

I don't want that.

Do you have a favorite reading?

Did he?

-You choose something.
-Certainly.

And you'll announce that
the burial is private.

I will.

Will there then be a passing-by
of the casket after the service?

[SOBS]
No!

Certainly.

Thank you, Reverend.

My condolences, Sheriff.
My deepest sympathies.

The answer is yes, Commissioner...

What you want to know.

Having to do with Mr. Swearengen
speaking with your voice?

Yes. That's all now.

My reluctance to intrude
nearly kept me from coming at all.

Mose Manuel made it through.

Thank heavens.

The doc fixed Con's rupture too.

Go shoot some dope.

Thank you, sir.
It's been a hell of a trying evening.

I have a check for $50,000

I'd like to cash with you.

I show that courtesy to people
who gamble in my joint.

I wish to afford you, Mr. Tolliver,

a chance to show
my colleagues in Yankton

that you are not blinded by parochial
rivalry as to what the greater good requires.

You'd deliver the 50 to Swearengen?

Who'd no doubt prefer the check,
to have the bribe on record.

So this ain't you just being a twitch

who likes rubbing people's
noses in their losses.

Shall we transact
our business in the cage,

Mr. Tolliver, where I was
attacked the other day

and you failed to come to my aid?

[WOMEN SOBBING]

I see you made it
through the fucking night.

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.

Oh, this is gonna be
a pleasant fucking day,

them wailing
and gnashing their teeth.

-Will they be allowed to pay their respects?
-By who?

By you,
most importantly, as always.

And should you, in your greatness, consent,

will he let them in his fucking house?

I won't object,

but it's yours to keep them she-apes
from disgracing me.

As to Bullock's feelings,
get the Jew to find them out.

Should I, um, ask about you also?

What the fuck would I
want to go there for?

[SOBBING CONTINUES]

[YELLS]
Shut the fuck up!

Hot!

[SHOUTS]
Hot!

I mean, I know
it's supposed to be,

but I ain't fucking used to it.

Well, maybe wait a little.

Yeah, I'll wait a little bit
before I fucking get in.

Did it ever occur to you strange,

bathing in a tub you've dirtied

coming out thinking you're clean?

[SIGHS]
You need a bath, Jane.

And I'm gonna fucking take it!

I'm raising the general
fucking question.

If you want boots different
from your regular...

No, I do not. I will clean
my fucking regular boots.

Should you do that
before your bath?

No! Turn around!

Don't go!

Dumb fucking luck
it must have been

me living this long
without your fucking guidance.

I don't like new boots either.

Jane:
I ain't afraid of newness...

it's the blisters give me pause.

[SHOUTS]
I burned my fucking snatch!

Or funerals.

Or funerals, what?

Any more than I like new boots.

I don't like funerals.

I do! I do!
I can't get to enough of them!

Trixie.

He'd have me ask might the whores...

pay the dead boy their respects?

The service is outside the home.

All in the camp are welcome.

They'd be sure to keep
to their place.

Why did you go to him?

Now, hold to this counter
as I reveal this, Mr. Star.

I've lived most of my life a whore,

and as much as he's her misery,

the pimp's a whore's familiar,

so the sudden strange
or violent draws her to him.

Not that I wouldn't
learn another way.

Look fucking mournful.

Even more?

Sad day, gentlemen,
on which commerce must intrude.

Says who that it must?

Because of the death
of the sheriff's son.

You need to ask,
you don't deserve an answer.

I should say that
even in his hour of grief,

Sheriff Bullock conveyed to me
his reliance on you as his proxy.

And as his proxy,

I don't do business on the day
of my godson's passing.

I'm compelled to wonder,
Mr. Swearengen,

if this show of grief is a pretext
to some other purpose.

What a type
you must consort with,

that you not fear beating
for such an insult.

If Montana, for example,

had sweetened the terms
in annexing this camp

and you'd delay the closing
of our business not for piety,

but to pursue
your other negotiations...

Leave here with your sick
fucking ghoulish thinking!

I'll have further instructions
within the day.

If not honor,

practicality dictates
granting Yankton further counter.

You come back here offering
one more dollar than that 50,

you'll find yourself face down
in the horseshit.

But you would entertain enhancement
of the offer other than cash?

I do not discuss business
on this day.

Silas.

You're buying yourself
a fucking bum's rush, Commissioner.

When Mr. Swearengen
says go, he means it.

All right. All right.

I'm not without imagination.

A counter without currency
is in the offing.

[WHISPERS]

You do remember me, Andy?

Three times we've worked together...

Memphis and on the river

and in Kansas City.
[CHUCKLES]

And we were meant to here,
but you fell ill.

I've changed.

You're bound to resent
my presence in the camp.

Well, see, I haven't changed,

or changed the rules,

which against your having gone
soft-headed,

are fucking inviolate against you
running a game in my territory

without prior arrangement

and on my fucking terms
set and agreed in advance.

I'm not running a game, Cy.

[SNICKERS]
I fucking schooled you, Andy Cramed,

to the variety that can be played.

I don't practice deception anymore.

The opening pronouncement
of a dozen we both can name.

I was nursed last fall
in the plague tent

and saved to be born anew
and preach the risen Lord.

The Lord risen, or the wheel,

or the shell and pea in this camp,

for you, it's by my leave.

-I will suffer any indignity...
-Which I still have not heard you solicit.

Interference with God's work,
I will not suffer.

Then you had best be
moving along, Andy,

'cause absent tribute,
even as His employee...

you don't get to fucking operate.

Don't let me find you trying, Andy...

or it's into the woods once more,

only this time left nailed to a tree.

AL: I don't know what you will
understand of my speech

and I don't give a fuck, or what
terrorizing them human bonfires this morning

intend towards the Chinks
still under your thumb.

A white man's son is dead
that you will be doing business with.

On the day of his son's burial,

the smell of burning flesh
ought not offend his nose.

The only showing you need make
that you've understood our chat

is a stop to them fucking fires.

And you might want to put off
other violence while you're at it,

as a decency to the day,

you heathen fucking cocksucker.

Jesus fucking Christ!

There will be no violence between you
and Wu while the grieving goes on.

My God, act civilized even if you ain't.

I am a civilized person.

Then take your civilization

and get the fuck out of here!

He got the fucking message.

-Wait on Wu if you want.
-Wait until what?

You want to go to the fucking service
or fucking not?

Johnny:
Don't have to ask us twice.

What the fuck I want to go for?

What price will you take
for your hotel, Mr. Farnum?

Why do you ask?

Because I want to buy it.

Do you, sir?

I presume as agent
for other parties?

Presume away.

Is it warm in here?

-To me it seems chilly.
-Chilly, is it?

Richardson,
Mr. Wolcott finds it chilly!

Not around.

I'll see to it, sir.

If you are chilly in 10 minutes time,

pray for my immortal soul

because some fatal mishap
will have befallen me.

Short of which, I will not fail

to dispel the chill now afflicting you.

[PANTING]

Cocksuckers.

Think they can take away everything.

Oh, cocksucker.

I found it outside dead
under the window.

Well, why'd you bring it inside?

Poor little finch.

Throw it out and wipe your hands.

If a bird taps on a window

or crashes into one,

that means that there
has been a death!

We know there's been a death.

We know now, but that bird
crashed into the window

and died a while ago,
before we knew...

for all we know.

I've shined me and Al's,
but I ain't doing yours.

Oh, well, I got me
some new boots.

They pinch bad, but they
got that factory shine still.

Johnny, you can't wear
nothing new to a funeral,

especially not new footwear.

I ain't never heard that.

Maybe 'cause when they was
telling it to you,

you was too busy listening to that
bullshit about birds flying into windows.

To be kept till after the after-funeral
fuck rush is over...

Fucking confiscated paraphernalia.

Boots on a bar?

What is the fucking matter
with you, Dan?

Give me a fucking whiskey bottle.

I'm sprinkling it...

at the fucking doorways.

Or would you rather evil traipse
past this fucking threshold?

Must have brought that
from the other side.

I've wished sometimes
only to play checkers

or to occupy myself
some other way

than having to see and feel
so much sadness...

or feel every moment
how difficult things are

to understand...

or to live with.

I've sometimes felt
I couldn't live with them,

but I find I can, Sofia.

I've found I am...

even when I think I'm not
or that I can't.

Can you look to me now, Sofia?

Can you try?

I will be so grateful if you will
trust me with your sadness.

And I will trust you with mine,

so that even when we are sad...

we will be grateful
for how much we love each other,

and know that we are

in the world as much in our pain

as in our happiness.

[WHISPERS]
Thank you, honey.

Shall we dress now

and say goodbye to William Bullock?

Let no one that's turned in a needle

try eating the dope
or shoving it up theirselves,

as I will be checking eyes
for signs before we fucking leave.

And no being drunk either, Jen.

Go wash your fucking mouth.
You got seven kinds of cock breath.

-[KNOCKS AT DOOR]
-AL: Yeah.

-[DOOR OPENS]
-Underarms clean, cunts braided?

They're ready.

You are accountable.

Why not come,

make them accountable to you?

Shut the fucking door behind you.

William Bullock...

beloved son of Martha and Seth,

called to God age 11 years,

as we are called by his passing.

Let us bow our heads.

From Psalm Number 23,

"The Lord is my shepherd,

I shall not want.

He maketh me lie down
in green pastures,

He leadeth me beside
the still waters.

He restoreth my soul.

He leadeth me
in the paths of righteousness

"for His name's sake."

[DEEP SIGH]

"O, that my words
were now written!"

That they were graven
with an iron pen and lead

in the rock forever.

For I know that my redeemer liveth,

and He shall stand
at the latter day upon the earth.

And though after my skin,
worms destroy this body,

yet in my flesh I shall see God:

Whom I shall see for myself,

and my eyes shall behold...

"and not another."

[KEENING]

[SOBS]

From Psalm 121.

"I will lift up mine eyes
unto the hills

from whence cometh my help.

My help cometh from the Lord
which made heaven and earth.

The Lord is thy keeper...

the Lord is thy shade
upon thy right hand.

The sun shall not
smite thee by day,

nor the moon by night.

The Lord shall preserve
thee from all evil:

"He shall preserve thy soul."

Let the people come
and say goodbye to William.

"The Lord shall preserve
thy going out and thy coming in

from this time forth,
and even for evermore."

At the request of the family,

the burial is private.

On their behalf, at their request,
I thank you all for coming.

[WHISPERS]
Let them see him.

Those who wish to pay final respects
to the corpse of William Bullock

are invited now into the Bullock home.

[WATER SPLASHES]

[SHOUTS]
The girls are gonna be awhile!

They're viewing the corpse.

-ADAMS: Get Wu now?
-Please.

At the ice house.
How should we set up the shifts?

-What does he mean?
-You know, guarding Wu.

Bring Wu here. Put him in one
of the whores' rooms, huh?

Johnny:
Didn't make sense when he said it.

That's the first place
Wu's people would look.

"Put him on ice,"
it's a figure of speech, Johnny.

Like "Got you by the balls."

Up you go, little lady.

-We picked flowers in William's graveyard.
-Mmm?

Me and Trixie.

"Trixie and I" is how
that's supposed to go, I think.

Yes, Ellsworth.

Yes to the question
you've asked me.

[PIGS SQUEALING]

[SPEAKING IN CHINESE]

Swedgin.

Swedgin!

No, Wu.

Swedgin!

Ha ha ha! Swedgin!

Uh, Mr. Wu,

why don't you just come with us
like a gentleman?

[SPEAKING CHINESE]

Seems to me, Wolcott,

last your eyes had
that unsettled look,

matters got grave
for some young girls.

What does it? Do you know?

Or does the water
just come on you quick?

[SHOUTS]
"Be ye afraid of the sword!"

Jesus fucking Christ!

"For wrath bringeth
the punishments of the sword!"

Get him the fuck out of here!

You're a desperate man,
aren't you, Tolliver?

Desperate. You feel
your position weakening.

And what I do, situation like that
instead of murdering helpless women,

-I get on my hind legs and fight.
-JARRY: Mr. Wolcott.

[GROANS SOFTLY]

I have nourished a suspicion

that we might pass each other
in the telegraph office.

I, of course, would be
communicating with Yankton.

I wonder, would your messages
be sent to Helena?

Mr. Hearst is not a partisan
in territorial rivalries, Commissioner.

Oh God, I want to believe that.

The great man himself
will allay your doubts.

He joins us within the week.

Does he for a fact?

I would hope, sir,
that by that time,

Yankton's answer to my telegram

would authorize me to offer,
and I would have heard accepted,

terms of annexation of this camp

such that a huge banner

would be hung across
the thoroughfare...

"Welcome, George Hearst,
to Deadwood of Dakota Territory."

I don't envy you the interval,
Commissioner.

Ain't it the idle hours that try us?

Ain't they what lead us sometimes
to the cliff, sometimes fucking over?

I may have to ask Mr. Hearst
if that's his experience too,

or of any of those that he may know.

Let me ask you something.

You think you're giving me a treat

drooling on my fucking nuts?

-Because I happen not to enjoy it.
-Sorry.

It's a strange fucking sensation.

Distracts me from my hard-on.

Fucking caskets...

bring out the dunce
in the entire fucking community.

I took some fucking beating
after my brother's fucking funeral.

[SIGHS] Smacks coming
from every fucking angle.

Still dizzy from the smack from the left,

here comes a smack from the right.

Brain can't bounce around fast enough.

Headache I fucking had
for three fucking weeks.

The fuck fault is it of mine
if my fucking brother croaks?

Ain't even my fucking brother.
Fucking people take me in,

I didn't ask them to fucking take me in.

Huh.

Fucking flopping like a fish on the dock,

my brother the perch.

Fucking falling sickness.

Let the old man beat you

because he's sad

and he has his load on.

I did better in the orphanage,

if that fat-ass Mrs. Anderson

hadn't turned out a fucking pimp.

Anyways...

how was the funeral?

Did you carry on,
disgrace yourself?

No.

Everyone was sad, I expect.

But it was pretty too.

Shut up.

Do you dye your hair?

Whatever will let us live...

as we are now.

[ACOUSTIC GUITAR PLAYING]

♪ Hey, Willie boy,
what you gonna do ♪

♪ When the wind blows cold
and the moon turns blue? ♪

♪ Gonna build me a fire,
gonna dance and sing ♪

♪ A little bit of winter
don't mean a thing ♪

♪ A little bit of winter
don't mean a thing ♪

♪ Oh hey, Willie boy,
where you gonna go ♪

♪ When the grass gets sticky
and the wind blows slow? ♪

♪ Down to the river,
gonna jump right in ♪

♪ A little bit of summer
can't be no sin ♪

♪ A little bit of summer
can't be no sin ♪

♪ Hey, Willie,
how you gonna feel ♪

♪ When the leaves turn gold
beneath your heels? ♪

♪ Gonna twirl and spin,
never gonna fall ♪

♪ Fallin' just won't do at all ♪

♪ No, that wouldn't do at all. ♪

[HUMS]