The cocksucker extends an invitation to your’s truly, says something about his ability to keep his eyes focused on what’s important, nevermind the line of chum, nevermind the gruesome worries of each day, mayhem, murder and the like, and come on over to my joint for an evening’s worth of democracy, gaze upon and appreciate the drama as it unfolds directly beneath us, for want of a better venue or reason to take up each other’s time, why not a moment of history, and why not I and the fucking lion tamer take a break from our various gambits against one another, simply take in the scene from a vantage point appropriate…considering our respective roles as puppeteers, why not let the fucking hoople-heads take a look at it all, democracy and the like, see if any of them figure something out, perhaps notice the strings connecting performer to puppeteer, perhaps even catch a whiff of their own future as they figure this out, and how much it resembles the aroma of chink-alley when the sun hits it just right…
Or so I thought. Nevermind that I’d no sooner trust anyone than that tycoon dancing up a hailstorm of misery, like everywhere he’s been, with that bullshit affability and a tired explaination of ‘my only passion is the color’…whether explaining himself to a reporter working on another biography, or taking a piss on the pile of Cornish his accounts demanded as sacrifice on a given day…I let my guard down and so, Captain Turner is currently attaching my finger to his belt. Round two is over. I’m just getting started…
(Deadwood Season 3 – written minutes after seeing episode 2)
Sounds appropriately Swearingenian, for those that know the show.