Well, well. It’s all coming apart pretty horribly. Ellsworth thinks Alma has to get ripped to the tits on cheap opiates in order to be able to face her conjugal chores and is now sleeping in a ditch somewhere. Doc Cochrane’s coughing up chunks of lung all over the camp. Tolliver recovers a shred of sanity, and then loses it in believing Farnham would help him out for a lousy two hundred bucks. Odell’s got QUICK DEATH written all over his face. Charlie Utter really just wants to shoot some cocksucker. Sol doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going on with anyone, and Trixie isn’t helping, what with her habit of not giving anyone the other half of any fucking conversation she has and leaving everyone not having the faintest idea what she’s talking about. Blasanov’s losing his shit, Merrick’s looking like he’s repressing the urge to fuck the next thing that falls in front of him, Joanie loves Jane, Bullock’s crazy, George Hearst is crazier… and, tonight, the camp elders gather to decide what to do about him.
But, of course, George Hearst has already sent a wire to points unknown.
My copy of DEADWOOD comes to me tomorrow. Are the rest of you geared up for it?