Extreme poignancy is taking place over in Joanie's rooms at Shaunessey's. Oh, the painful realizations of the morning after. Joanie is all dressed for the day and finally has to wake up Jane, who is asleep on the floor. Jane comes to and remembers the events of last night in one fell swoop. She can't get herself up and out fast enough, while Joanie lamely tries to get her to stay. "I got errands all morning myself," Jane sniffs, adding: "If you just heard me fart, excuse me." Siiiiigh. First of all, as if Jane has ever run an errand besides "8:30 a.m. -- Be sure rotgut is purchased prior to making attempt at gut rotting." Secondly, is it not bad enough that Joanie has been subjected to years of farting and sweating and otherwise disgusting men? Now she has to stand here in her beautiful velvet dress and delicious hat and endure the hungover gas of Ms. Closet 1879? Jane, you're here, you're queer...come ON. But no, she's all antsy and uncomfortable and not looking Joanie in the face, and it breaks my heart anew. She won't even say if she's coming back to sleep there tonight. Things only get worse when they go outside and get bashed by the landlord. "I'll not have vile affections or uncleanness on these premises," Shaunessey, Deadwood's biggest self-hater, snits. "Find my specific meaning at Romans 1:24-6..." he says, clutching one of his handy signs inscribed with the verse. Jane leans in, as if to read, and points to each word as she translates into the New Revised Jane Version: "Fuck yourself with a fist punch up your ass, today, at the present moment," she yells, hitting him in the stomach for added emphasis. "I gotta go," she mumbles to Joanie, not even stopping. "I'm moving outta that fucking place," Joanie calls after her. "Not me! Not me!" Jane yells back. "I never fuckin' moved in." She stomps off, no doubt in search of something to make her day and her life even worse than she's already made it. Damn you, Jane.
Steve's washing his face in the horse's water trough as the NG saddles up to leave. I guess slobbery horse water is about as good as one can hope for in Deadwood. You know that bathhouse water will give you the floating crabs, for one thing, and a sponge bath from anywhere would only be as good as the syph-encrusted sponge. I just totally made up "the floating crabs," by the way, but I promise you, you don't want to catch that. It occurs to Steve that he has not met his asshole quota today, so he starts right in on the NG. "Don't think you was offered a job here last night," he says, backpedaling like Floyd Landis in front of the doping board. "Gauging the fucking level you'd fucking presume to was all that was." The NG is not even bothered enough to roll his eyes and keeps on getting his horse ready. "Maybe you declined 'cause you thought you ought to be partners in the fuckin' business," Steve yells, "name on the signage like a human's or God hadn't set man apart from the fucking beasts!" Listen, Steve. Let me give you some advice. I learned this recently at a conference: if you want someone to help you at work, the whole tar the employee/engage in verbal abuse/drive their friend to suicide tactic is no longer the number one choice in management circles for recruitment and retention. Times are changing. Sars, for example, gave up that old cat-o'-nine-tails months ago, and I am so relieved. ["Gave up using it on you, maybe. Teacher's pet." -- Joe R]