Bullock walks up to join Mrs. Garret just as they hit this phrase: "Did we in our own strength confide / Our striving would be losing / Were not the right Man on our side / The Man of God's own choosing." Sure, it's an anvil. Hell, it's a Biblical anvil, but...isn't it pretty? That's why I love this show.

Al is counting his money back at the Gem when Dan comes over, saying he hopes Al hasn't given up on the girl, Flora. "Oh, do you worry for her, Dan?" Al asks. "Wandering the muck of our thoroughfare, her tiny self all but swallowed up in horseshit?" Dan makes a confused face, but Al calls out to the girl's brother, asking him to come over. "Stand with us here a second," Al says. The kid asks what they're doing. "Waiting," Al answers. Miles follows Al's eyes to a partition over in the corner of the room. A man emerges, wiping his mouth. "And out the door he'll go," Al says, "and prompt as a Swiss fuckin' timepiece, three big-tittied whores will now emerge from behind that screen." Al is quite correct, of course, and the women do indeed emerge. Conspiratorially, he leans and whispers to Miles. "He lines 'em up at two-foot intervals," Al explains, "smock tops down, and all but sprints past 'em, giving their titties a lick. And if he misses a titty, does not let himself retrace his steps." Miles is amazed. Al says it's just something you have to know about specialists. "They pay a premium," he says, "and they never cause fuckin' trouble." As a matter of fact, Al says, he sometimes thinks of going back to Manchester to open a joint catering only to specialists. "And to let them know they're amongst their own," he says, "maybe I'll operate from the corner, hanging upside down like a fuckin' bat." Miles is enthralled, of course, but this, uh, grandfatherly chat, is certainly not without purpose. "We're not such bad sorts here, huh Miles?" Al asks. Miles says no, certainly not. "So," Al says, getting to the point. "Do you want to ask your sister if she'd like to reconsider?" Miles gives a nervous laugh: "You don't really mean that, Mr. Swearengen..." Al makes a big show, saying of course he doesn't, and goes to meet with E.B. who has just oiled in. "Complications have ensued," E.B. reports. "Bullock's come back." Al can't stand it. He tells E.B. to tell Trixie to come see him. "I trust this doesn't alter our agreement," E.B. says. Al gives him both eyebrows at full barrel. "I trust you know," he says, right in time for tax season, "two percent of nothing's fucking nothing."