Trixie storms in to Doc's shack, already yelling. "Congratulations, Doc, on your high and holy bullshit," she says. She goes on to say that his sanctimony is bearable for some, "but others still got feelings." Doc asks, "Of whom are we fuckin' speaking?" Trixie explains that this mystery individual is one who might die in childbirth, but who was so "sponged down in your disapproval when she was kickin' the fuckin' dope, she's afraid now to seek your care." Doc understands, and says he'll call on her. Trixie won't let him off that easy, though, and smart-mouths that that's "mighty fuckin' big of you, Doc." He sighs and tells her she has about as miserable a disposition as her employer. Pausing dramatically as she stomps her way out, Trixie turns and announces, "I ain't exclusive to him no more."
But who IS still exclusive? That's right: Calamity Jane and her bottle of booze. She's kicking back on a bench in front of Charlie Utter's place, enjoying her morning swig, when she is suddenly and surreptitiously addressed by the NG, who offers to buy her bottle away from her so he can have a drink. He's trying to do it on the sly so no one will see them talking. She sees his hat and asks, "What the fuck are you supposed to be?" He thinks her rudeness is racially motivated, but in fact, she just wonders if his outfit is some dilapidated kind of uniform, because she "scouted for fuckin' Custer!" The NG, still not looking at her, says Custer was "a great man, who would have wanted you to sell me that bottle."
Jane is not sensitive to the man's booze yearnings, instead going on a little rant about Custer wasn't all that great, and that a lot less people would have died if that "long-haired cocksucker" had just spent more time drinking. The NG is amused by her analysis of Custer, and finally looks around to get a load of Jane. Getting a good look at him, she smiles and declares, "You're a short n*gger, aren't you?" NG: "For a fact." Jane introduces herself, and he does the same in turn. She offers him a drink, but he says again that he wants to buy the bottle. "Well," Jane says, "you ain't buyin' it. But you can have a fuckin' drink!" He's surprised, and thanks her. He takes a swig, and scans the street, nervously. In her boozed-up state, Jane notices and tells him not to "fuckin' look around...I don't care who sees a n*gger drinkin' with me, or drinking from the same bottle, or how...stupid his fuckin' outfit is." The NG gets persnickety and points out that that "this, here, is the epaulet of a Union army general." Jane doesn't care. "Well," she slurs, "this here is the ass of a drunken shitbird!" Jane is like a one-woman United Nations, sharing in the universal language of booze. She tells him to sit and finish the bottle with her, "if you can sit beside someone and not stink, or fart." He sits down, and tells her he's been known to cut the odd fart, but they've never stunk. Nodding, Jane tells him, "I've got the self-same gift."