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]