What a long, filthy trip it's been. The cocksuckers end the series not with a bang, but with a fizzle when Alma finally, against every fiber in her being, sells out to Hearst.
It's like Christmas for the asshole -- he also demands the death of the whore that shot him. Al, though, can't let that happen to Trixie, and uses poor Jen in her stead, despite the pain this brings to Johnny. Much to the buttface's added delight, early returns indicate that Bullock has lost the sheriff election.
Hawkeye arrives in town with the hired muscle, and Wu's Chinese mercenaries show up, but it looks like they won't be needed after all. Hearst, having gotten what he wants, leaves Deadwood without the threatened bloodbath. Good riddance to him, but not to this brilliant series and these wonderful characters that will be so sorely missed.
Well, it's come to this. Let's just get it out of the way: I'm depressed. I've put off starting this recap until the last minute, just because I don't want this to be the end -- and, I'll be so very honest with you, recapping this show is not easy. At all. It's like three days from Butte in a stagecoach with a farting soap salesman sometimes. I don't want to kick y'all when you're down, or anything, but cast your mind back to all that Yankton mess and consider my resulting bruised frontal lobe and carpal tunnel syndrome. Remember when we thought Al's attempted buyout of Brom Garret's gold claim was complicated? Right? Those were the salad days, weren't they? Despite the brain sprain, despite the long hours and reference checking and cringing at swear words heretofore unknown to my pristine ears, I have enjoyed the fuck out of this cocksucking assignment, and feel that so deeply examining these characters was a job for which I was perfectly suited at this time in my life. When I started, I was just about as mad and as mean as Al Swearengen. Like him, I had my reasons. Well, I've mellowed with Al. Not to say, as he might agree, I don't occasionally feel the need to stab someone, still, but I feel like I've taken a few from the world, given a few back, and now can stoically regard whatever else comes as inevitable, but not insurmountable. Al, the ultimate anti-hero, was heroic to me. So. What I'm saying is, you're welcome, and thank you. I've enjoyed it, and I hope they give us a shot at the alleged two follow-up films. Let's get to the finale (sob).
It's the middle of the night in Deadwood, and Hearst is laid out on the floor of his room. We gasp, hoping against hope that this means the writers have laughed in the face of history and given us the death scene for which we have all been secretly yearning. But no. He just slept on the floor and is now being awakened by a considerably stern knock. He looks furious that someone would dare make such a noise and opens to find Charlie Utter. "A casket's come with your name on it," Charlie says, matter-of-fact. Hearst is put out -- I am assuming it's Odell's body inside -- and bitches that Charlie will find out in the morning what he wants done with it. He tries to slam the door in Charlie's face, but, you know something? Charlie's not having it. This town is OVER George Hearst. Charlie tells Mr. Big he doesn't appreciate his tone. Hearst gets even more uppity. "Who are you, Mr. Utter," he asks, "for me to care what you like or don't?" Charlie, not even slightly intimidated, gives him the answer: "I'm the guy that the next time you see me, you'd better take a different fuckin' tone with." Hearst has the balls to scoff. "Given whatâs in store," he smarts off, "I'm not sure I'll ever learn what price I'd have paid for not complyin'." Charlie shoots it right back, playground style: "Oooh, I guess someone lookin' hard might could find you in there somewheres, peekin' from under the covers to make a fuckin' threat." Good one, Charlie. (MAN, I'll miss Charlie.) Hearst, full of hate, slams the door and Charlie walks out the front door of the hotel, pausing for a moment to tip his hat to Aunt Lou.