Al Swearengen: Dan, don't you agree that the truth, if only a pinch, must season every falsehood, or the palate fucking rebels? And mustn't the novice chef be mindful not to ladle out his concoction by the unseasoned fucking ton, lest before he perfect his art, he lose his clientele?

Al Swearengen: Don't you think I don't understand. I mean, what can anyone of us ever really fuckin' hope for, huh? Except for a moment here and there with a person who doesn't want to rob, steal or murder us? At night, it may happen. Sun-up, one person against the fuckin' wall, the other may hop on the fuckin' bed trusting each other enough to tell half the fucking truth. Everybody needs that. Becomes precious to 'em. They don't want to see it fucked with.
Sol: I won't pay.
Al Swearengen: You pay�� or she pays. No home visits. Do your visiting on the premises, five. [Sol slides five coins across the bar] Seven for an ass-fuck.

Al Swearengen: Every fuckin' beatin' I'm grateful for. Every fuckin' one of them. Get all the trust beat outta you. And you know what the fuckin' world is.

Al Swearengen: Every rumor you floated in your article, Merrick, I believe is a living possibility for this camp, and I want you to fucking hear that as a compliment.
A.W. Merrick: If so, it's the first from your lips.
Al Swearengen: Because all them possibilities, called next to accomplished fact, in one fucking outgush makes people smell a rat.
A.W. Merrick: Yes, I suppose so.
Al Swearengen: These interests coming after us, Merrick, they're fucking rough. They're going after our nuts. They're hypocrite cocksuckers, and the fucking lying tactics and instruments they use to fuck people up the ass can be turned against them.
A.W. Merrick: My newspaper being such an instrument.
Al Swearengen: But scale, amount, proportion, seasoning. Drink that fucking second shot, Merrick!
A.W. Merrick: I like my fucking liquor.
Al Swearengen: A trait in you that gave me early hope.

Al Swearengen: Her husband came here with childish ideas. Bought himself a gold claim with me an honest broker. Claim pinches out, which will happen. But he can't take that like a man, has to blame somebody. Seller's left camp, so he picks on me. Says he'll bring in the Pinkertons if I don't offer restitution. I got a healthy operation and I didn't build it brooding on the right, and wrong of things. I do not need the Pinkertons descending like locusts. So I bend over for the tenderfoot cocksucker. Reconnoiter your claim fully, I say. And then, if you're still unhappy, I will give you your fucking money back. And the tenderfoot agrees. Just as he's finishing his reconnoiter, cocksucker falls to his death, pure fucking accident. But up jumps the widow in righteous fucking indignation. Wants the doctor to examine him for murder wounds. My visions of locusts return. I see Pinkertons coming in swarms.

Al Swearengen: I did not shame myself. I keep an open mind in that area. Kid yourself about your behaviour, you'll never learn a fuckin' thing. I knew it was comin' too. Fuckin' Captain, holdin' me down. I knew what the fuck was next.
Dolly: When he chopped off your finger?
Al Swearengen: He didn't chop off my finger! Hearst chopped my fuckin' finger off; the other fuck held me down! They hold you down, y-you can't get at 'em to help yourself. Fuckin' cold in here anyway, isn't it?
Dolly: You want a blanket?
Al Swearengen: If I do I'll put it round me, you ain't boss of the fuckin' bedclothes! They hold you down from behind. Then you wonder why you're helpless. How the fuck could you not be?
Dolly: I don't like it either.
Al Swearengen: Another one that held me down, that fuckin' Proctor when I tried to get to that ship. He fuckin' held me, fuckin' wouldn't let me go. Fuckin' in my mind, y'see, she was being restrained, couldn't get back off, that had got on the boat to fuckin' New Orleans to go suck prick in Georgia. She changed her mind, and I was bein' restrained by that fat, bastard orphanage Proctor! Anyway, that's it, that's the end of it, that's the fuckin' conclusion ... CHRIST, I'D'VE WISHED TO- [catches himself] Though probably she'd'a thrown be overboard anyway, but I'd'a wished to get to that fuckin' ship. But I was bein' restrained. I couldn't get from where she'd left me. He held me to that bed, her callin' from the ship that had changed her mind.
Dolly [quietly]: I don't like it either.
Al Swearengen: No, huh? ... What?
Dolly: When they hold you down.
Al Swearengen: I guess I do that, huh, with your fuckin' hair?
Dolly: No
Al Swearengen: No?... Well, bless you for a fuckin' fibber.

Al Swearengen: I need your truthful reply. Lie, I will know it, and death will be no respite.
E.B. Farnum: I told Hearst nothing of Bullock and the Widow.
Al Swearengen: I will profane your fucking remains, E.B.
E.B. Farnum: Not my remains, Al.
Al Swearengen: Gabriel's Trumpet will produce you from the ass of a pig.
E.B. Farnum: You told me not to tell him, and I didn't.
Al Swearengen: I believe you.
E.B. Farnum: My pain is such that gives me no solace.
Al Swearengen: Well try not to blame Bullock for presuming it was you considering your fucking history. Anyways, tonight's speeches are fucking canceled. Nurse your fucking wounds.
E.B. Farnum: Thank you.
Al Swearengen: I do not mean here.

Al Swearengen: I want to tell you somethin' about the law. Please, take a seat. Separate from all the bribes we put up, I paid 5000 dollars to avoid being the object of fireside ditties about a man that fled a murder warrant then worked very hard to get his camp annexed by the territory, only to have them serve the warrant of him and to face the six-foot drop. Into the magistrate's pocket the money goes, after which he sends a message. The 5,000'll need company if I'm to be off the hook. I give you the law.
Seth: It doesn't have to be like that.

Al Swearengen: I'd rather try touching the moon than take on a whore's thinking.

Al Swearengen: In life you have to do a lot of things you don't fucking want to do. Many times, that's what the fuck life is... one vile fucking task after another. But don't get aggravated... then the enemy has you by the short hairs.

Al Swearengen: It wouldn't be the worst thing, backing a loser to Hearst. Let him pick me up from the canvas after, dust me the fuck off. I raise the great man's hand and murmur, best as I can through split lips, "Your man beat my man's balls off, Mr. Hearst." But Hearst's chink boss in that alley ain't to my fuckin' taste. So what if something delays the battle of the chinks? Say, durin' that interval I get to show my ass a few times to Mr. Hearst. Meanwhile, that pain in the balls Wu is sketching up a storm, drawin' fuckin' little pictures of himself brandishin' the lash, drivin' from a delivery ship a quota of chinks to be blown to pieces by dynamite working in the mines for Hearst at half the fee, per chink, that Hearst is paying the San Francisco cocksucker. Now, by this time Hearst has seen my ass so many times, he knows I'm no long-term threat. So some brief opposition of our interests ain't gonna make him feel like he needs to engage me in a death struggle, say, by opposin' local elections. Those circumstances, we can risk backing Wu, and the great man figures, "I am damaged by neither outcome. Why not retire to a neutral corner and test my import against the locals?"

Al Swearengen: Let her go; she ain't taking any business with her. And don't forget to kill Tim.

Al Swearengen: Let me say this once in your hearing. For outright stupidity, the whole fuckin' trial concept goes shoulder to shoulder with that cocksucker Custer's thinkin' when he headed for that ridge.
Cy Tolliver: It's got its disadvantages.
Al Swearengen: We're illegal. Our whole goal is to get annexed to the United fuckin' States. We start holdin' trials, what's to keep the United States fuckin' Congress from sayin' "Oh, excuse us, we didn't realize you were a fuckin' sovereign community and nation out there. Where's your cocksucker's flag? Where's your fuckin' navy or the like? Maybe when we make our treaty with the Sioux, we should treat you people like renegade fuckin' Indians. Deny your fuckin' gold and property claims. And hand everything over instead to our ne'er-do-well cousins and brothers-in-law."
Cy Tolliver: That we don't want.

Al Swearengen: Let's leave it all alone. I'm stupidest when I try to be funny.

Al Swearengen: Mrs. Garret writ me a letter saying how yesterday she lost her temper with you somewhat, and judgment, she tipped she was on to you being a Pinkerton. Oh, being bright, I expect you concluded it was me must have told her, meaning maybe I had sold over to her, and with my allegiance now in question, I expect you wired the Pinkerton big-shots, arguing you oughtn't sign any documents that might be able to prove that you, the agency, and Mrs. Garret's fucking in-laws hired me to lay at Mrs. Garret's doorstep the murder of her husband.
Miss Isringhausen: And further, Mr. Swearengen, that as to purchase of your allegiance, now in question, they might wish to keep the bidding open.
Al Swearengen: Bidding is open always on everyone, Miss Isringhausen. But I expect you understand, knowing as I do, should Mrs. Garret lose her claim, rather than operate it themselves, her cunt in-laws will sell to third-party cocksuckers inimical to the whole of my interests in this camp! To buy my allegiance against myself, in-law cunts and shit-heel operators would have to bid very high indeed.