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My Day in Deadwood
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It was fucking hotter than the fucking hinges of hell when I rode into fucking Deadwood. The fucking streets were fucking teaming with people, most of them miners and most of them fucking drunk. The fucking sheriff eyed me from under the brim of his fucking hat as I rode past his fucking office, the fucker’s chair leaned back on two legs as he reclined against the wall.
“Where in the fuck do you think you’re going?” the cocksucker asked, one hand toying with his badge, the other resting ominously on the fucking shotgun on his lap.
“How’s that you’re fucking business?” I replied.
“I’m the fucking law in this fucking town, mister. You’d best just answer the fucking question, you hear?”
“I’m fucking thirsty and I was fixing to get me a fucking drink,” I said, tugging my horse to a stop.
“As long as that’s all you are fucking fixing to do,” he said. “I fucking pride myself on keeping this here fucking town really fucking clean.”
“I’ll fucking try not to fuck it up, ok?”
“Fucking right you will,” the sheriff replied. “Now, get on your fucking way.”
“Where’s the fucking saloon?” I asked as I jostled the fucking reins and my horse resumed plodding down the fucking street.
“Right fucking over yonder.” The sheriff pointed a gnarled finger. “What’re you, fucking blind?”
“Not fucking yet, but I fucking intend to get that way real fucking soon.”
Before I fucking knew it I was pushing my way through the fucking swinging doors of the Flying Fuck Saloon. It took my fucking eyes a few moments to adjust to the fucking dim light in the fucking place. I walked up to the bar with more than a couple sets of fucking eyes studying me.
“What’ll it fucking be?” asked the fucking bartender.
“Gimme a fucking whiskey,” I said. I rolled a cigarette and was lighting the fucking thing when the bartender clopped a glass on the bar and poured my fucking drink.
“You ain’t fucking from around here, are ya?” he asked, his eyes squinting ever so fucking slightly.
“Nope, I sure as fuck ain’t.”
“Where in the fuck are you from then?”
“Why do you give a god damn?”
The barkeep suddenly dropped the fucking whiskey bottle and, reaching under the fucking bar, he produced a fucking sawed-off shotgun which he proceeded to point at my fucking face with murder in his eyes. I could hear other fucking weapons being cocked behind me.
“Watch your fucking language, mister,” growled the bartender. “We don’t take to fucking kindly to cocksuckers who use the lord's name in vain.”
That was when I knew that it was gonna be a long fucking day.
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