Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Deleted Scenes: Tombstone
EARP: What does he need?
EARP: For what?
HOLLIDAY: Bein’ born.
EARP: It all happened so fast with Curly Bill…I didn’t really have time to think about it, but I’ve had plenty of time to think about this. I can’t beat him, can I?
HOLLIDAY: No. (long pause) Wait…I’m goin’ with ya.
/goes into coughing fit and collapses into bed
HOLLIDAY: Oh, God. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Wyatt.
EARP: It’s all right, Doc.
HOLLIDAY: (eyes Wyatt’s badge) What’s it like to wear one of those?
/Wyatt puts badge on Doc and leaves to face Ringo
/loud banging heard on porch
HOLLIDAY: (cough) Is that you, Wyatt? You forget something?
/door flies open
HOLLIDAY: Who, may I ask, are you? You’re not one of The Cowboys here to kill me, are you, sir?
GIBSON: Cowboys? Fuck no. I ain’t played that shit since Michigan State. Never even went pro. The name’s Gibby The Kid. Well, that’s what they used to call me. I ain’t no kid no more.
HOLLIDAY: Well…Mr. Gibby. (coughs) Before I die here, you mind tellin’ me what you want?
GIBSON: Doc, I’m here to help you. I mean look at ya. Layin’ in bed some like some pussy. I thought the great Doc Holliday would somehow be better than this. Yet here you are, lettin’ your best friend go off to die while your lazy ass takes a nap. Ringo’s gonna kill him, you know. A man with a mustache like Wyatt’s deserves better, don’t you think?
HOLLIDAY: And you have a fine mustache yourself, good sir. But what can I do? I can barely stand. My lungs are…(goes into coughing fit).
GIBSON: Waaaaa! Waaaaa! Fuck your lungs, son. Do you need to breathe to fire a pistol? Shit no, you don’t. Back in the days of Gibby The Kid’s prime, I faced a moment like yours. Couldn’t walk. Could barely move. Yet there was a man standing there that meant to do harm to me and my posse. The “California Territory Dodgers”, we were called. You might have heard of us.
HOLLIDAY: I have not, sir.
GIBSON: Anyway, this man had done in many men before us. Eckersley was this cowboy’s name. His mustache was a thing to behold, too, my friend. And I was wounded from another skirmish we had earlier. But was I gonna let my boys down over something stupid like not being able to walk? Fuck no, I wasn’t. I dragged my body across the battlefield and faced The Eck, stared that sumbitch down, and took care of business! Gibby The Kid became a legend that day. Today could be your day, Doc. You get what I’m sayin’?
HOLLIDAY: Indeed…I think I do, sir.
GIBSON: Hell, the horse will get you there. You just gotta shoot. My right-hand man, “Wild” Davey Rozema, that bastard drinks so much, he hasn’t stood on his own in a month. Prick can sure shoot straight, though. I think you know what you have to do. Be a man, Doc Holliday. Be a fucking man.
HOLLIDAY: Indeed. Would you be good enough to hand me my pistols, sir?
GIBSON: That’s the spirit! Hot shit! Ringo’s ass is grass! And when you’re done, have yourself some victory ass. I seen that broad you came ridin’ into town with. She wasn’t even wearing a bustle. How lewd.
HOLLIDAY: That’s what I sad.
GIBSON: Do me a favor, though. Leave the badge. Gibby The Kid’s no fan of the law, you know.
HOLLIDAY: Perhaps. My hypocrisy may only go so far.
GIBSON: Well, on that note, I’ll be off. Good meetin’ ya, Doc. Got some business down in Phoenix to attend to. Diamondback problem. But maybe one day I’ll come across your path again.
HOLLIDAY: You’re a daisy if you do. Thank you, sir…for reminding me exactly who I am. Good day.
/30 minutes later