Pages

Tommy Maaltman Blogging

Tommy Maaltman Blogging
Tommy Maaltman Blogging

Friday, December 23, 2011

Lassiter ventures out on Christmas Eve.

Lassiter, the lone, stone cold killer for hire with steel gray eyes, had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach when he got the call to do a job on December 24, Christmas Eve. The request was to settle an old debt at a small cabin nestled in the foot hills of the Teton Mountains near the Teton Pass in the woefully willful town of Wilson, Wyoming, population 100. Sensing a setup or an ambush by one of his many enemies, Lassiter took extra precautions as he cinched his oak leather rig around his 29 inch waist and carefully placed his two Smith and Wesson, fully loaded, 44 magnum six-shooters into the right and left holsters. For extra precaution, he tucked his Sharps Pepperbox breech loader 32 caliber pistol into his waist band and his .41 rimfire Remington model 95 over and under Derringer into his right ankle holster. Mounting Blaze, his trusted, pitch black steed he headed west out into a storm that was blanketing the ground with six to eight inches of sparkling white fluffy snow. He rode hard most of the day and at dusk spotted the flickering, yellow candle light coming through the windows of the snug, small cabin with a swirl of white smoke drifting skyward to the heavens from the chimney. It looked too good, too comfortable, too easy to be true. Lassiter dismounted Blaze and tied the reins to a Blue Spruce pine tree and slowly, cautiously and quietly approached the cabin on foot. By now it was dark with a full moon and a sky full of twinkling stars illuminating the way. For a moment Lassiter had a pleasant thought of how all the little Christian children dressed in their red flannel one piece pajamas in the world would be looking out the windows of their little homes hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus and his reindeer. Lassiter's stone cold mind quickly and professionally snapped back to the task at hand, that of a gun for hire, professional killer, paid to settle a debt permanently and terminally. Without a sound he climbed the three steps leading to the porch of the cabin and stood in front of the door. He drew both Smith and Wesson 44 magnum six shooters and with a powerful blow kicked open the door and stepped into the cabin. A millisecond before pulling the triggers and turning the inside of the cabin into a deadly, blazing inferno of white hot molten lead from his six shooters he noticed his family including Inge, his smoking hot twenty year old Swedish bride, son Kid Colton, the edgy, hot headed young gun for hire with a huge chip on his shoulder, chronically mistreated and abused daughter Minerva with her new husband Jimmy, the frontier school third grade drop out gainfully employed as a dung boy, and granddaughter 'Lil' Madeline with those owl eyes and a square smile so big you could shove a child's toy wooden block into with room to spare. Startled, they all turned towards the door and in unison said, "MERRY CHRISTMAS." Lassiter stood down, leathered his guns and walked towards the hearth of the fireplace and his family feeling the warmth of the fire and for the first time in his life the joy Christmas. Later that evening just around midnight after a dinner of cooked goose, yams, corn pudding and Dutch apple pie, the family gathered around the glowing embers in the fireplace for a dram of Scapa Cask Strength Edition, 14 year old 60.6 vol whisky with a deep gold color, mint, straw, grapefruit, chocolate covered cherries nose, silky smooth but slightly oily body, mint, straw and vanilla taste and long peppery dry menthol finish. With a belly full of Christmas dinner and the warmth of cask strength single malt Scotch whisky coursing through his veins, Lassiter built himself a smoke and with the slightest tremor in his right hand placed the cigarette between his tight thin lips and gazed at his family one by one dozing off cuddled around the warmth of the fireplace with visions of sugar plums dancing through their heads. Lassiter couldn't help but think, "If only they new how close they all were to having their brains splattered all over the walls of the cabin on Christmas Eve." It's never a good idea to surprise a stone cold professional killer for hire. Slàinte and Merry Christmas, Tommy Maaltman.

Sunday, October 9, 2011

Lassiter seeks revenge and finds rapture.

Lassiter mounted Blaze and headed West for home. As luck would have it he came across a "Feel Good Southern Pentecostal Church Born Again Revival" being conducted by The Preacher Man, the same preacher man that stole Minerva's 40 worthless, after the war of Northern Aggression Confederate dollars leaving her helpless, hopeless and destitute. Lassiter thought it would do his soul good to attend this "Come to Jesus" time with the great and pious, Preacher Man. Lassiter listened to The Preacher Man's sermon about repenting, changing evil and sinful ways and following in the footsteps of the Lord. This was followed by hours of personal testimony by Born Again Christians, full emersion baptisms in the brachish back waters of a small tributary of the Missouri River and miraculous faith healings. Later that evening, everyone was exhausted and went home to rest and recover. Lassiter thought it might be a good idea to have a "one on one" with the man of the cloth. The knocking on the door of the parsonage where the Preacher Man lived was answered by the Preacher Man's wife, a rather frump, squat, dowdy appearing middle aged women dressed all in black homespun. She explained to Lassiter that her husband wasn't in. He was out counseling and tending to his flock, his parishioners in need. It seemed to her that his work was never done. There was no rest for the weary as long as the Devil had his way and there were sinners to convert. Lassiter followed the Preacher Man's wagon tracks to a small weather beaten clapboard house on the edge of town and noticed a flickering candle illuminating the window. Lassiter kicked in the door and caught The Preacher Man with his pants down in a dalliance with Mrs. Betty Miller a faithful and nubile follower of the Preacher Man who was unfortunately married to Davey Miller, a poor sod buster and father of their three boys who spent most of his time at the local watering hole drinking cheap rye whiskey that was slowly rotting his brain and liver. Lassiter drew his Smith and Wesson 44 magnum six shooter and with surgical precision pulled the trigger sending a 256 grain lead slug directly into the Preacher Man's fifth lumbar vertebrae, severing his spinal cord rendering him paraplegic from the waist down and impotent. Betty screamed hysterically and modestly tried to cover her body with the blood soaked sheets as she scrambled out of the bed. Lassiter slowly turned and pulled an envelope with 40 worthless Confederate dollars out of his pocket and placed it on the kitchen table with a note that read, Dear Mr. Preacher Man, I am so sorry for your misfortune. Perhaps you can use this money to help defray your medical bills. Yours in faith, Colton Lassiter. Lassiter mounted Blaze and headed West. With a five day and night ride ahead of him he knew he would have plenty of time to reflect on his life, the past week's events and religion. He built a smoke and pulled out his Sterling silver flask containing a very special Macallan 30 year old, 43 vol. single malt whisky with a full orange color, resiny polished oak nose, mellow, mature complex slightly smoky taste, and warm smooth finish. That night he came to the conclusion that he didn't need no organized religion. Revenge is rapture for men like Lassiter. Sláinte, Tommy Maaltman

Saturday, October 1, 2011

In Lassiter's world the truth hurts and sometimes it's fatal.

Lassiter didn't look back. He mounted Blaze and road East for five days and nights arriving in Valdosta, Georgia at sunrise on Monday morning. At 10:00 AM, Southern Union Bank's opening time, he walked through the lavish doors and asked to see the Bank's President, a Mr. Balfour Bagette. Mrs. Genivieve Easley, the prim and proper receptionist looking over her nose saw Lassiter with five days of trail dust and dirt covering his black leather vest, pants and boots and said in a self important, fake English accent, "Is Mr. Bagette expecting you." Not answering, Lassiter proceeded forward and kicked in the doors of Mr. Bagette's expensively decorated presidential office suite. Mr. Bagette, the pink moist skinned, bald, fat, gout inflicted from years of over eating and excessive drinking bank president was sitting at his palatial desk enjoying a platter of pouched eggs smothered in Hollandase sauce and fried clams. As he washed down a gluttonous mouthful of the greasy food with an expensive French Claret he looked up to see Lassiter starring at him with stone cold, steely gray killer eyes. All the color drained out of the bank president's face accentuating his grease and spittle glistening frothy double chin as Lassiter said, "Mr. Bagette, my name is Colton Lassiter, Minerva's father." Mr Bagette struggling to his feet said, "Mr. Lassiter, I can explain everything." Seconds later, the corpulent man keeled over and dropped dead of a massive heart attack as his cholesterol laden blood terminally occluded the left anterior descending coronary artery, better known to those in the profession as "The Widowmaker." It seemed that the stress and anxiety brought on by confronting Lassiter, the man he cheated, in addition to a life of excess was just too much for the greedy, self absorbed fat man. Lassiter turned around and walked out of the office. As he passed Mrs. Easley he mentioned that Mr. Bagette may need some assistance. Having heard the loud crash as Mr. Bagette's massive body collapsed scattering food, wine and fine expensive china shattering on the marble floor, Mrs. Easley said, "Should I call a doctor?" Lassiter, this time looking down over his nose at her said, "No, call the undertaker." To be continued.......Sláinte, Tommy Maaltman

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Lassiter learns the truth.

Lassiter couldn't help but notice Minerva's anorexic, filthy body, covered in rags as she was trying to make a home for her husband Jimmy and their newborn baby girl Lil' Madeline. "Child, you appear to be struggling. Whatever happened to all that money I wired you when you were working your fingers to the bone at that dilapidated old boarding house in Valdosta, Georgia tending to the wounded and dieing Confederate soldiers in the newly reconstructed South after the War of Northern Aggression? Is Jimmy, your third grade frontier school dropout newly wed husband who works as a dung boy at the local livery, getting drunk and mistreatin' you?" Minerva, dumbfounded, started sobbing and collapsed to the bone dry, dusty, dirty ground. Looking up at her father she said, "Daddy, you mean to tell me you don't know!?" Lassiter said, "Dont know what?" Minerva proceeded to tell him how one day out of nowhere she received a wire transfer of money from him, her long lost father who walked out on the family many years before leaving them destitute and ill equipped to unsuccessfully fend for themselves. Not knowing how to read, she sought the best advice available and met with the highly respected Mr.Balfour Bagette, the president of the most reputable Southern Union Bank. Well, it turned out that Mr. Bagette was ethically and morally challenged to say the least and the Sougthern Union Bank was not as respectable and reputable as it should have been. Mr. Bagette pocketed the $250.00 Federal bank notes and gave Minerva $50.00, after the war, worthless Confederate money. Later, on the train West, Minerva was befriended by "The Preacher Man" who got her drunk and stole the worthless Confederate dollars leaving her helpless, hopeless and homeless. After learning what had happened to the money, Lassiter said nothing, slowly turned and walked away. Minerva called after him crying, "Daddy, where are you going? Don't you hurt nobody. We're getting' by." To be continued......Sláinte, Tommy Maaltman

Saturday, September 3, 2011

The dirty, dusty, forgotten town of.....Forgotten experiences the Stockholm Syndrome.

Nobody was surprised when Lassiter, the stone cold, professional killer for hire, announced that he was going to get married. Everybody assumed that sooner or later he would finally make an honest women out of Kitty, the rough ridden and put away wet Lady of the Evening, plying her trade at The Hole in the Wall Saloon in the dirty, dusty, forgotten town of.....Forgotten. As successful as Lassiter was as a gun slinger for hire, he hadn't found much happiness in his personal life. You see, Lassiter walked out on his first wife leaving her and their two children poorly equipped to unsuccessfully fend for themselves. With his first wife dead, son Kid Lassiter estranged, and daughter, Minerva, struggling with her own family, certainly Lassiter deserved some happiness in his attempt to start over. On the day of the wedding, the whole town showed up at the small frontier Parrish appropriately named, Our Lady of Perpetual Grief and Aggravation. Father O'Brien, the alcoholic priest, well aware of the importance of this momentous occasion, stopped drinking two days prior and was shaking like a leaf, probably from the DT's, (Delirium Tremors.) As Homer, the freakishly thin, tall, lanky, never married, musician started pounding out the processional on the old chamber pipe organ, the crowd became silent. The doors of the Narthex opened and in walked.......Inge Anderson, Lassiter's bride, a twenty year old, smoking hot, Swedish super model with natural platinum blonde hair dressed in a stunning white satin wedding dress tailored expertly to accentuate every part of her perfect "10" body. The future Mrs. Colton Lassiter proceeded to walk towards the alter. With the sun to her back, the rays bathed her body producing a warm, soft, halo of golden yellow light surrounding her flawless face and head. As if taken over by the Holy Spirit, the men in the room dropped to their knees, prosthelytized. Overcome by her intoxicating beauty, as if experiencing a mass religious conversion, the men began sobbing and babbling in tongues. The prurient interest was palpable. Meanwhile, the women in attendance couldn't help but feel......disgusted, with a sense of nauseating revolt as they witnessed Inge's effect on their simple frontier men. Their feelings intensified as they heard these men say in unison, "Yes sweet Jesus, there truly is a God Almighty." [Note: This mass effect of one person on so many has been extensively studied by professionals and is now widely known as The Stockholm Syndrome.] Inge walked down the center aisle like it was a fashion runway in Paris or Milano and stood next to Lassiter whose face merely expressed, "it is what it is." The now sober, trembling, Father O'Brien, better known for his proclivity for younger members of his own sex, did not seemed to be influenced by Inge's overwhelming presence and after regaining control over the rabble proceeded in a monotone, drab, dull, almost uninterested voice with the wedding ceremony. After the obligatory "I do's" to the question, "Will you Inge promise to honor and obey," Father O'Brien pronounced them "Man and Wife." the newlyweds turned to walk out of the church after being introduced as Mr. And Mrs. Colton NMI Lassiter. Before exiting, Lassiter extended an invitation for all to join them for wedding cake and a dram of cask strength single malt Scotch whisky at The Hole in the Wall Saloon at 5:00 PM sharp. At precisely 5:00 o'clock the doors of The Hole in the Wall Saloon pushed open and in stampeded the anxious crowd trampling over Kitty's body who was passed out drunk on the dirty floor of the saloon. Minerva, Lassiter's daughter, cut and served the wedding cake made by Molly, the proprietor of Molly's Eatery. Lassiter poured drams of Ardbeg, 21 year old, 56.3 vol, with a creamy pale Nordic gold color, firm, taught maritime nose, fruit and pastry taste, and a coal tar, smoke and phenol finish. Inge seemed to thoroughly enjoy the crude accolades as she was fawned over by the filthy, unshaven, uncouth, drooling and giddy frontier men in the receiving line. Sláinte, Tommy Maaltman

Sunday, July 24, 2011

The legend of "Ye Olde Knife in the Kidney Tavern."

Followers, better known as 'Maaltmen,' of Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild, West, a big part of Tommy Maaltman's Malt Musings found on tommymaaltman.blogspot.com (shameless plug) have wondered how Ye Olde Knife in the Kidney Tavern got it's name. Well, I'm glad your inguiriing minds wanted to know and I'm happy to tell you the story. Big John Brown, a mountain of a man as rough as a cob, was used to having and getting his way around town. One night he walked into a no name watering hole in Borculo, a small backwater town in the muck land of western Michigan, and sat down at the bar next to Norma Stitz, a shy, naive eightteen year old local out for an evening of fun for the first time in her life after running away from what she perceived as overly strict Dutch Reformed parents. Accompanying her was Benny Spade, better known as 'Digger.' No Digger was not a respected undertaker as so many in the profession were nicknamed in those days. Digger made his living in a more sinister manner as a grave robber selling the bodies to aspiring physicians for dissection which was illegal and helping himself to any valuables that the grieving families forgot to remove from the body prior to burial. He made a good living but always complained about the bad hours and poor work conditions having to work late at night in poor lighting. As Big John sat down next to Norma, the bar stool creaked and groaned with the strain of the weight of his massive body. Looking at Digger, Big John said, "Get lost Puke can't you see I'm talkin' to the gal." Norma's chest swelled with a feeling of exultation and for the first time in her life a sense of importance and relevance. Digger, incensed and enraged, knew better than to make a scene and quietly got up and slinked off into the night to pursue his profession. Several hours later when the bar was empty except for Big John, a semi-conscious Norma feeling the effects of alcohol for the first time in her life and a dozing bar keep, Digger slipped back inside and quietly made his way to within inches of Big John's back. Like a flash in the night, he expertly jabbed a twelve inch, sharp as a razor, steel shank directly into Big John's left costrovertebral angle. The knife pierced the skin, muscle and fascia and directly skewered the left kidney stopping shortly after severing the left renal artery and vein. Big John never felt a thing. With the room spinning from what he thought was the effects of too much cheap rot gut whiskey, Big John got up off the stool and then dropped to his knees before crashing face down on the dirty floor surrounded by an expanding pool of bright red blood and died within seconds. With Big John dead, Norma passed out and the bar keep asleep with his head down on the bar in a pool of drool, Digger was in no hurry to leave and helped himself to a dram of Glenkinchie 10 year old, 43 vol with a Dutch gold color, soft lemon and melon nose, spicy, cinnamon and Demerara taste and an oaky dry finish. What Digger didn't know was that Garret Maaltman, a Dutch immigrant just off the boat, was sitting in a dark corner drowning his troubles and feelings of home sickness with genever gin and witnessed the entire sordid affair. Garret didn't speak English. Obviously fearing for his life in a strange new land, he did the manly and honorable thing and kept his mouth shut for many, many years until on his death bed he told the story to his son, Johnny Maaltman, who in turn told his son, Bernie Maaltman, who told his son Kenny Maaltman, who finally told me, Tommy Maaltman when I was just a kid with a passion for dissecting animals, a passion latter channeled to a more socially acceptable career as a kidney surgeon. Ever since the night of the murder the establishment was known as Ye Olde Knife in the Kidney Tavern until it burned to the ground ignited by embers from the Great Chicago Fire blown across Lake Michigan by a strong hot wind in 1871. Fortunately, the sign was salvaged and now hangs in a residence on the very same shores of Lake Michigan. Sláinte, Tommy Maaltman.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Lassiter warned the Donner Party

There's an old saying in the Territory West of the Law. Keep skunks, lawyers and bankers at a distance. Bankers are just fancy suits with advanced degrees in cheatin'. After years of crooked book keeping, ungodly high mortgage home loan interest rates, bank favorable illegal foreclosures and low saving's account interest rates, the good folk of Sacramento, California couldn't take it no more. Lassiter didn't believe in the institution of banking. He kept all his valuables in the safest place in the world, a small pocket tucked behind his holstered 44 magnum Smith and Wesson six shooter. Why you'd have to be a damn fool to try to rob that bank! Lassiter was happy to oblige when the town folk of Sacramento asked him to clean up their little problem. Bodies started piling up all over and soon enough the remaining bankers were scared straight. It was time for Lassiter to leave and go home to the dusty, dirty, forgotten town of......Forgotten. There were only two problems. It was late in the season and the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range laid between him and home sweet home. Lassiter left town determined to get home for 'Lil' Madeline's upcoming christening. All went well at first as Lassiter headed East but then a nasty storm blew in dumping feet of snow delivered by sixty mile an hour winds causing blinding whiteout blizzard conditions, bone chilling sub zero wind chill factors and haunticaines in the treacherous high elevation mountain passes. Lassiter knew if he stopped he would die a painful frozen death. So he pushed on riding Blaze, his trusty steed, in shoulder high snow. After days of slow going misery with no food he descended out of the mountains. In the distance he saw a wagon train slowly moving West. Lassiter approached the wagon master, a Mister Rowdy Higgins, and said, "Rowdy, you ain't asking for my advice but I'm going to give it to you anyway. You might as well settle here for the rest of the season. Ain't nobody gettin' through them mountains this winter. I was the last man out and damn lucky to do so." Rowdy said, "Lassiter you are absolutely right. I didn't ask for your, or anyone else's, advice but I'll pass the information on to the Donner Party that hired me to safely get them to California." It's unlikely Rowdy passed the information on to the Donners since he was offered a $100.00 bonus if he could get them to California before Winter set in. Lassiter pushed on an arrived just in time to hear the Priest, sober for a change say, "In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I baptize you 'Lil' Madeline." 'Lil' Madeline, all dressed up in her brand new homespun dress was especially happy that day with a distinctive sparkle in those little stone cold steely gray eyes when she saw that Grampa Lassiter made it to the ceremony. Everyone celebrated with a dram of St Magdalene 19 year old, 63.8 vol with a full gold color, brunt grass and juicy oak nose, chewy, liquorice-maltiness and peat and sappy bitter finish. St Magdalene was built on the former sight of a leper colony and convent. With the Priest passed out and all the family members home, Lassiter wondered what happened to the Donner Party? Sláinte, Tommy Maaltman

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Kid Colton says, "Mama don't go, Daddy come home."

Kid Colton, the abandoned son of Lassiter, the lone gunman, professional killer for hire, was making quite a name for himself in the Territory West of the Law. Well known as a young, edgy, brash, jittery, killer for hire with a deadly fast draw and a huge chip on his shoulder, the young professional was a valuable commodity to wealthy land owners settling disputes. One evening "The Kid" pushed through the rotting doors of the North Dakotan Saloon in the northern territory of........North Dakota, knocking over drunk patrons as he made his way to the bar. The angry drunks realizing who it was, slowly and carefully leathered their guns and scurried away like rats into the night. The Kid sat down next to Lassiter who was nursing a dram of his favorite cask strength single malt Scotch whisky and said, "Daddy, you left me but I never left you. I needed you but you didn't need me. So I just got to tell you, Goodbye, goodbye. I saw Mama working her fingers to the bone trying to make ends meet to keep the family together after you left, but it didn't work and slowly day by day she got weaker and weaker and slipped away. How many nights did I tighten my belt and hungrily cry myself to sleep thinking, Mama don't go, Daddy come home? Well Mama died and you never came home." Lassiter looked into The Kid's steely gray, stone cold killer's eyes and said, "Son, it don't take a very big man to hold a grudge. Every trail has a puddle and there is no use crying over spilt milk. Why don't you have a dram of Clynelish, 14 year old, 46 vol. Hidden Malts with a bright pale orange color, fragrant stroll in the sand dunes nose, firm, oily, smoky but cleansing flavor and a spicy, perfume, exotic, satisfying finish? Little did anyone IMAGINE that 100 years later, John Lennon would immortalized their dialog in the 1970 song Mother and then ten years later be gunned down and killed with 4 slugs to the back by a lone gunman in front of the Dakota in New York City. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Sunday, July 3, 2011

Lassiter discovers the need for a new specialty in medicine, later to be known as Anesthesiology.

Lassiter, feeling pretty good, paid the doctor and as he was leaving said, "Oh by the way Doc, when you were amputating poor Billy's arms, I noticed several bottles of cask strength single malt Scotch whisky sitting on the back table. Do you use the whisky to ease the patient's pain while you are working?" "Good God man, NO!" Doc replied, "That whisky's too good for the patients. They get an oak block of wood to bite down on! The whisky is for me. Care to join me for a dram?" Lassiter obliged and the Doctor poured two glasses of Lagavulin 16 year old, 43 vol with a full amber color, sea spray and peat nose that stings, peat, gunpowder, oil, grass and salty taste and a big peat fire warming finish. Lassiter agreed, this stuff was too good to waste on a sick, in pain dying patient. They simply wouldn't appreciate it. Doc poured another dram and as he lifted his glass said, "Here's to your health and a healthy life style." The two professionals parted ways but this encounter started a life long association. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman. [Note: This is the third installment written in Ye Olde Knife in the Kidney Tavern.]

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Lassiter invents Preventive Health Care.

Doc looked into the steely gray cold eyes of Lassiter the lone gunman, professional killer for hire, and said, "What can I do you for?" Lassiter replied, "I'd like a physical examination." Doc pulled out a bell shaped listening device known as a stethoscope and auscultated Lassiter's lungs and stone cold black hardened heart. He then percussed and palpated his abdomen. When it was time for the digital rectal exam (DRE) Lassiter said "Whoa Doc, ain't no man goes where the sun don't shine. That's enough for one day. So what's your prognosis?" A. T. Still said, "There ain't nothin wrong with you Mr. Lassiter, you're as fit as a fiddle. What's the secret to your good health?" Lassiter said, "Clean livin' I guess." Doc said, "Well whatever it is, keep it up and do more of it. That and good genes are God's blessings." Lassiter didn't think it was a good idea to build and smoke more filterless cigarettes but did think he could consume more cask strength single malt Scotch whisky and made a mental note to do so. As for good genes, if Doc only knew that Pa died of a massive coronary at the age of 42 when he found out that his three older boys moved to New York City and joined the Army of Northern Aggression. Ma at age 37 died six months later of a broken heart. So much for good genes he thought. To be continued.....Slainte, Tommy Maaltman. [Note: This is the second entry written in Ye Olde Knife in the Kidney Tavern.]

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Lassiter discovers Osteopathy

Lassiter, after successfully finishing some business in the Northern Dakota Territory, was heading back home to the dusty, dirty, forgotten town of......Forgotten when he stopped to replenish supplies in the small back woods Northeastern Missouri hicktown of Kirksville. As he rode down main street, he noticed a store front with a shingle hanging that read, Andrew Taylor Still, M.D., Osteopath. Having been born in a field when his mama squatted too deep while picking cotton in the hot sun back in Richmond, Virginia, Lassiter had never seen a doctor. Most people only went to frontier doctors when they were dying and the doctor usually sped up the process with unproven treatment and quackery. Even though he felt well, Lassiter thought it might be a good idea to have a physical exam, never dreaming he would spur a national movement of preventive health maintenance and plant the seed for what later would become known as executive health physicals, i.e. costly unnecessary physical examinations and testing of privileged white overfed American males with lots of money. You know the kind, the worried well. Lassiter dismounted and tied Blaze to the hitching post and walked in to the Doctor's office. A.T. Still was just finishing amputating the second arm at the shoulder of Billy, an unfortunate sod buster who stuck both of his arms into a jammed thrasher. He managed to unjam the thrasher but mangled both of his arms in the process. Doc looked up at Lassiter and said, "Make yourself comfortable, this will take but a minute and I'll be right with you." In those days the sign of a good surgeon was one who could amputate an extremity in less than a minute and Doc was a good surgeon having learned his trade as a Civil War Field Hospital Steward where he lopped off more gangrenous arms and legs than he could count. With the last swipe of the saw, Doc said, "there" as the arm fell to the blood soaked wooden floor on top of the other arm. He glanced at Andy, his young French Canadian apprentice and said, "tie off the artery and vein and bandage the stump." He then rinsed his bare hands in a bloody bucket of salt water and wiped them dry on his blood reddened surgical apron as he walked over to Lassiter to shake his hand. To be continued......Slainte , Tommy Maaltman. [Note: This is the first episode of Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West written in Ye Olde Knife in the Kidney Tavern.]

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Lassiter meets 'Lil' Madeline.

There was a general feeling of uneasiness ever since Lassiter returned to the dusty, dirty, forgotten town of......Forgotten. Not because the ruthless, stone cold professional killer for hire was walking around town amongst the town folk. No, they were uneasy because nobody was sure if Lassiter knew that Minerva had settled in town, married Jimmy, was working at Ho Ho's Chinese Emporium and was the proud mother of 'Lil' Madeline, Lassiter's granddaughter. Town folk didn't know how Lassiter a lone gunman, professional killer for hire without scruples, was going to take all the news when he found out. What the town folk didn't know is that Lassiter, while camping in the Grand Canyon, found God and became a born again Christian! One day, Lassiter walked into the Forgotten Mercantile and was buying some chewing tobacco thinking it might be a good idea to cut back on smoking a bit. By chance, Minerva walked in with 'Lil' Madeline straddling her hip to buy a new home spun dress for 'Lil' Madeline's christening. Minerva looked into Lassiter's eyes and saw the steely, stone cold eyes of a professional killer and knew immediately that she had finally found here father, the man who walked out on her family many years ago and left them poorly equipped to unsuccessfully fend for themselves. Minerva's heart started racing as she said, "Daddy, I want you to meet somebody." Lassiter, not used to being called "Daddy," didn't respond, as he tucked the chewing tobacco into his shirt pocket. Minerva said, "Daddy, I'm a talkin' to you." Lassiter slowly turned to face Minerva and their eyes locked for a moment. Lassiter then looked into 'Lil' Madeline's eyes and to his surprise saw two little stone cold, steely gray eyes looking up at him. He knew immediately that Minerva was his daughter and 'Lil' Madeline was his first and only grandchild. That night over a drams of 18 year old Highland Park, 43 vol. with a pale gold color, flowery nose, nuts, honey, cinnamon and ginger flavor and spicy, dry, oaky, smoky hot finish, Ginny the cashier at the Mercantile, swore that she saw the permanently downturned corners of Lassiter's scowling lips deeply etched in his granite like face turn upward with a smile when he saw 'Lil' Madeline earlier that day, if only for a millisecond. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Saturday, June 4, 2011

In Tommy Maaltman' Wild, Wild West, Lassiter contemplates retirement.

Upon returning from the Territory of Arizona, having settled some land disputes between wealthy cattle ranchers and poor sheepherders, later to become immortalized as the Pleasant Valley War, Lassiter kicked in the doors of The Hole in the Wall Saloon and walked over to his usual table where Kitty was already sitting. Even in the dim, smokey light of the saloon, it was painfully apparent that Kitty was showing the effects of the hard life of a " Lady of the Evening" in The Hole in the Wall Saloon in the dirty, dusty forgotten town of.....Forgotten. Lassiter sat down and with his stone cold, steely gray eyes, looked at Kitty's deeply lined face, sallow pale jaundiced skin, nicotine stained rotten teeth and thinning gray hair and couldn't help but feel a little bit sorry for the once attractive entertainer who was ridden hard and put away wet. Lassiter said, "Kitty, have you given any thought to retiring?" Kitty, somewhat taken aback said, "Colton, my retirement is all planned out for three days before the funeral! How about you? You ain't looking so good neither!" Lassiter said, "I'll retire when the dirt hits me in the face!" They both said in unison, "Let's drink to that." Kitty, somewhat annoyed, got up and walked over to the bar where she slapped Gums, the unshaven, toothless Barkeep for being inattentive. Walking behind the bar, she grabbed a bottle of Dalwhinnie, 43%, 15 year old single malt whiskey with a golden, heather color, heather and peat dry nose, heather, honey and sweet vanilla taste, and a long lingering, smoke, peat and malty finish. Kitty poured two glassed and as they clinked them together, Lassiter said, "Here's to a long productive and successful life and a comfortable retirement." Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Saturday, May 28, 2011

In Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West, a star is born.

Maaltmen, Y'all've heard of "Love at first sight." Well that is exactly what happened that cold, dank, dark, damp night in the barn behind the Flea Bag Boarding House wreaking of urine soaked straw, wet equine hair and mule dung where inside Minerva met Jimmy. The next morning nobody said nothing to no one but Jimmy and Minerva walked over to the Justice of the Peace Office in the dusty, dirty, forgotten town of .....Forgotten. Upon entering, they saw Justice Wheeler passed out with his head down on the old oak desk sleeping off a wicked drunk. After sobering him up with black coffee and hard tack, Jimmy asked, "Can you hitch us?" Justice Wheeler said, "In these parts, West of the Law, I can do anything for a small fee." Of course there was no family present since Jimmy's was killed and scalped in a Nez Perce Injun massacre. We all know that Minerva's mother died working her fingers to the bone back East cleaning toilets for rich folk trying to make enough money to keep the family together after Lassiter walked out on them. Speaking of Lassiter, Minerva's father, he was rumored to be in the Territory of Arizona settling the score between wealthy cattle ranchers and the dirt poor sheep herders. Gums, the unshaven, toothless bar keep who had become Jimmy's father figure ever since the night Jimmy got drunk and tried to make a name for himself by confronting Lassiter in the Hole in the Wall Saloon and ending up having both of his clavicles broken rendering his arms and hands useless for the better part of six months and Kitty, the rough ridden and put away wet lady of the evening with a soft spot in her heart for runaway homeless girls, served as the witnesses. After finally getting their names right, Justice Wheeler, pronounced Jimmy and Minerva, Man and Wife, in the year of our Lord, 1883. There was no time for a honeymoon. Both immediately returned to work. Jimmy as a Dung Boy shoveling out the stables at the local livery with aspirations of becoming a Knacker, one who slaughters old dying horses and removes dead horses to the yards where their carcasses are cut up for commercial purpose such as being sold for meat to fine dining establishments like Molly's Eatery. Minerva found work at Ho Ho's, the illegal Chinese immigrant's laundry and restaurant. The pay was good, 3 cents an hour, 12 hours a day, 7 days a week and Ho Ho, unlike most of the Chinese, was not cruel and abusive. That evening they did celebrate with a dram of Glen Rothes 29 year old cask strength single malt Scotch whisky, 50.3% 100.6 proof, with a straw yellow color,peaches and barley sugary nose, vanilla, bubble gum and leather tobacco pouch taste, and a light tingly finish. Nine months to the day later, 'Lil' Madeline was born. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Sunday, May 22, 2011

In Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West, Lassiter seeks revenge.

It was time to head back home to the dusty, dirty forgotten town of.......Forgotten and Lassiter broke camp early. Feeling somewhat spiritual and reminiscing about the past, a thought occurred to him. Wouldn't it be nice to look up Ole Whitey, his Confederate Army buddy, on his way home. Whitey, after narrowly escaping death trying to stop Sherman's March to the Sea, deserted before the Confederate Army surrendered and headed west in hopes of striking it rich as a gold miner. It was known that Whitey panned for gold in the small tributaries of the Colorado River for many years after the War of Northern Aggression not knowing that the Army Corps of Engineers had thoroughly studied the region and determined that there wasn't enough gold there to spit on. Sigh, if only Ole Whitey knew how to read. Never the less, he continued panning and working his sluice despite the recent Injun uprising. After several hours on the trail Lassiter came over an embankment leading down to Whitey's camp and smelled rotten flesh and cheap rot gut whiskey. Something was wrong. Whitey wouldn't drink cheap rot gut whiskey. He was a cask strength single malt Scotch whisky man like Lassiter. Approaching the stream he saw Whitey's body face down in the water, absent one scalp. Lassiter knew exactly what had happened and after giving Whitey a decent Christian burial set off to find the no good savages who done his friend in. Lassiter knew how to read sign and it didn't take him long to follow the trail leading to their camp. As night settled in, he saw seven half naked, crazed Injun braves whooping it up around the campfire fueled on by cheap rot gut whiskey. Lassiter thought to himself, them Injuns never could hold their fire water. Not speaking Hopi, the native language of the Pueblo, Lassiter let the distinctive clicks of the two hammers of his six shooters being pulled back, do the talking. The Injuns were momentarily silent, as they looked around in terror. Seconds later, they were permanently silenced as Lassiter unloaded his two Smith and Wesson 44 Magnum revolvers into their heathen bodies. Kicking each of their bodies to make sure they were dead, Lassiter came across one with Whitey's scalp on his belt and unloaded the rest of his rounds directly into the Injun's pagan black heart. Burying Whitey's scalp he left the Injun's bodies for the hot desert sun and the vultures. He then poured himself a dram of Tobermory 10 year old, 40 vol., with a light amber color, nutty nose, dry delicate peat, malt, and nuts taste and slightly citric tangy finish. He lifted his glass in honor of his good friend and Confederate Army buddy, Whitey. R.I.P. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Saturday, May 14, 2011

In Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West, Lassiter finds God

Lassiter woke up early the next morning and after making some strong black coffee, put out the fire, saddled Blaze and broke camp. He spent the next several days exploring the Grand Canyon getting quite a good work out for a man who built, smoked and inhaled thirty to forty filterless cigarettes a day. Heading East, he followed a tributary of the Colorado River through some of the most beautiful pine forested, high desert plains he had ever seen. At dusk, he found an idyllic campsite next to a gurgling brook full of cutthroat trout. Lassiter built a campfire, made a cooking rest for his wrought iron skillet and threw in one half pound of lard to heat. After spearing and cleaning a mess of cutthroat he placed them in the skillet to fry in the sizzling hot grease and got ready for a relaxing evening of eating crispy fried fish and drinking cask strength single malt Scotch whisky. He choose a Bowmore 18 year old, 43 vol. with a mahogany color, malt and subtle peat nose, floral and sherry taste and a long nutty lingering peaty finish. Feeling fully satiated, he laid out his bedroll. Sitting on top of it, resting up against his saddle, he tipped his head back and looked up into the magnificent pitch black sky illuminated with millions of sparkling, twinkling stars, comets and a full moon. As he admired the awe inspiring beauty of it all, he thought to himself, I'll be got damned if there ain't no God and I'll shoot the som bitch in the head who don't believe there's an almighty up there who made all of this. Amen brother. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Sunday, May 8, 2011

In Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West, Lassiter invents Mother's Day.

After settling the Pleasant Valley War, life pretty much returned to normal in those parts. Cattle ranchers allowed their cattle to roam free, indiscriminately, disregarding grazing rights and local land borders and the sheep herders continued to allow their sheep to graze the grass right down to the roots rendering the land useless and prone to erosion for years to come. But the cattle and sheep profits continued to roll in making for some very wealthy Arizonians. It didn't make no difference to Lassiter, having been paid very well by the now deceased Roy Castleman, as he made plans to head back home. With no pressing jobs, Lassiter decided to do some sight seeing on the return journey. He had heard several scouts talk about a grand canyon, bigger than anyone had ever seen before, a little north of the trail home, but it was rumored that the local Injuns were on the warpath. Lassiter wasn't prejudiced and didn't make it a habit to discriminate. He pretty much hated everybody equally, so an encounter with half starved, half crazed, theivin Injuns didn't bother him too much. He thought that if the opportunity arose, perhaps he would put a few of them out of their misery. The only downside was that it would be a gratis job. Before leaving town, he helped himself to some of the finest bottles of cask strength single malt Scotch whisky the Silverthorn Saloon had to offer and carefully packed them in his bed roll tied securely behind his saddle. He mounted Blaze and slowly left Tombstone, Arizona heading for the Grand Canyon. After several days on the trail, Lassiter came to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. Indeed, the canyon, the result of forty million years of Colorado River erosion was spectacular. It was getting dark, so Lassiter decide to make camp. He unsaddled ,watered and fed Blaze and made a small cooking fire and settled down for the evening. After dinner he poured himself a dram of Mortlach single malt cask strength Scotch whisky, 58.9% alc/vol., 107.8 proof with a bronze color, velvety scorched heather nose, sugary expresso taste, and a gingerbread finish. With a belly full of pork and beans, and the warm sensation of cask strength alcohol coursing through his veins, Lassiter leaned back against his saddle and looked up to the sky and saw a magnificent array of twinkling and shooting stars. He was overcome by emotion and feeling a bit sentimental he poured himself another dram. Looking up to the sky he said, "This one's for you Mama," thinking to himself, everyone should honor their mother at least once a year. Little did Lassiter know that thirty years later in 1910, Mother's Day would become a Hallmark Holiday. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Sunday, May 1, 2011

In Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West 13 is a lucky number.

The Pleasant Valley War, often referred to as the Tonto Basin War, actually took place in Apache County and Navajo County, Arizona. It began as a feud between two families, one cattle ranchers and the other sheep herders, and escalated into a murderously deadly war over land, borders, water rights, grazing rights, power and money. When things got out of hand, someone had the foresight to hire professional help. Everybody knew Colton Lassiter, the stone cold, killer for hire, who plied his trade with two Smith and Wesson 44 Magnum six shooters in this Territory West of the Law. After a grueling eight day ride over the purple sage and desert, Lassiter kicked in the swinging doors of the Silverthorn Saloon in Tombstone, Arizona. Upon entering, he saw a chaotic scene of cattlemen and sheep herders angrily arguing with heated emotions fueled by cheap rye and rot gut whiskey. Not knowing, or even caring, who the key players were and peeved by the fact that they were all drunk on inferior grade alcohol, Lassiter made an executive decision. Drawing his 44 Magnums, he unloaded both into the rabble, indiscriminately. When the deafening repercussions of the guns died down and the smoke cleared, Lassiter saw that no one survived. Not knowing who was who, Lassiter thought to himself, Oh well, I guess God will have to sort out the carnage. Then from the far corner behind his back, he heard a chuckle and the distinctive click of the hammer of a Colt 45 being pulled back. A deep voice was heard to say, "Mr Lassiter, my name is Roy Castleman and I'm the cattleman who hired you to end this range war and it looks like you succeeded. You just killed six of my men and six of my sworn enemy, the no good, thieving sheep herders. That makes a total of twelve, the same number of bullets you had in your two Smith and Wesson 44 Magnum Six Shooters." Chuckling again, he said, "That means you're out of ammunition and since I don't want nobody, nowhere to know I was the one who hired you, I'd like you to drop your guns and slowly turn and face the man who is going to put a bullet between your eyes and silence you for eternity." Lassiter did as he was told but with lightening speed drew with his right hand a Sharps Pepperbox breech loader, 32 caliber pistol from his waist band and unloaded all four barrels into Mr. Castleman's beefy cattle rancher's body forcing him backward through the glass window of the saloon. He was dead before his body landed on the dusty, dirty street of Tombstone face up. Being in no rush, Lassiter walked over to the bar and helped himself to a dram of Bunnahabhain 55.6 %, 111.2 vol. proof, 17 year old cask strength single malt whisky with a silver dollar color, gun smoke nose, charred stick taste and a smoky and gunpowder finish. Stepping over the dead bodies, Lassiter walked out the doors, mounted Blaze and left the Territory of Arizona, population 13 less than when he arrived. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West, Minerva finds happiness.

No matter how wretched and despicable an existence, all human beings have dreams, goals, and a desire to seek happiness. Minerva Lassiter, the daughter of Colton Lassiter, the stone cold, lone gunman, killer for hire, was no exception. Upon stepping off the train in St. Louis, she was immediately overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of this big thriving supply city on the Eastern edge of Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West. It didn't take her long to realize that Mr. Bagette, the President of the Southern Union Bank in Valdosta, Georgia, cheated her out of all her money and that the nicely dressed Preacher Man, that she encountered on the train, got her drunk and stole what little self esteem she had left. She had to assume that she was lied to and that her father, Colton Lassiter, was nowhere near the city of St. Louis. However, Colton Lassiter was well known in these parts and it didn't take long to find out that he resided in the dusty, dirty, forgotten town of.....Forgotten. Minerva, a true survivor, did what she does best, and signed up to be the wash woman for a wagon train departing for the Northwest Territory of Oregon. As luck would have it, the path of the wagon train would go through Forgotten on it's way west. In exchange for washing the settlers filthy, sweat drenched clothes in some parasite infested streams, she would earn her food and keep until she arrived in Forgotten. Well, there was a lot of washing to do, not much food to eat, and her "keep" consisted of sleeping under a wagon at night with a flea and small pox infested blanket to keep her warm. After many days on the trail, the wagon trained rolled into Forgotten. Minerva thanked her boss the wagon master, Mr. Rowdy Higgins, and parted ways searching for the father who walked out on her many years ago back East. Lassiter was nowhere to be found, having taken a couple of jobs in the Territory of Arizona settling land disputes between the powerful and wealthy cattle ranchers and the less prosperous sheep herders. Despondent, desperate, barely alive, suffering from malnutrition, fatigued and depressed, Minerva made her way to the Forgotten Flea Bag Boarding House and offered to work as a wash woman. The owners laughed at the proposition, never having a need to wash the bedding, but feeling sorry for her said she could sleep in the barn overnight next to the mules providing she shoveled out the manure the next morning. That is where she met Jimmy, the 16 year old, third grade frontier school drop out whose family had been scalped and massacred in a Nez Pierce injun raid, recovering from having both clavicles broken by Lassiter in a recent confrontation in The Hole in the Wall Saloon. It was love at first sight. Jimmy was just beginning to get feeling back in his arms and hands and offered Minerva a dram of Lagavulin, Distillers Edition, Double Matured, 43 vol. Finished in Pedro Ximenex Sherry Casks with a rich amber color, smoke and fish nose, smoke, peat and Spanish Sherry taste and a long soft smoke and gently spiced finish. The bottle was a gift from Gums, the unshaven, toothless bar keep at The Hole in the Wall Saloon paid for my Lassiter with two gold nuggets with instructions to give it to Jimmy when he recovers. Minerva, a bit wary, accepted a small dram and as she savored the God's nectar, she felt like she finally found her little slice of Heaven on Earth. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West Minerva heads West

Boarding the train, Minerva felt ill and her head throbbed from hitting the marble floor after fainting back at the Southern Union Bank upon learning of her "good fortune, " i.e. receiving 40.00 Confederate dollars in a telegraph from her long lost father, Colton Lassiter. Having hastily bandaged her head with filthy rags she found at the Boarding House while she packed, she now had time to attend to her wound as the train slowly pulled away from the train station in Valdosta, Georgia heading to St. Louis, Missouri. Minerva looked like death warmed over as she slowly unwrapped the crusted with blood rags revealing a nasty S shaped deep laceration in the middle of her forehead with a deep vertical gash dividing the S in the middle giving the appearance of a dollar sign!!! She gasped as she thought to herself, well this hideous laceration might as well look like a dollar sign since it happened as I was receiving my God sent good fortune from Heaven. She attended to her wound as best she could and found an open seat next to a nicely dressed, man of the cloth preacher, who smiled compassionately as Minerva sat down next to him. The Preacher Man glanced at Minerva and said, "Looks like you are running away from trouble." Minerva responded, "Preacher Man, if you only knew," and explained how her father walked out on the family many years ago. Her brother left home to make a name for himself as a gunslinger. Her mother died working her fingers to the bone leaving her to fend for herself. Then out of the clear blue, a telegraph arrived with money, like manna from heaven, a gift from God Almighty, allowing her to leave her wretched life behind and start over. The Preacher Man said, " Praise the Lord, let's celebrate" as he pulled out a bottle of Ben Nevis cask strength single malt Scotch whisky, 61.9 vol., 123.8 proof with a dark, rich, oily mahogany color, strong, astringent nose, burnt caramel aromatic taste and smooth mellow finish. The strong whisky went right to her head and she passed out. The Preacher Man immediately searched her body and found the money sewn in to her dress at the waist. He eagerly opened the envelope only to find the 40.00 worthless Confederate dollars. With a feeling of......anger and disgust he threw the envelope and the money out the window and got off at the next train stop leaving Minerva unconscious, penniless, vulnerable and destitute. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West Lassiter shows his soft side.

Colton Lassiter walked in to the overcrowded Hole in the Wall Saloon on a "payday Saturday night." Squeezing into a small opening at the bar he asked Gums, the toothless, unshaven barkeep for a bottle of his best cask strength single malt Scotch whisky. As he was waiting for his whisky he couldn't help but overhear two drifters giving Kate, the lady of the evening better known as "The Ugly" by the locals ever since getting drunk one night, passing out with her head too close to the kerosene lamp, catching her hair on fire and hideously burning her face, but not her smoking hot body, a hard time. Curly, a forty something low life drifter with stringy black straight greasy hair and a long greasy, dirty food stained moustache covering both of his lips looked at Kate and said, "Whoa, who beat you up side the head with the ugly stick?" His good for nothing, horribly small pox scared face, side kick named "Moon Craters" snickered as a small tear formed in the corner of Kate's eye and made it's way down the hideously burned surface of her scarred cheek. "Yeah Curly," Moon Crater said, "It looks like her face melted! Lucky for her the rest of her body wasn't affected or else she'd be as useless as a tit on a boar and unemployed like us!" Ha, ha, ha, he, he, he the two no goods chuckled to themselves. Lassiter was in the process of building himself a smoke but couldn't take it nomore. As he faced the drifters he said, "Pardon my intrusion gents, but that is a human being you're talking about, one with feelings. I must say your two pusses ain't much to look at neither. But I think I can hep yuh." Lassiter stood up and grabbed both of them from behind their heads and forcefully slammed their faces together crushing most of their facial bones, knocking out their remaining rotten teeth, and flattening their noses like pancakes. He then grabbed them by their shirt collars, walked them to the swinging doors of the Hole in the Wall Saloon and threw them out into the dirty, dusty street of the forgotten town of.....Forgotten. When they landed on their faces, neither realized how lucky they were to be alive. Lassiter walked back to the bar and sat down next to Kate where a bottle of Linkwood cask strength single malt Scotch whisky, 57.7 vol. 100.9 proof with a dark straw color, sweet, fruity nose, creamy, chocolaty, fruity and peppery taste and a complex malt and fruit finish, was waiting. He poured two glasses and handed one to Kate. As the melancholic Kate savored her dram, she could feel her body begin to warm up and her self esteem return. Upon finishing the whisky, she looked up into the steely gray, stone cold eyes of the lone gunman, killer for hire and said, "Thank you Colton." Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Tommy Maaltman on product placement and promotion.

Maaltmen. In this day and age of mass consumerism, producer globalization, marketing domination and shameless self promotion, (tommymaaltman.blogspot.com, The Bottle Wine and Spirits, Friends of Paul, etc., etc., etc.) it is virtually impossible not to be affected by these forms of mass persuasion. I say don't fight it, embrace it. For example, I suggest that you see the recently released movie, The Lincoln Lawyer, starring Matthew McConaughey and my new all time favorite actress after her starring role in The Wrestler, Marisa Tomei. In one seen, Matthew is stressed out and takes two big swigs out of a bottle of The Balvenie Signature 12 year old, 40 vol., with a deep golden orange color, dry woody and orange nose, barley and fruitcake taste and long fruity finish. Very effective! Later he pours a glass of Glenfiddich Special Reserve, 12 year old, 40 vol., with a gold and faint green tinged color, fruity, pear like, grassy nose, malty sweet and toasted hazelnut taste and peat and smoke finish. As he takes a large gulp neat, the essence of the scene becomes meaningful clear. Did the product placement enhance the movie? It WAS the movie!!! Are we talking Academy Awards yet? Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West, Pennies from Heaven.

One day, out of the clear blue sky, a telegraph wiring money, was received by Minerva Lassiter, the long lost seventeen year old daughter of Colton Lassiter, the stone cold, gun for hire, professional killer. Living in squalor in Valdosta, Georgia, Minerva was working her fingers to the bone washing dirty, fly infested, bandages and bedding in a dilapidated boarding house serving the wounded and dying Confederate Soldiers in the newly reconstructed South after the War of Northern Aggression. The money transfer was accompanied by a message that read, "Minerva Lassiter, use this money to improve your lot in life. Fondly, your father, Colton Lassiter." Unfortunately, Minerva couldn't read or count but she was smart enough to seek advice and professional help. She went to the most reputable bank in the South, The Southern Union, and asked to speak to the bank's president. Reluctantly, a Mr. Balfour Bagette asked Minerva to come into his office and sit down. Looking over his glasses, the pink skinned, balding, fat, gout inflicted from years of over eating and over drinking, man, saw a severely malnourished, filthy, desperate woman dressed in rags and looking years older than her age. Feeling a sense of......disgust, he never the less carefully counted up the money totaling $250.00 Federal United States Bank Notes from a Mr. Colton Lassiter residing in the dirty, dusty, forgotten Western Territory town of.....Forgotten and dutifully told Minerva that " she was the fortunate recipient of $50.00 Confederate (worthless after the war) Dollars from a Mister Colton Lassiter living in St. Louis, Missouri." Learning of her new found " wealth and good fortune" and realizing that she could never in a lifetime save up that amount of money as a wash woman, she stood up and fainted hitting her head on the marble floor and splitting her forehead wide open leaving a nasty jagged gash. Upon regaining consciousness, she asked Mr. Bagette for the money and he happily handed her $40.00 useless Confederate dollars keeping his "10% bank fee" anxious to get her out of his office so that an underling could clean up the mess. Minerva never bothered to give notice to the boarding house. She immediately purchased a third class one way ticket to St. Louis with her meager savings, carefully sewing her new found " wealth" into her ragged dress for safe keeping, seeking to find her savior, not knowing that Lassiter was nowhere near St. Louis. Meanwhile Lassiter, feeling good about helping the daughter he walked out on was hundreds of miles away in the dirty, dusty, forgotten town of.......Forgotten at The Hole in the Wall Saloon savoring a dram of Glenglassaugh cask strength single malt Scotch whisky, vol. 51.1%, 102.2 proof with a light gold color, cotton candy nose, vanilla custard and glycerine taste, and a sweet, minty, vanilla finish. As he cherished his last sip of the sweet nectar he couldn't help but think, "Ain't life good!". Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Tommy Maaltman's Lassiter meets up with the Sanchez Gang.

It was rumored that the Sanchez Gang, consisting of four brothers; Pedro, Jesus, Emelio, and Tejano from south of the Rio, was in the territory knocking off small frontier banks for gold, silver and Federal Bank Notes. But it was of no concern to Lassiter as he rode into the dirty, dusty, forgotten town of ......Forgotten. Dismounting Blaze, he wrapped the reigns around the hitching post and uncharacteristically walked right past the swinging doors of The Hole in the Wall Saloon, Molly's Eatery, and the flea infested boarding house known locally as The Forgotten Flea Bag. Having completed two jobs in Western Wyoming, Lassiter was heading towards the Union Federal Bank and Telegraph to make a deposit and wire some money back East to his daughter "Sis" as he promised his son Kid Colton. It was high noon and the bank was empty except for Mr Anson Mosley the teller and best wireless man in the West who could tap out in Morse code on the wireless the Gettysburg Address in seconds without making a single error with his steady hands. Lassiter said, "Howdy, I need to make a deposit and wire some money back East to my little girl, Minerva Lassiter, (named after his kid sister whom he hadn't seen since joining the Confederate Army fifteen years ago.) Lassiter stepped up to the bank teller's cage standing with his back to the door facing Mr. Mosley. Suddenly, Mr Mosley's hands started to shake violently as he tried to tap out the message on the wireless and Lassiter looked up into Mr. Mosley's eyes, one of which was holding a gold rimmed glass monocle. As Lassiter swiftly pivoted he drew his two 44 Magnum Smith and Wesson six shooters and rapidly unloaded them both into the four Mexican brothers who had quietly slipped into the bank behind him. As the thunderous repercussions of the guns died down and the smoke cleared away, Lassiter and Mr. Mosley surveyed the carnage. All but one of the Sanchez gang was dead and Pedro, the one still living was dying fast. Lassiter walked over to Pedro, the oldest brother and leader of the gang, and bent over his dying body. Pedro looked up and said, "Meester, how did you know it was us?" Lassiter said, "I saw your reflection in Mr. Mosley's monocle." With that Pedro took his last gurgling breath and died. Lassiter finished his business and invited Mr. Mosley to join him at The Hole in the Wall Saloon for a dram after he got off work. Later that evening as Lassiter and Mr. Mosley were enjoying Bunnahabhain vol. 55.6%, 112.2 proof cask strength whisky with a pale green lights appearance, solvent, acetone, gunsmoke and flesh wound nose, sweet, smoky, gunpowder taste and an in your face Islay finish, the Sherriff walked in and sat down next to Lassiter. He looked Lassiter in his steely gray, stone cold eyes of a lone gunman, killer for hire and said, "I want to thank you for what you done today and I'm here to give you the reward of $250.00 in gold nuggets." It seems that the Sanchez Gang was wanted "Dead or Alive" in this territory West of the Law. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Tommy Maaltman describes Louis XIII de Remy Martin Grande Champagne Cognac in one word.

Maaltmen. After a particularly grueling stretch of diligent tasting and critiquing numerous expressions of fine cask strength single malt Scotch whisky, I decided to take the weekend off and invited my business partner, Kenny S., over for a glass of Louis XIII de Remy Martin Grande Champagne Cognac. Now numerous connoisseurs, critics, pundits and epicureans have written volumes about the nose, taste and finish of this most prestigious Spirit on Earth, a product of four generations of Cellar Masters having crafted twelve hundred eaux-de-vie to establish this closely guarded secret since 1874. And you are welcome to read each and everyone, but at $2500.00 per exquisite crystal decanter or roughly $250.00 per Reidel Cognac snifter glass, I can describe this nectar from the Gods in one word, UNDERPRICED!!! Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Tommy Maaltman on life's greatest fears.

Maaltmen, there are only two things in life that really scare me. No, it's not total nuclear holocaust or Carnies (you know, circus folk, nomads.). Granted total nuclear holocaust would be devastating to mankind and the world and Carnies do smell like cabbage and have small hands. But what really frightens the Maaltman is 1) the liquid-air surface interface that occurs in opened unfinished bottles of cask strength single malt Scotch whisky and 2) the effect of ultra violet light on bottled cask strength single malt Scotch whisky. It has long been my position that if you are going to open a bottle of cask strength single malt Scotch whisky like old Pulteney, vol. 62.7, proof 125.4 with a mid yellow gold appearance, sweet, seaweedy salty, bladderwack nose, sweet, floral, earthy and grassy taste, and dry coastal finish, (this distillery is the only one to be named after an actual person,) plan on enjoying it with enough people to finish the entire bottle. An unfinished bottle creates the Chernobly like environmental disaster of creating the dreaded liquid-air surface interface that in my opinion alters the chemical molecular environment of the high alcohol content of fine cask strength single malt whisky and drastically effects the quality and essence of the expression. Secondly, ultra violet light acts like a stealth bomber direct assault on cask strength single malt Scotch whisky. Without a single warning the entire contents are destroyed. This is why I emplore you to finish the opened bottle of cask strength single malt Scotch whisky and to store your unopened bottles inside a darken cabinet away from the harmful effects of ultra violet light. One last tip. Be sure to purchase quality spirits from an establishment that protects it's products with industrial strength window treatment to minimize and eliminate the potential damage from sunlight through the windows like The Bottle Wine and Spirits in Fayetteville, Arkansas. And while you are there, be sure to inquire about becoming a Friend of Paul. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Tommy Maaltman's The Legend of Colton Lassiter

Not much is known about Colton Lassiter's early life but this much is known for sure. Colton was born in Richmond, Virginia to Bose and Belle Lassiter, destitute share crop farmers trying to scratch out a meager living on a small patch of poor soil. Colton was the fourth of seven children with three older brothers, Asa, Farrell, and Obediah, and three younger sisters, Hannah, Jessamine, and Minerva. With little to eat and no prospect for the future, the three older boys left home to work on the docks in New York City. When the War of Southern Independence, better known as the War of Northern Aggression, but referred to as The American Civil War in the politically correct middle school textbooks, broke out, the three Lassiter boys enlisted in the Northern (Union) Army having been promised "three squares" by an overly aggressive, ethically challenged recruiter trying to meet his quota. The newly commissioned privates were shipped out to Tennessee to serve under Major General Ulysses S. Grant. When Pa Lassiter found out his heart siezed up and he died on the spot. Ma Lassiter died six months later of a broken heart leaving Colton and his three baby sisters to fend for themselves. Colton being fifteen years old lied about his age and enlisted in the Confederate Army and the three little girls were farmed out to begin an abusive life with uncaring relatives. As fate would have it, Colton was assigned to serve under General Albert Sidney Johnston and General P. G. T. Beaueregard. On April 4, 1862 the Lassiter boys faced each other at the Battle of Shiloh in southwest Tennessee. During the first day of the battle at Pittsburgh Landing, the Confederate Army wupped the Union and the three older Lassiter boys perished, perhaps at the hands of Colton. On the second day the tides changed and the Union Army counterattacked forcing the Confederate Rebels to retreat from the bloodiest battle in the history of the United States up to that time. Colton, however, was saved when a mangy stray mutt alerted him to the pre dawn, full frontal bayonet attack and survived to fight another day. As we all know the war progressed, the Confederacy was defeated and Colton laid down his rifle and walked west never looking back. That was when he discovered cask strength single malt Scotch whisky. One night while sitting around the campfire an old man said to Lassiter, "Son you look down." Lassiter said, "Yeah, no kidding old man, Ma and Pa are dead, I probably killed my three older brothers in the Battle of Shiloh, I don't know what happened to my three baby sisters and we lost the War. On top of that, Doc Stirling, the Army Veterenarian, with a fondness for the bottle, tells me that the old mangy mutt over there that saved my life and has been following me around ever since the end of the war has sugar diabetes!" The oldtimer nonchalantly pulled out his Judge Colt revolver and shot the dog dead and said, "Well son we all have our problems, why don't you try some of this?" He handed Lassiter a dram of Ardmore vol. 53.9%, 107.8 proof whisky with a golden appearance, cooked pork and apple sauce nose, sweet, savory, and smoky honeyed pork taste and a burnt toffee finish. Lassiter, savoring his dram, knew from that point on life was worth living. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Sunday, March 6, 2011


Many have asked The Maaltman, "What is the inspiration for the Lassiter series?" Simply stated, a good cask strength single malt Scotch whisky in a relaxing environment and the series writes itself!

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West Kid Colton meets up with Lassiter.

Kid Colton galloped into the dusty, dirty, forgotten town of..... Forgotten astride his big black as coal colt named Coal and reigned up hard in front of The Hole in the Wall Saloon. Throwing his right leg over the saddle horn, he jumped to the ground and quickly began dusting off his black leather pants and boots. Bursting through the door of the saloon he saw Lassiter sitting at the far end of the bar by himself savoring a dram of his favorite cask strength single malt Scotch whisky. Kid Colton said, "Get up old man and prepare to meet your maker." Sally, the attractive, intelligent, highly educated school marm from back East who lasted three hours in the one room frontier school before realizing that she could make her entire year's teacher salary in one night in the Saloon, Kitty, the rough ridden and put away wet lady of the evening, and Kate, who got drunk one night, blacked out with her head too close to the kerosene lamp catching her hair on fire and hideously burning her face but not her smoking hot body, better known as The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly respectively by the locals, looked at each other and said, "Kid Colton looks just like a young Lassiter!?!?! With their mouths gaping open gasping for air all three fainted and fell to the dusty, dirty floor. Lassiter finished his dram and slowly stood up facing "The Kid." Their identical ice cold, steely gray eyes met and locked. The Kid drew first but Lassiter was faster and squeezed the trigger of his 44 Magnum Smith and Wesson six shooter sending a 256 grain lead slug directly into the barrel of The Kid's Colt 44 causing the gun to ricochet out of The Kids's hand and fly back into the wall of the Saloon. The Kid grabbed his hand that was "bullet" stung and now felt like it was broken and bent over in pain cursing the old man. As he slowly stood up he once again looked into the eyes of Lassiter and said, "Daddy?!?" Lassiter said, "That's right son." Kid said in shocking despair, "I could have killed you." Lassiter chuckled and replied, "You're good son but you ain't that good....yet. Come on over here I've got just the medicine for that sore hand of yours." He turned to Gums the toothless unshaven bar keep and ordered a bottle of Braes of Glenlivet, vol. 58.9%, 18 year old, "The Edinburgh Fog," with a pale amber color, malt extract nose, sweet, tarry and oily taste before adding water becoming more maranite-like with water. It is the smell of Edinburgh on a still foggy autumn evening. The finish smooth, mouth filling and chocolatey . "Son, I enjoy drinking this whisky when I'm reading the Bible." As they were drinking their whisky, Lassiter said, "How's your Mama, Son?" Kid Colton replied, "She ain't. Died last winter. Doc says she died of influenza on top of the consumption. I think she died of exhaustion, working her fingers to the bone cleaning the toilets of rich folk back East trying to make enough money to feed Sis and me after you walked out on us. I couldn't take it no more so I up and left. I figured it was one less mouth to feed for Mama. Now with Mama dead, I don't know what became of Sis. Poor little innocent thing was only twelve." As they finished their drams, Kid got up to leave. Lassiter said, "Colton, be careful out there. I'll see to it that Sis is looked after." Slainte, Tommy Maaltman.

Tommy Maaltman discovers The Bottle Wine and Spirits in Fayetteville, Arkansas.

News of a new emporium of fine spirits has gone viral since it's discovery by the Maaltman and a recent entry on the Tommy Maaltman's Malt Musings found on tommymaaltman.blogspot.com, (shameless plug.) Yes, everybody is talking about The Bottle Wine and Spirits, located at 1364 Augustine Lane, Fayetteville, Arkansas. And what are they saying? Billie Bob says, "I'm getting a lot of tail at The Bottle Wine and Spirits." For the Northerners, I'll translate. What Billie Bob means is that you can get a 1.5 liter of Yellow Tail wine for 10.99!!! Jimmy Jack says, "Im getting crowned at The Bottle Wine and Spirits." Which means, The Bottle Wine and Spirits has the best selection of Crown Royal products in the region. So Y'all Pick up a copy of True Grit written by Arkansas' favorite son, Charles Portis and mosey on down to The Bottle Wine and Spirits, home of the only single malt scotch selection that would make Lassiter roll over in his grave. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman.

Tommy Maaltman discovers The Bottle Wine and Spirits

Maaltmen. If you are planning on traveling south of the Mason Dixon Line do yourself a favor and visit The Bottle Wine and Spirits in Fayetteville, Arkansas. A must stop for the Booze Afcionado and connoisseur of fine single malt scotch whisky where you can pick up a bottle of Macallan 25 year old vol 43% with a full amber color, smoky nose, full rounded toffee, fruit and spice taste and complex finish for the bargain price of $690.00. Tommy Maaltman has spent up to $900.00 for a bottle of this angel's nectar. And when you are there be sure to inquire about how to become a "Friend of Paul." Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Tommy Maaltman jumps on the Donald Trump for President Bandwagon.

Maaltmen. What would you prefer? President Ronald Reagan's TRICKLE DOWN ECONOMICS based on across the board tax cuts, less government regulations and supply side Reaganonomics leading to prosperity and increased wealth for all or President O'Bama's Stalinistic based GUSHING UP POVERTY with increased taxes, monumental government intrusion, and a gargantuan national debt? Is it too early to start seriously thinking about The Donald for President? Remember, with lower taxes , there would be more discretionary money to buy quality cask strength Scotch single malt whisky like Bunnahabhain vol. 55.6%, silver in color, solvent and acetone nose, sweet and very smoky to taste, salty, and a chlorine, peat, and smoke in your face finish. News flash, January 24, 2014, President Donald Trump announces plans to raze the White House and start building the 110 story Presidential Washington DC Trump Taj Mahal saying, "Realistically people did anybody actually expect me to live in a two hundred year old mansion?". Slainte, Tommy Maaltman.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West Range Wars.

Lassiter saw the clouds of war forming as he walked down the street towards The Hole in the Wall Saloon but since he wasn't getting paid to take sides he ignored the two groups of heavily armed men approaching each other from different directions. The year was 1893 and the Johnson County Range War between the cattle rustlers and the ranch owners was raging with bullet riddled dead bodies turning up all over the valley. Knowing it would be unhealthy to remain outside in the next few minutes, Lassiter walked into the saloon and up to Gums, the unshaven, toothless barkeep, and ordered a bottle of Caperdonich cask strength single malt whisky, a glass, and a small jug of water and sat down at a small round table facing the street. Seconds later the dusty street erupted in an hailstorm of gunfire. All the patrons, drunks, derelicts, and desperadoes in the saloon dove for cover except Lassiter who felt like a steam locomotive going full speed slammed into his chest knocking him off his chair and forcing his lifeless body eight feet back into the wall of the saloon. As the dust settled all the patrons of the saloon gathered around Lassiter's motionless body thinking how ironic it was that he, a stone cold, lone gunman, killer for hire, was killed by a random stray bullet fired in an unrelated fight. Suddenly , Sally, the attractive, young, highly educated school marm from back East who shortly learned she could make more money in one night at the Saloon than an entire year teaching frontier bastards at the single room school house, screamed, when she saw Lassiter slowly stand up, brush the dust off his black leather clothes and reach into his shirt pocket and pull out a copy of the Bible with a deeply embedded 45 caliber slug. Lassiter sat down at the table and finished his dram of Caperdonich, 48.6%, 38 year old cask strength single malt whisky with a ginger ale dark brownish gold color, nail polish remover nose, Florida orange grove blossom taste, and sweet orange blossom finish and said, "Momma was right when she gave me this Bible and said, Son, this Bible will save your life someday." Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West Lassiter has company for dinner.

Like a draft, almost imperceptibly, a tall thin man slipped through the door of Molly's Eatery and cautiously walked towards the table where Lassiter was sitting. The stranger with dark slim eyebrows and a dark slim mustache approached Lassiter and said, "Name's Slim, mind if I join ya?". Lassiter looked around the packed room and responded, "Don't look like I have a choice." Slim sat down opposite Lassiter and reached for the gravy stain spotted menu. Lassiter said, "No need to look at the menu, there's but one thing to eat here and that's Molly's country fried chicken steak, gravy and biscuits. Slim said, "That's fine by me." Molly brought the food and Lassiter bowed his head and said, "Let's grub." After eating a large quantity of food, Slim pushed back from the table. The next sound heard after the scraping of the chair's legs across the coarse wood floor as Slim stood up was the distinctive clicking sound of a 44 magnum Smith and Wesson six shooter being cocked coming from under the table where Lassiter was sitting. Slim froze. Lassiter said, "Aint you forgetting something?" Slim thought Lassiter meant that he forgot to pay, but knew better than to make any sudden movements for money in his front pocket inches away from where he leathered his two Colt 45 six shooters. Slim slowly sat down placing his hands in plain view on the table. Lassiter next said, "You know Slim, Molly works hard all day in a cockroach and rodent infested hot kitchen to make such a fine meal and it would be an injustice not to finish with a dram of fine cask strength single malt scotch whisky." The tension drained from Slim's body as he said, "Sir, you are absolutely right and I would consider it an honor and a privilege to join you." Lassiter signaled Molly who brought a bottle of Glenallachie, vol. 59.0%, with a clear Riesling color, hedgerows and laurel leaves nose, sweet tart hard candy taste, and a sweet, clean finish. With a belly full of country fried chicken steak, greasy fat laden gravy and biscuits cut by the high alcohol volume whisky, Slim knew it was time to go. Placing two five dollar gold coins on the table, more than enough to pay for the food and whisky with plenty left over for a generous tip for Molly, Slim stood up and slipped out the door never to be seen again in those parts. Bad manners were simply not welcome at Molly's. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman.

In Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild, West, trouble finds Lassiter.

Lassiter didn't have to look for trouble. Trouble found him. Thirsty, after a day's riding on the purple sage, Lassiter strolled into the Hole In The Wall Saloon and immediately noticed three well known cattle rustlers, Trampas, Shamus and Quint sitting at the corner table huddled together like rats, drinking cheap rot gut rye whiskey and nibbling on shelled dry roasted peanuts. Ignoring them, Lassiter walked to the bar and sat down next to Father O'Brien, the drunken, itinerant clergyman preaching Fire and Brimstone in the West for Sunday tiding plate offerings. Thinking Lasssiter was looking for them the cattle rustlers got up and quickly scurried out of the establishment. Lassiter ordered two glasses of Glenglassaugh, aged in oak 28 years, vol. 51.1% with a light gold color, cotton candy nose, red currants, nail polish remover, and vanilla tea taste, and a vanilla custard and glycine finish and gave one to the Padre. After finishing his dram, Lassiter walked out the door into a moonless, pitch black night. In the alley behind the saloon, Lassiter's steely grey, bobcat like eyes noticed three figures and said, "Gents, draw your steel.". A second later three blinding white flashes illuminated the alley followed by the thunderous repercussions of blazing 44 magnum Smith and Wesson six shooters. The Padre came staggering out of the saloon and saw Lassiter standing over the three rustlers' lifeless bodies each with a bullet hole between their eyes and the back of their skulls blown off, and said to Lassiter slurring, "What do you want me to do with them?" Lassiter said, " Bury them on Boot Hill next to the Gambler, but don't bother to dig three holes. Put 'em all in one since the three of 'em don't amount to one good honest sod buster. And Padre, don't bother to pray for their souls. They're already in Hell." Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West Lassiter's opinion of SMOKE FREE ESTABLISHMENTS

The year was 1873 and it had been several months since Lassiter last stepped through the doors of the Hole In The Wall Saloon. Upon entering he paused, built himself a smoke, placed it between his lips, cupped his hands around the end, looked down and sparked it. Deeply inhaling he looked around the room and immediately saw a large heavy wooden sign hanging over the bar with the words in big black, bold letters, THIS IS A SMOKE FREE ESTABLISHMENT. Sitting at the bar under the sign was Doc Stirling, the Army Veterinarian hired by the United States Federal Government to make sure the army mules weren't being abused during the Plains Indian Wars. Doc, having run three practices into the ground back east due to his fondness for the drink was sitting alone nursing a Seabreeze. Nervously looking around he noticed Lassiter eyeing the sign and instinctively dove to the dusty dirty ground for cover. Lassiter shaking his head with a since of rage boiling his blood pulled two Smith and Wesson 44 magnum six shooters and unloaded both into the sign. As the thundering repercussion of the blazing guns quieted and the smoke began to settle, the sign took one last swing and crashed to the ground almost crushing Doc. Lassiter turned to the terrified crowd of drunks, derelicts and desperadoes and said, "Gents, this ain't a smoke free establishment no more." Doc crawled up on his stool and resumed drinking his Seabreeze. Gums, the toothless, unshaven barkeep reached behind the bar and poured Lassiter a dram of a very smoky Laphroaig LPI, Elements of Islay, Speciality Drinks, 58.8 vol with a pale bullet shell casing brassy yellow color. Classic Laphroaig, heavy smoked kipper, industrial smoke, steam engine and grungy peat nose. Big peat and tarry flavor and crashingly loud peat, fish and smoke finish. Lassiter finished his dram, took the last drag from his smoke, tapped it out on the bar and placed the butt between his gum and his cheek. Still disgusted he turned and walked out the door. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Saturday, January 29, 2011

In Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West, two is one too many.

Lassiter rode into Rawlings in a typical Wyoming, wind blowing sideways, storm, dismounted his steed, Blaze, and walked into Stella's Saloon. Standing at the far end of the bar was Jake "The Widowmaker" Bridger who took one step sideways away from the bar and squared up facing Lassiter who immediately stopped and assumed the position of a gunslinger, killer for hire. As their cold steely gray eyes met and locked all the patrons of the saloon scrambled and dove under the tables expecting a firestorm of lead in the air to erupt at any moment. For what seemed like an eternity, the two men stood frozen in time, feet spread shoulder width apart, waist coats flung back exposing leathered 44 Magnums, hands steady, poised ready to draw, no twitch, no tremor. Then magically the two killers stood down, walked to a table and sat down. Professional killers don't kill professional killers, it's professional courtesy. The Widowmaker said, "What brings you to these parts?" Lassiter responded, "Business, you?" The Widowmaker said, "Just drifting between jobs." Neither man said much. They didn't need to. They said more by saying nothing than most men say in a lifetime. Stella knew both men as well as you can know a stone cold, lone gunman, killer for hire and brought a bottle of Ardbeg Mor, 57.3 vol., with a straw color, phenol and tar nose, oily peat, brine and citrus taste, and long smoky finish. After savoring their drams, both men got up and walked out the door heading in opposite directions. Lassiter took three steps and slowly turned around to see the Widowmaker already facing him. The last thing the Widowmaker heard was Lassiter saying, "Its not personal, just business" as he squeezed the trigger sending a 44 magnum lead slug through the Widowmaker's cold, blackened heart. The territory just wasn't big enough for two lone gunman. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Tommy Maaltman on hard work and reputations in the Wild, Wild, West of Tommy Maaltman's World

Lassiter earned his reputation the hard way, on the business end of a Smith and Wesson 44 Magnum six shooter and his reputation preceded him wherever he went. The life of a stone cold, lone gunman, killer for hire, isn't pretty but a necessary life nevertheless. Men need to settle disputes, collect debts and protect their property. That is where a man like Lassiter fits in Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild, West. A gun for hire. No questions asked. Agree on a price. Do the job. Get paid and drift on. Colton Lassiter was no expert on ethics or morals and he certainly was no judge of mankind but he did know Cask Strenth Scotch Single Malt Whisky and one of his favorites, Lagavulin 12 year old, 57.8 vol., with a deathly pale color, restrained "nerves of steel" smoky nose, smoke, peat and Assam tea palate, and a strong, long firm smoky "sense of justice" finish. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild, West Lassiter says "leather it."

Lassiter stepped over the swinging doors of The Hole in the Wall Saloon where having been kicked one time too many, they fell on the ground after years of neglect, dry rot, and rusty hinges. With no one nearby with an ounce of ambition or the money to fix the doors, they would lay there until the rest of the saloon disintegrates and falls to the ground turning into dust in the dirty, dusty forgotten town of.........Forgotten. Upon entering the saloon, Jimmy, the sixteen year old third grade Frontier school drop out whose family was recently scalped and massacred in an Injun raid, recently having discovered rot gut rye whiskey six weeks before, stood up and drew his six shooter trying to make a name for himself. Lassiter said, "leather it" and calmly walked forward to within two inches of Jimmy's face and said, "Kid, there are two things in life that you should never do. One, don't draw a gun when you are drunk on a lone gunman dressed all in black leather who makes a living killing other men for fun and profit." Jimmy slurred, "Oh yeah, what's the other thing Mr. Lassiter?" "Don't never drink cheap rot gut rye whiskey. It will destroy your liver and rattle your brain." As Jimmy slid his gun back into his leather holster, Lassiter's two heavy fists came slamming down on Jimmy's shoulders breaking both clavicles in the middle rendering his arms and hands useless. Lassiter turned to Gums, the toothless, unshaven barkeep and flipped him a gold piece and said, "If Jimmy's broken bones mend and he can use his arms and hands again, get him a dram of Lagavulin, Distillers Edition, Double Matured, 43 vol. Finished in Pedro Ximenez Sherry casks, with a rich amber color, smoke and fish nose, smoke, peat, and Spanish Sherry taste, and long soft, smokey and gently spiced finish. While being spoon feed by some poor sole, Jimmy is going to have a long time to think about Lassiter's advice. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Tommy Maaltman's Lassiter hooks up with Kitty.

The doors of the Hole in the Wall Saloon were still swinging as a stream of expectorated tobacco juice sailed across the room landing on the toes of the shoes of Kitty the "rough ridden and put away wet" long time lady of the evening, plying her trade in the dirty, dusty forgotten town of Forgotten. Looking up from the puddle of brown, brackish fluid , she knew the lone gunman, dressed all in black leather, named Lassiter, was back and made a mental note to not stand so close to the spittoon in the future. Their eyes met and nothing more needed to be said. She instinctively walked behind the bar slapping the toothless, unshaven barkeep "Gums" to the side and grabbed the finest bottle of single malt whisky and two glasses. Lassiter was already sitting at a small round table when Kitty joined him, and he watched her pour a dram of Glen Moray Port Wood Aged, Limited Edition, with a full fool's gold color, lovely perfumey nose, rich body and perfumey sugar coated almond and after dinner malt taste and an extraordinary delicate finish, reminding Lassiter of Kitty, past and present but mostly past. Lassiter finished his dram and without saying a word got up and walked out the door. After all these years this one time it was Kitty's turn to pay. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman