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

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

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

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

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