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.

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

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

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.]