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

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