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.