Lassiter reflects on Thanksgiving

The wooden planks,of the floor creaked as Lassiter walked to the table, pulled out a large oak chair and sat down. Leaning forward, he removed from his back hip pocket an Injun skin pouch filled with premium Turkish tobacco and began to expertly build himself a smoke. His mind began to wander to an earlier conversation between two Easterners that he overheard at the train station about a new fangled machine the government was working on that could roll hundreds of cigarettes in a short period of time. The thought disgusted Lassiter. What self sufficient man living in the Territory West of the Law would smoke a machine rolled cigarette? What was happening to this country, he thought to himself? Next thing you know the government would be issuing checks to the folks too old, too sick, to infirmed, too disabled or just plain too lazy to work! At least the redskins knew how to deal with these people. They simply moved camp and left the weak behind to fend for themselves. Who knew, perhaps the government would issue food coupons for those unable to provide food for their families. Maybe if a man couldn't put food on the table for his family, he shouldn't have one, Lassiter thought to himself. Maybe in the future the government would even pay a man's Doctor's bills! Of course if this happened the government would have to collect massive taxes to pay for all these entitlements. The Founders would be spinning in their graves. Lassiter placed the cigarette between his taught pencil thin lips, cupped his hands around the end and sparked the tobacco. Inhaling deeply, he felt the familiar seering, "come to Jesus" burn as his lungs filled with the heavily nicotene laden unfiltered smoke. The tension began to ease. Lassiter couldn't help but think about what a good life he had. Decorated Confererate Veteran of the War of Northern Aggression, gunslinger, self employed killer for hire with a smoking hot blonde Swedish super model half his age named Inge, for a wife. He decide to pour himself a dram of Ardbeg, Uigeadail, a single malt Islay Scotch Whisky. Non chill-filtered aquae vitae with a the color of watered down cola found in a glass of ice and coke the next morning. The nose of peat, iodine and brine from a westernly sea breeze with a wet November leaf burning smoke. The taste, a powerful smoke, peat and burned decomposed wet leaves with figgs, raisons and currants. The finish, a coal soap and creoaote presence. Savoring the flavor Lassiter leaned back in his chair. A satisfied man is a thankful man. Happy Thanksgiving. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman.

Lassiter and the Stampede of 1885.

Lassiter, the lone, stone cold professional killer for hire with steely gray eyes had just returned from El Paso in the Territory of Texas after straightening out some crooked Texas Rangers and was about to sit down at his favorite stool for a well deserved dram at The Hole in the Wall Saloon when he felt the ground tremor. As the trembling increased in intensity, he heard a rumbling sound off in the distance. The miscreants, drunks, derelicts and degenerates at the bar started to panic and screamed, "It's a bad prairie dust storm, no its an earthquake." Then Gums, the toothless barkeep not known for his intellectual prowess screamed, "Save yourselves, it's the end of the world as we know it!" Lassiter stood up and calmly emptied both of his Smith and Wessen 44 magnum six shooters into the ceiling of the saloon to get their attention and restore order. By now the ground was violently shaking and there was a thunderous roar as Lassiter forcefully stated, "Relax, it's them damned Texas cowpokes runnin' their heard of longhorns too close to town trying to make time getting their heard to Kansas City to be butchered so they can get top dollar selling their beef to the insatiable, fat, pampered and spoiled city slickers in New York City. Just as Lassiter was about to sit down, Minerva, his abandoned daughter making a new life for herself in the dirty, dusty, forgotten town of....Forgotten burst through the doors of the saloon and shrieked hysterically, " 'Lil' Madeline is missing!" She was last seen playing in the dirt outside in front of their one room sod buster's house. Lassiter immediately ran out the door of the saloon and leaped onto the back of Blaze, his trusted and much loved steed. Digging his spurs deep into Blaze's flanks they headed at lightning speed toward the stampeding heard. Seeing 'Lil' Madeline playing on the prairie floor directly in harms way looking for pine cones totally oblivious to the danger of being trampled to death by thousands of pounds of beef, Lassiter kicked harder sinking his spurs deeper into Blaze's flesh. Lassiter was now in front of the stampede and swooped down like an American eagle with outstretched talons and grabbed 'Lil' Madeline's tiny hand swinging her up and onto the saddle where she instinctively clutched Lassiter's rough hewn shirt and hung on for dear life. Milliseconds after realizing the relief that 'Lil' Madeline's life had been sparred, Lassiter felt a thump from behind and knew immediately that Blaze had been gored in the hind flank by one of the charging longhorns. As the stampeding heard passed, Lasssiter, 'Lil' Madeline and Blaze limped back to town. Lassiter dismounted Blaze and handed 'Lil' Madeline to her mother Minerva whose face was streaked with dirt and tears from crying uncontrollably. Lassiter walked back into the dirty, dusty street to care for the mortally wounded Blaze. Drawing his 44 Magnum he stepped up to his horse and without saying a word sent with surgical precision a 246 grain lead round nose slug directly between Blaze's ears putting the beast out of his misery. Remarkably, the bullet passed through the horse's head and hit Rowdy Higgins, the trail boss responsible for the irresponsible stampede who was returning to apologize, right between the eyes killing him instantly. All present agreed, it was an unavoidable accident. Lassiter said, "Dump Blaze and Rowdy in the same hole and let the buzzards have their beggar's feast." Later that day, all gathered at The Hole in the Wall Saloon where Lassiter poured drams of Dalmore "Black Isle" 12 year old vol. 43 with a dark reddish copper color, sherry, apricot, cherry and tobacco nose, orange and mincemeat taste and liquorice finish. Just as Lassiter lifted his dram to his lips, 'Lil' Madeline's silver dollar sized light gray steely blue eyes caught Lassiter's stone cold gray eyes and said, "Me try." Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman.

The dusty, dirty, forgotten town of ....Forgotten gets occupied.

One evening in the dusty, dirty, forgotten town of......Forgotten, the local miscreants got together for their weekly pity party when talk turned to how "nobody did nothing, never for them." All were veterans of the War of Northern Agression, later known as the American Civil War and were suffering from generalized degenerative behavior, deriliquition, alcolohism, laziness and what was then called "nerves" later to be known as "post traumatic stress syndrome" by the politacally correct crowd and the left leaning psychiatric profession. Ironically, all received a generous pension as veterans and no one worked unless you consider the full time pursuit of massive quantities of cheap rot gut rye whiskey, a job. There was Lefty, a brain damaged man paralyzed on the the right side after passing out in the street and being kicked in the head by a mule. Blackie "lights out" McGee, blinded by habitually drinking methanol was spouting off as usual. Stumpy, who got drunk one night was lying comatose on the railroad tracks and lost both legs when a train came barreling through rolled in on his wooden platform with small casters. And off course the insensitive "Moon Craters" and "Curley" known for drinking too much and laughing at the deformed, misshapen, retarded and ugly were present along with all the other "no goods" living in the territory. Moaning about their plight and feeling sorry for themselves, they decided to do something about it. No, the thought of getting a job never entered into their alcohol rattled pea size brains. They decided to protest and "occupy" the one viable business in town, The Hole in the Wall Saloon, in hopes of shutting down commerce and getting attention, maybe resulting in a handout to get rid of them. They started working on signs like, "Et the Rich, Kill the Man, and Power to the Peeple." One evening they gathered their signs and sat down in front of the saloon blocking the entrance. Boy did they pick the wrong night. It just so happened that Lassiter , the lone, stone cold professional killer for hire with steely gray eyes was coming home after a long journey crossing the dessert known as Death Valley and was thinking about quenching his thirst before calling it a night. He dismounted Blaze and brushed five days of dust and salt off his leather pants and vest when he looked up to see "The Occupiers" blocking his way into the saloon. Lassiter, a man of few words said nothing. The distinctive clicks of the hammers of his two Smith and Wesson 44 magnum six shooters spoke volumes. The Occupiers scattered like sizzling grease jumping out of a red hot skillet and were never seen again. The unemployment rate in the dirty, dusty, forgotten town of...Forgotten plummeted to zero. Lassiter leathered his pieces, walked into the saloon and just like that, commerce was restored to full capacity. Being in a good mood as well as being thirsty, he told Gums, the toothless barkeep to, open up a bottle of the establishment's finest cask strength single malt Scotch whisky and poured a dram for all that evening. The town folks were treated to an Ardbeg, 56.6% alcohol, 2nd fill barrel ex bourbon, age 13 years with a charcoal bold smoke and leather nose, ash, coal and burnt stick taste and smoky, sweet and spice finish. 150'years later, similar groups of deadbeats tried the same strategy on Wall Street, but this time no one had the guts to nip the protest in the bud. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman. Dalla città di Roma, Italia.

Lassiter on product endorsement.

Lassiter was well known as a gun for hire, professional killer who got the job done. No questions asked. Slam, bam, thank you Mam. Don't let the door hit you on the ass as you leave. His preferred piece, a Smith and Wesson 44 magnum six shooter. At the time it was the most powerful revolver in the business and it never failed. Colt, a competitor of Smith and Wesson, wanted to build a bigger, better, more powerful revolver, a 454. One that delivered 250 (16g) bullet with a muzzle velocity of 1900 feet per second (580 m/s,) delivering more than 2000 ft/lb of energy. The goal was to build a powerful revolver intended for hunting large game and predator defense. What the owner did with it was none of their business. Having built a prototype, they needed an endorsement and asked Lassiter to try it out. After spending a day shooting the 454 sending over 5000 rounds through the eight inch barrel, Lassiter and the manufacturer's rep, Mr. Jeb Sheridan, a well dressed accountant type, decided to call it a day and relax with a dram or two of cask strength single malt scotch whisky. Lassiter suggested a Mortlach, 63.1 vol. with a bright orange color, peat nose, rich sherry taste and dry finish. After several drams, Mr. Sheridan got up the nerve and said, "Mr. Lassiter, we at Colt Manufacturing would be mighty honored if you would allow us to put your name on our new 454. We would call it the Lassiter 454." Lassiter without a moments pause said, "No." Nobody said nothin' to no one but everybody knew that when your name is on it, your heart is in it and Lassiter didn't have a heart. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman

Lassiter takes a vacation.

Lassiter, the lone, stone cold professional killer for hire with icey, steely gray eyes was tired after several years of settling disputes, collecting debts and evening the score, for a fee. In fact, he was dog gone bone tired and need a break. He decided to book a wild Russian Boar hunt in the southwestern territory of Arkansas, known for big, vicious razorbacks perfect for trophy head mounts and wonderful tasting pork sausage. Wild Boar hunts, as popular today as they were in the 19th century, can be accomplished at a distance with a powerful rifle, up close with a large caliber revolver, or for the "in your face aficionado," with an expertly placed stick in the neck severing the jugular veins and carotid arteries, with a Jim Bowie knife. Lassiter mounted Blaze, his trusty steed, and road through the night arriving at the Stick'em, Bleed'em, Kill'em, and Gut'em, exclusive ranch. To his surprise, Rowdy Higgins was working as a hunt guide. The last time the two men saw each other was when Lassiter was coming out of the Sierra Nevada Mountains and warned Rowdy, then working as the Donner Party wagon master, not to attempt a crossing due to an early blizzard making the pass treacherous. Rowdy, eager to earn a bonus, ignored the advice and the Donner Party was stranded in the mountains in one of the worst snow storms in the history of the West, resorted to cannibalism and perished. Rowdy, more fortunate, survived to guide another day. Lassiter, not one to dwell on the past, refrained from saying, "I told you so," and instead said, "Rowdy, let's get me a big hog." Rowdy released a pack of dogs and the two men sat down to drink strong black coffee and smoke filterless cigarettes. It didn't take long for the dogs to corner a massive, powerfully built boar foaming at the mouth anxious to sink its teeth into a dog's face. The boar, ferocious, savage, dangerous and probably rabid, was wildly swinging its large head fending off the pack of growling dogs. Rowdy and Lassiter rode towards the commotion. Dismounting, Lassiter pulled his model 1859 Sharps carbine rifle from his saddle and walked toward the boar. About thirty feet from the beast he carefully laid down his rifle and drew his Smith and Wesson 44 magnum six shooter and walked closer. Ten feet away from the encircled raging monster, he layed down his pistol and unsheathed his Jim Bowie knife with a 13 inch razor sharp blade and walked closer. The dogs sensing Lassiter's prescence parted like the Red Sea and Lassiter stepped forward stopping inches away from the beast. Lassiter stared into the animal's eyes and slowly put down his Jim Bowie knife, stood up and stomped its head into an unrecognizable bloody pulp with the heel of his boot. Rowdy, running up, quickly realized he wasn't going to get the commission for a trophy head mount. Hoping to salvage something from the hunt Rowdy asked, "Should I have the boys field dress the pig?" Lassiter looked over and said, "Why?" Later that night back at the ranch, Lassiter and Rowdy sat down to enjoy a dram of Cask Strength Caol Ila 55 vol. with a remarkably pale white wine color, intense,smoky sweet nose, malty, sweet peppery taste and strong alcohol finish. Noticing that Rowdy put a couple of pieces of ice in his malt couldn't help but remark, "I thought after the Donner Party you wouldn't want anything to do with ice." Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman

Lassiter meets Jocko McQualters

Lassiter, the lone, stone cold professional killer for hire stepped from the rainy, cold, damp, dank, dark night through the doors into the dimly lit, smokey, grungy, Hole in the Wall Saloon in the God forsaken, dirty, forlorn, forgotten town of.....Forgotten. Despite the poor lighting in the smoke filled room, Lassiter espied a stranger sitting at his usual spot at the distant corner bar stool facing the door. Gums, the toothless bar keep scurried over like a sycophantic rat trying to please and said, "I'm so sorry Mr. Lassiter, but the stranger insisted on sitting at your place. I warned him. Says he's a professional soldier, one of the King's men from the Cumberland region of the United Kingdom. I cain't hardly understand a word he's a sayin. Don't seem to be speakin' English like us." Lassiter nodded and slowly approached the stranger who was hunched over three fingers of cheap rot gut rye whiskey in a dirty, chipped glass. The stranger paid no attention until Lassiter said, "Stranger, you're sittin' in my place." He suddenly stood up knocking the stool crashing onto the filthy floor and turned to face Lassiter. Standing no more than two inches apart, their eyes locked, hands ready to draw the first belly shot. The tension in the room was almost as thick as the smoke and could have been cut with a knife. After several minutes that felt like several hours, both men sat down at the bar, Lassiter in his usual spot, instinctively and intuitively realizing they were men cut from the same cloth. Lassiter, a lone, stone cold, professional killer for hire and the stranger a professional soldier paid to do the Kings dirty work (mame and kill) whatever, whenever and where ever it may be. The stranger spoke first. "Me noomes Jocko McQualters, Fourteenth Army, Ninth Division of His Majesty's Royal Army." Lassiter responded, "Why are you drinking that cheap rot gut rye whiskey in a dirty glass? This ain't no war zone." Jocko asked, "Ye goe soomthun betta?" Lassiter nodded to Gums who brought two clean glasses and a bottle of Teaninich, 10 year old, Flora and Fauna, 43 vol. with a pale gold color, fruity nose, sweet dry peaty taste and an herbal finish. Jocko took a taste and said, "Ayed say tha es fookin goode. Ah'm crappin' ivvery color bar blue. Aye well, ah'd sooner ev a pint anyways. Booger this for a lark. The whole bloody sub-cheese, the lot. Ga'n git stoofed, sod that!! What about you, owd feller?" Lassiter, not really understanding a word said and being a man of few words simply replied, Amen brother. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman

Mrs. Florence Bagette flees into the night.

It didn't take long for Mrs. Florence Bagette to realize that, with the untimely death of her embezzling Southern Union Bank president husband, his crimes would be soon discovered and she would become persona non gratis in the town of Valdosta, Georgia deep in the reconstructed South after the unsuccessful War of Southern Independence. She immediately gathered anything of value and fled into the night in search of an unsuspecting wealthy gentleman (meal ticket) and a new beginning, if you will. Within minutes of her departure, one by one, Dynah and the other former slaves, now abandoned servants, crept back into the house to discuss their fate and plan their bleak future as "unemployed Negroes" in the hostile, bigoted, and dangerous deep South populated by disgruntled, disillusioned, disempowered white former plantation owners seeking a scapegoat. Dynah, seeing that the house had been ransacked, went to the recently deceased Mr. Balfour Bagette's personal chambers and behind a secret walnut panel retrieved a bottle of his finest cask strength single malt Scotch, a Glenury 50 year old, 42.8. vol., whisky. With a dark orange color, smooth burnt skin of chestnut roasting nose, liquered chocolate, cherry and coffee taste and old sappy oak finish, it was just what the doctor ordered . Drinking the fine single malt while smoking Mr. Bagette's top shelf plantation tobacco hand rolled into cigarettes, the former slaves for a brief moment, started to feel better, but nevertheless an overwhelming since of doom and despair prevailed. One by one they got up to leave the house one last time and disappeared into the night to face their bleak, dark future. Dynah, the only one left, got up and "accidentally" knocked over the ash tray containing smoldering cigarette butts. Moments later the all wood, uninsured but mortgage free mansion, bursted into a blazing inferno. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman

Florence Bagette learns of her husband's demise.

Mrs. Florence Bagette, the wife of the Southern Union Bank president, Mr. Balfour Bagette, was enjoying her afternoon tea and petits fours on the veranda of her Southern style plantation home in Valdosta, Georgia when Mrs Genivieve Easley burst through the screen door and blurted out, "Mrs. Bagette, I'm so sorry but your beloved husband, Balfour, died this morning while eating breakfast, of a massive coronary. Florence was overcome with emotion, but not because she lost a dear husband. The marriage had died years ago. Mr. Bagette was simply too fat to do anything other than to embezzle from the bank and to eat and drink himself to death. No, Florence was momentarily immobilized by emotion wondering how she was going to maintain her lavish lifestyle now that Balfour was gone. She calmly collected her wits and gently placed her teacup and saucer down on the sterling silver tray next to the sterling silver tea pot, cream and sugar container. She got up and walked across the room and slapped Dinah, her former slave, now serving as head of the household servants in the newly reconstructed South after the Confederacy was ruined by the overly aggressive and destructive Northern troops lead by the punitive demon General William Tecumseh Sherman during the War of Northern Aggression. Dinah said, "I'm so sorry for your loss Miz Bagette. Is there anything I can do to hep?" Florence responded, "Why yes Dinah, you can pack up your things and get out. I can no longer afford to provide for you. And tell the rest of your kind to leave also. There will be no more free lunches on this plantation. And don't let the door hit you on the rear end as you leave." To be continued... Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman