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