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.