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.