Morning in Paradise. Lassiter's eyes instinctively snapped open at daybreak and as he stood up out of his plank board bed strewn with flea infested straw, his knees creaked and moaned like an old barn door slowly swinging in the breeze. Spitting, he missed the spittoon and the brown gelatinous wad slowly rolled down the corner wall at the mercy of gravity. He walked to the creek with steely gray eyes glazed over by the effect of a typical poor night's sleep, the result of the ever present demons of being a lone, stone cold killer for hire. He knelt down and plunged his face into the icy cold water of the nearby creek that served as the sewer system for the dirty, dusty forgotten town of.....Forgotten. The cold water on his sun damaged face awakened him fully and upon opening his eyes underwater he saw several fluid laden corpulent scum bags float by cascading off his nose as the current took them down stream. Violently withdrawing his head with a painful jerk from the water he stood up and exhaled the remaining stale air from his emphysematous lungs and ejaculated, "Sheeeeeit, this town West of the law is becoming too damned populated." A typical start of Lassiter's day! Walking back to his frontier log cabin he shared with his smoking hot Swedish wife with platinum blonde hair and a "Come to Jesus" body, he knew what he had to do. Reaching for the bottle, he poured himself a dram of Glen Moray. 53.8% alcohol, aged 34 years in a refill hogs head, ex bourbon cask. With a masculine nose of Egyptian tobacco, the pale straw yellow whisky was smooth, mellow and surprisingly sweet with a long, light nutty finish. As the cask strength whisky took affect, Lassiter realized that at least the seed of some drunken, degenerate, derelict didn't impregnate one of the feckless whores plying her trade at The Hole in the Wall Saloon. Lassiter was always able to see the good in the bad. Sàlainte, Tommy Maaltman