Sweet dreams and fond memories.

Lassiter charged blindly into the thick column of gun smoke and confederate cannon fodder falling facedown onto the rocky bottom of a small dried up creek in some God forsaken no named place in Northern Mississippi near Corinth. He stood up and scampered up the far side bank injuring both feet protected by flimsy, shoddy, rottened leathered boots provided courtesy of President Jefferson Davis. Upon reaching the crest he pointed his musket down and pulled the trigger. Following the trajectory of the mini ball he jumped feet first into the rifle pit stuffed with a blue sea of Yankee infantrymen and severely sprained both ankles. He wildly thrust, stabbed and slashed with his rifle expertly wielding his razor sharp bayonet until the steel broke off in some poor bastards head. He then began wildly cracking more skulls with the butt end of his rifle until that too was shattered and he collapsed in utter exhaustion. Upon awakening, he was surrounded by 27 dead or dieing men of the Union Army including a recently breveted Major. All others in that hole had scurried away like rats deserting a sinking ship when confronted by Lassiter, the one man whirling dervish. Had Lassiter been a Yankee in the Federal Army of Northern Aggression trespassing on this sacred Southern land he would have been awarded The Purple Heart, The Bronze Star, promoted to Private First Class,(PFC) and nominated for the Congressional Medal of Honor. But since he volunteered to serve in the Confederate State's Army he didn't get spit to polish his rotten boots. He looked around and realized that all his comrades were running for their lives pursued by white hot canister and grape fired from the superior Union cannons. Lassiter sat up, wiped the sweat from his forehead, felt his heart pounding in his chest and heard the soft rhythmic breathing of Inge, his new bride, the twenty year old Swedish super model with natural platinum blonde hair and a perfect ten super hot body laying next to him in bed. He realized he was dreaming again. One hundred years later the soft, ultra left and almost Communistic American Psychiatric Association would say Lassiter was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, (PTSD.) Lassiter called it sweet dreams and fond memories. It was around 3:00 AM, the typical time when these recurring dreams occurred and Lassiter decided to get up and start the day. Getting out of bed rather noisily hoping to wake Inge so she too would get up and perhaps prepare a nice breakfast, Lassiter poured himself a dram of Coal Ila, Alc.: 59.1%, Proof 118.2, 25 year old cask strength single malt. A refill hogsheads with a gold color. The first nose of sweet vegetables and very mellow. The first taste, carmalized neeps. A drop of water brings out pork crackling and old leather reminding him of his government issue Army boots. The long finish is smooth. Like many Veterans, Lassiter looked back on his time in the service fondly and if encountered would tell a Psychiatrist to "go to Hell." And Maaltmen, remember its Veteran's Day. Give thanks. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman.

Body and soul.

Alastair MacQualter Graham, M.D., newly conscripted army sawbones didn't fraternize with the other men in the Army of Northern Virginia until one day he met Chaplin Franklin Ulysses Swaggart, ordained Baptist minister from Corinth, Mississippi. Better known as the Reverend F.U. The men shared a deep and profound devotion to ...............whisky. Preacher F. U.did not single out catholic Pappists for disparagement, condemnation and damnation like most of his fellow protestant clergyman. In fact, F. U.didn't have a discriminating bone in his body, he hated all other religions equally and considered each one competition for the dwindling funds available for tithing. You see tithing a Protestant invention, described in the Old Testament, consists of giving 10 percent of earnings to the church. For the Reverend Franklin Ulysses Swaggart it meant something quite different and during the war of Northern Aggression he became a wealthy man spawning many generations of swindling, dishonest and whoring Swaggart men of the cloth. Celebrating their newfound friendship, the men enjoyed several drams of MaCallan Whisky Maker's Edition single malt with a lingering finish. 42.8% alc/vol. with a bronze color, fresh bowl of sweet fruit nose, first taste of sweet fruit and spice,second taste introduces complex candied fruit and West Indies spice with a subtle smokey finish predictive of a long deep friendship between these two professionals. One tending the body, the other ministering to the soul. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman

Life in camp

Scratching the boil on his arse that was coalescing but not yet ready to explode, draining a purulent slop into his pants, Alistair MacQualter Graham, M.D. gently eased himself into a field chair to put on his boots. Reaching for the already rotting cheap leather confederate boots, a corpulent rat scurried away only to look back at Alistair as if to say, "You sombitch cow pie, you disturbed my nest." It was going to be one of those days. Reaching for the bottle, Alastair poured himself a dram of Jura Diurachs' own, 16 year old, 40% vol/alcohol, with a copper orange colour, astringent nose, peppery chocolate first taste, oranges and spice second taste and a warm, "come to Jesus" finish. With whisky like this, who needs boots? Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman