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.