Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West Lassiter has company for dinner.

Like a draft, almost imperceptibly, a tall thin man slipped through the door of Molly's Eatery and cautiously walked towards the table where Lassiter was sitting. The stranger with dark slim eyebrows and a dark slim mustache approached Lassiter and said, "Name's Slim, mind if I join ya?". Lassiter looked around the packed room and responded, "Don't look like I have a choice." Slim sat down opposite Lassiter and reached for the gravy stain spotted menu. Lassiter said, "No need to look at the menu, there's but one thing to eat here and that's Molly's country fried chicken steak, gravy and biscuits. Slim said, "That's fine by me." Molly brought the food and Lassiter bowed his head and said, "Let's grub." After eating a large quantity of food, Slim pushed back from the table. The next sound heard after the scraping of the chair's legs across the coarse wood floor as Slim stood up was the distinctive clicking sound of a 44 magnum Smith and Wesson six shooter being cocked coming from under the table where Lassiter was sitting. Slim froze. Lassiter said, "Aint you forgetting something?" Slim thought Lassiter meant that he forgot to pay, but knew better than to make any sudden movements for money in his front pocket inches away from where he leathered his two Colt 45 six shooters. Slim slowly sat down placing his hands in plain view on the table. Lassiter next said, "You know Slim, Molly works hard all day in a cockroach and rodent infested hot kitchen to make such a fine meal and it would be an injustice not to finish with a dram of fine cask strength single malt scotch whisky." The tension drained from Slim's body as he said, "Sir, you are absolutely right and I would consider it an honor and a privilege to join you." Lassiter signaled Molly who brought a bottle of Glenallachie, vol. 59.0%, with a clear Riesling color, hedgerows and laurel leaves nose, sweet tart hard candy taste, and a sweet, clean finish. With a belly full of country fried chicken steak, greasy fat laden gravy and biscuits cut by the high alcohol volume whisky, Slim knew it was time to go. Placing two five dollar gold coins on the table, more than enough to pay for the food and whisky with plenty left over for a generous tip for Molly, Slim stood up and slipped out the door never to be seen again in those parts. Bad manners were simply not welcome at Molly's. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman.

In Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild, West, trouble finds Lassiter.

Lassiter didn't have to look for trouble. Trouble found him. Thirsty, after a day's riding on the purple sage, Lassiter strolled into the Hole In The Wall Saloon and immediately noticed three well known cattle rustlers, Trampas, Shamus and Quint sitting at the corner table huddled together like rats, drinking cheap rot gut rye whiskey and nibbling on shelled dry roasted peanuts. Ignoring them, Lassiter walked to the bar and sat down next to Father O'Brien, the drunken, itinerant clergyman preaching Fire and Brimstone in the West for Sunday tiding plate offerings. Thinking Lasssiter was looking for them the cattle rustlers got up and quickly scurried out of the establishment. Lassiter ordered two glasses of Glenglassaugh, aged in oak 28 years, vol. 51.1% with a light gold color, cotton candy nose, red currants, nail polish remover, and vanilla tea taste, and a vanilla custard and glycine finish and gave one to the Padre. After finishing his dram, Lassiter walked out the door into a moonless, pitch black night. In the alley behind the saloon, Lassiter's steely grey, bobcat like eyes noticed three figures and said, "Gents, draw your steel.". A second later three blinding white flashes illuminated the alley followed by the thunderous repercussions of blazing 44 magnum Smith and Wesson six shooters. The Padre came staggering out of the saloon and saw Lassiter standing over the three rustlers' lifeless bodies each with a bullet hole between their eyes and the back of their skulls blown off, and said to Lassiter slurring, "What do you want me to do with them?" Lassiter said, " Bury them on Boot Hill next to the Gambler, but don't bother to dig three holes. Put 'em all in one since the three of 'em don't amount to one good honest sod buster. And Padre, don't bother to pray for their souls. They're already in Hell." Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West Lassiter's opinion of SMOKE FREE ESTABLISHMENTS

The year was 1873 and it had been several months since Lassiter last stepped through the doors of the Hole In The Wall Saloon. Upon entering he paused, built himself a smoke, placed it between his lips, cupped his hands around the end, looked down and sparked it. Deeply inhaling he looked around the room and immediately saw a large heavy wooden sign hanging over the bar with the words in big black, bold letters, THIS IS A SMOKE FREE ESTABLISHMENT. Sitting at the bar under the sign was Doc Stirling, the Army Veterinarian hired by the United States Federal Government to make sure the army mules weren't being abused during the Plains Indian Wars. Doc, having run three practices into the ground back east due to his fondness for the drink was sitting alone nursing a Seabreeze. Nervously looking around he noticed Lassiter eyeing the sign and instinctively dove to the dusty dirty ground for cover. Lassiter shaking his head with a since of rage boiling his blood pulled two Smith and Wesson 44 magnum six shooters and unloaded both into the sign. As the thundering repercussion of the blazing guns quieted and the smoke began to settle, the sign took one last swing and crashed to the ground almost crushing Doc. Lassiter turned to the terrified crowd of drunks, derelicts and desperadoes and said, "Gents, this ain't a smoke free establishment no more." Doc crawled up on his stool and resumed drinking his Seabreeze. Gums, the toothless, unshaven barkeep reached behind the bar and poured Lassiter a dram of a very smoky Laphroaig LPI, Elements of Islay, Speciality Drinks, 58.8 vol with a pale bullet shell casing brassy yellow color. Classic Laphroaig, heavy smoked kipper, industrial smoke, steam engine and grungy peat nose. Big peat and tarry flavor and crashingly loud peat, fish and smoke finish. Lassiter finished his dram, took the last drag from his smoke, tapped it out on the bar and placed the butt between his gum and his cheek. Still disgusted he turned and walked out the door. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

In Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West, two is one too many.

Lassiter rode into Rawlings in a typical Wyoming, wind blowing sideways, storm, dismounted his steed, Blaze, and walked into Stella's Saloon. Standing at the far end of the bar was Jake "The Widowmaker" Bridger who took one step sideways away from the bar and squared up facing Lassiter who immediately stopped and assumed the position of a gunslinger, killer for hire. As their cold steely gray eyes met and locked all the patrons of the saloon scrambled and dove under the tables expecting a firestorm of lead in the air to erupt at any moment. For what seemed like an eternity, the two men stood frozen in time, feet spread shoulder width apart, waist coats flung back exposing leathered 44 Magnums, hands steady, poised ready to draw, no twitch, no tremor. Then magically the two killers stood down, walked to a table and sat down. Professional killers don't kill professional killers, it's professional courtesy. The Widowmaker said, "What brings you to these parts?" Lassiter responded, "Business, you?" The Widowmaker said, "Just drifting between jobs." Neither man said much. They didn't need to. They said more by saying nothing than most men say in a lifetime. Stella knew both men as well as you can know a stone cold, lone gunman, killer for hire and brought a bottle of Ardbeg Mor, 57.3 vol., with a straw color, phenol and tar nose, oily peat, brine and citrus taste, and long smoky finish. After savoring their drams, both men got up and walked out the door heading in opposite directions. Lassiter took three steps and slowly turned around to see the Widowmaker already facing him. The last thing the Widowmaker heard was Lassiter saying, "Its not personal, just business" as he squeezed the trigger sending a 44 magnum lead slug through the Widowmaker's cold, blackened heart. The territory just wasn't big enough for two lone gunman. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Tommy Maaltman on hard work and reputations in the Wild, Wild, West of Tommy Maaltman's World

Lassiter earned his reputation the hard way, on the business end of a Smith and Wesson 44 Magnum six shooter and his reputation preceded him wherever he went. The life of a stone cold, lone gunman, killer for hire, isn't pretty but a necessary life nevertheless. Men need to settle disputes, collect debts and protect their property. That is where a man like Lassiter fits in Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild, West. A gun for hire. No questions asked. Agree on a price. Do the job. Get paid and drift on. Colton Lassiter was no expert on ethics or morals and he certainly was no judge of mankind but he did know Cask Strenth Scotch Single Malt Whisky and one of his favorites, Lagavulin 12 year old, 57.8 vol., with a deathly pale color, restrained "nerves of steel" smoky nose, smoke, peat and Assam tea palate, and a strong, long firm smoky "sense of justice" finish. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild, West Lassiter says "leather it."

Lassiter stepped over the swinging doors of The Hole in the Wall Saloon where having been kicked one time too many, they fell on the ground after years of neglect, dry rot, and rusty hinges. With no one nearby with an ounce of ambition or the money to fix the doors, they would lay there until the rest of the saloon disintegrates and falls to the ground turning into dust in the dirty, dusty forgotten town of.........Forgotten. Upon entering the saloon, Jimmy, the sixteen year old third grade Frontier school drop out whose family was recently scalped and massacred in an Injun raid, recently having discovered rot gut rye whiskey six weeks before, stood up and drew his six shooter trying to make a name for himself. Lassiter said, "leather it" and calmly walked forward to within two inches of Jimmy's face and said, "Kid, there are two things in life that you should never do. One, don't draw a gun when you are drunk on a lone gunman dressed all in black leather who makes a living killing other men for fun and profit." Jimmy slurred, "Oh yeah, what's the other thing Mr. Lassiter?" "Don't never drink cheap rot gut rye whiskey. It will destroy your liver and rattle your brain." As Jimmy slid his gun back into his leather holster, Lassiter's two heavy fists came slamming down on Jimmy's shoulders breaking both clavicles in the middle rendering his arms and hands useless. Lassiter turned to Gums, the toothless, unshaven barkeep and flipped him a gold piece and said, "If Jimmy's broken bones mend and he can use his arms and hands again, get him a dram of Lagavulin, Distillers Edition, Double Matured, 43 vol. Finished in Pedro Ximenez Sherry casks, with a rich amber color, smoke and fish nose, smoke, peat, and Spanish Sherry taste, and long soft, smokey and gently spiced finish. While being spoon feed by some poor sole, Jimmy is going to have a long time to think about Lassiter's advice. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Tommy Maaltman's Lassiter hooks up with Kitty.

The doors of the Hole in the Wall Saloon were still swinging as a stream of expectorated tobacco juice sailed across the room landing on the toes of the shoes of Kitty the "rough ridden and put away wet" long time lady of the evening, plying her trade in the dirty, dusty forgotten town of Forgotten. Looking up from the puddle of brown, brackish fluid , she knew the lone gunman, dressed all in black leather, named Lassiter, was back and made a mental note to not stand so close to the spittoon in the future. Their eyes met and nothing more needed to be said. She instinctively walked behind the bar slapping the toothless, unshaven barkeep "Gums" to the side and grabbed the finest bottle of single malt whisky and two glasses. Lassiter was already sitting at a small round table when Kitty joined him, and he watched her pour a dram of Glen Moray Port Wood Aged, Limited Edition, with a full fool's gold color, lovely perfumey nose, rich body and perfumey sugar coated almond and after dinner malt taste and an extraordinary delicate finish, reminding Lassiter of Kitty, past and present but mostly past. Lassiter finished his dram and without saying a word got up and walked out the door. After all these years this one time it was Kitty's turn to pay. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman