Lassiter learns the truth.

Lassiter couldn't help but notice Minerva's anorexic, filthy body, covered in rags as she was trying to make a home for her husband Jimmy and their newborn baby girl Lil' Madeline. "Child, you appear to be struggling. Whatever happened to all that money I wired you when you were working your fingers to the bone at that dilapidated old boarding house in Valdosta, Georgia tending to the wounded and dieing Confederate soldiers in the newly reconstructed South after the War of Northern Aggression? Is Jimmy, your third grade frontier school dropout newly wed husband who works as a dung boy at the local livery, getting drunk and mistreatin' you?" Minerva, dumbfounded, started sobbing and collapsed to the bone dry, dusty, dirty ground. Looking up at her father she said, "Daddy, you mean to tell me you don't know!?" Lassiter said, "Dont know what?" Minerva proceeded to tell him how one day out of nowhere she received a wire transfer of money from him, her long lost father who walked out on the family many years before leaving them destitute and ill equipped to unsuccessfully fend for themselves. Not knowing how to read, she sought the best advice available and met with the highly respected Mr.Balfour Bagette, the president of the most reputable Southern Union Bank. Well, it turned out that Mr. Bagette was ethically and morally challenged to say the least and the Sougthern Union Bank was not as respectable and reputable as it should have been. Mr. Bagette pocketed the $250.00 Federal bank notes and gave Minerva $50.00, after the war, worthless Confederate money. Later, on the train West, Minerva was befriended by "The Preacher Man" who got her drunk and stole the worthless Confederate dollars leaving her helpless, hopeless and homeless. After learning what had happened to the money, Lassiter said nothing, slowly turned and walked away. Minerva called after him crying, "Daddy, where are you going? Don't you hurt nobody. We're getting' by." To be continued......Sláinte, Tommy Maaltman

The dirty, dusty, forgotten town of.....Forgotten experiences the Stockholm Syndrome.

Nobody was surprised when Lassiter, the stone cold, professional killer for hire, announced that he was going to get married. Everybody assumed that sooner or later he would finally make an honest women out of Kitty, the rough ridden and put away wet Lady of the Evening, plying her trade at The Hole in the Wall Saloon in the dirty, dusty, forgotten town of.....Forgotten. As successful as Lassiter was as a gun slinger for hire, he hadn't found much happiness in his personal life. You see, Lassiter walked out on his first wife leaving her and their two children poorly equipped to unsuccessfully fend for themselves. With his first wife dead, son Kid Lassiter estranged, and daughter, Minerva, struggling with her own family, certainly Lassiter deserved some happiness in his attempt to start over. On the day of the wedding, the whole town showed up at the small frontier Parrish appropriately named, Our Lady of Perpetual Grief and Aggravation. Father O'Brien, the alcoholic priest, well aware of the importance of this momentous occasion, stopped drinking two days prior and was shaking like a leaf, probably from the DT's, (Delirium Tremors.) As Homer, the freakishly thin, tall, lanky, never married, musician started pounding out the processional on the old chamber pipe organ, the crowd became silent. The doors of the Narthex opened and in walked.......Inge Anderson, Lassiter's bride, a twenty year old, smoking hot, Swedish super model with natural platinum blonde hair dressed in a stunning white satin wedding dress tailored expertly to accentuate every part of her perfect "10" body. The future Mrs. Colton Lassiter proceeded to walk towards the alter. With the sun to her back, the rays bathed her body producing a warm, soft, halo of golden yellow light surrounding her flawless face and head. As if taken over by the Holy Spirit, the men in the room dropped to their knees, prosthelytized. Overcome by her intoxicating beauty, as if experiencing a mass religious conversion, the men began sobbing and babbling in tongues. The prurient interest was palpable. Meanwhile, the women in attendance couldn't help but feel......disgusted, with a sense of nauseating revolt as they witnessed Inge's effect on their simple frontier men. Their feelings intensified as they heard these men say in unison, "Yes sweet Jesus, there truly is a God Almighty." [Note: This mass effect of one person on so many has been extensively studied by professionals and is now widely known as The Stockholm Syndrome.] Inge walked down the center aisle like it was a fashion runway in Paris or Milano and stood next to Lassiter whose face merely expressed, "it is what it is." The now sober, trembling, Father O'Brien, better known for his proclivity for younger members of his own sex, did not seemed to be influenced by Inge's overwhelming presence and after regaining control over the rabble proceeded in a monotone, drab, dull, almost uninterested voice with the wedding ceremony. After the obligatory "I do's" to the question, "Will you Inge promise to honor and obey," Father O'Brien pronounced them "Man and Wife." the newlyweds turned to walk out of the church after being introduced as Mr. And Mrs. Colton NMI Lassiter. Before exiting, Lassiter extended an invitation for all to join them for wedding cake and a dram of cask strength single malt Scotch whisky at The Hole in the Wall Saloon at 5:00 PM sharp. At precisely 5:00 o'clock the doors of The Hole in the Wall Saloon pushed open and in stampeded the anxious crowd trampling over Kitty's body who was passed out drunk on the dirty floor of the saloon. Minerva, Lassiter's daughter, cut and served the wedding cake made by Molly, the proprietor of Molly's Eatery. Lassiter poured drams of Ardbeg, 21 year old, 56.3 vol, with a creamy pale Nordic gold color, firm, taught maritime nose, fruit and pastry taste, and a coal tar, smoke and phenol finish. Inge seemed to thoroughly enjoy the crude accolades as she was fawned over by the filthy, unshaven, uncouth, drooling and giddy frontier men in the receiving line. Sláinte, Tommy Maaltman

The legend of "Ye Olde Knife in the Kidney Tavern."

Followers, better known as 'Maaltmen,' of Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild, West, a big part of Tommy Maaltman's Malt Musings found on tommymaaltman.blogspot.com (shameless plug) have wondered how Ye Olde Knife in the Kidney Tavern got it's name. Well, I'm glad your inguiriing minds wanted to know and I'm happy to tell you the story. Big John Brown, a mountain of a man as rough as a cob, was used to having and getting his way around town. One night he walked into a no name watering hole in Borculo, a small backwater town in the muck land of western Michigan, and sat down at the bar next to Norma Stitz, a shy, naive eightteen year old local out for an evening of fun for the first time in her life after running away from what she perceived as overly strict Dutch Reformed parents. Accompanying her was Benny Spade, better known as 'Digger.' No Digger was not a respected undertaker as so many in the profession were nicknamed in those days. Digger made his living in a more sinister manner as a grave robber selling the bodies to aspiring physicians for dissection which was illegal and helping himself to any valuables that the grieving families forgot to remove from the body prior to burial. He made a good living but always complained about the bad hours and poor work conditions having to work late at night in poor lighting. As Big John sat down next to Norma, the bar stool creaked and groaned with the strain of the weight of his massive body. Looking at Digger, Big John said, "Get lost Puke can't you see I'm talkin' to the gal." Norma's chest swelled with a feeling of exultation and for the first time in her life a sense of importance and relevance. Digger, incensed and enraged, knew better than to make a scene and quietly got up and slinked off into the night to pursue his profession. Several hours later when the bar was empty except for Big John, a semi-conscious Norma feeling the effects of alcohol for the first time in her life and a dozing bar keep, Digger slipped back inside and quietly made his way to within inches of Big John's back. Like a flash in the night, he expertly jabbed a twelve inch, sharp as a razor, steel shank directly into Big John's left costrovertebral angle. The knife pierced the skin, muscle and fascia and directly skewered the left kidney stopping shortly after severing the left renal artery and vein. Big John never felt a thing. With the room spinning from what he thought was the effects of too much cheap rot gut whiskey, Big John got up off the stool and then dropped to his knees before crashing face down on the dirty floor surrounded by an expanding pool of bright red blood and died within seconds. With Big John dead, Norma passed out and the bar keep asleep with his head down on the bar in a pool of drool, Digger was in no hurry to leave and helped himself to a dram of Glenkinchie 10 year old, 43 vol with a Dutch gold color, soft lemon and melon nose, spicy, cinnamon and Demerara taste and an oaky dry finish. What Digger didn't know was that Garret Maaltman, a Dutch immigrant just off the boat, was sitting in a dark corner drowning his troubles and feelings of home sickness with genever gin and witnessed the entire sordid affair. Garret didn't speak English. Obviously fearing for his life in a strange new land, he did the manly and honorable thing and kept his mouth shut for many, many years until on his death bed he told the story to his son, Johnny Maaltman, who in turn told his son, Bernie Maaltman, who told his son Kenny Maaltman, who finally told me, Tommy Maaltman when I was just a kid with a passion for dissecting animals, a passion latter channeled to a more socially acceptable career as a kidney surgeon. Ever since the night of the murder the establishment was known as Ye Olde Knife in the Kidney Tavern until it burned to the ground ignited by embers from the Great Chicago Fire blown across Lake Michigan by a strong hot wind in 1871. Fortunately, the sign was salvaged and now hangs in a residence on the very same shores of Lake Michigan. Sláinte, Tommy Maaltman.

Lassiter warned the Donner Party

There's an old saying in the Territory West of the Law. Keep skunks, lawyers and bankers at a distance. Bankers are just fancy suits with advanced degrees in cheatin'. After years of crooked book keeping, ungodly high mortgage home loan interest rates, bank favorable illegal foreclosures and low saving's account interest rates, the good folk of Sacramento, California couldn't take it no more. Lassiter didn't believe in the institution of banking. He kept all his valuables in the safest place in the world, a small pocket tucked behind his holstered 44 magnum Smith and Wesson six shooter. Why you'd have to be a damn fool to try to rob that bank! Lassiter was happy to oblige when the town folk of Sacramento asked him to clean up their little problem. Bodies started piling up all over and soon enough the remaining bankers were scared straight. It was time for Lassiter to leave and go home to the dusty, dirty, forgotten town of......Forgotten. There were only two problems. It was late in the season and the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range laid between him and home sweet home. Lassiter left town determined to get home for 'Lil' Madeline's upcoming christening. All went well at first as Lassiter headed East but then a nasty storm blew in dumping feet of snow delivered by sixty mile an hour winds causing blinding whiteout blizzard conditions, bone chilling sub zero wind chill factors and haunticaines in the treacherous high elevation mountain passes. Lassiter knew if he stopped he would die a painful frozen death. So he pushed on riding Blaze, his trusty steed, in shoulder high snow. After days of slow going misery with no food he descended out of the mountains. In the distance he saw a wagon train slowly moving West. Lassiter approached the wagon master, a Mister Rowdy Higgins, and said, "Rowdy, you ain't asking for my advice but I'm going to give it to you anyway. You might as well settle here for the rest of the season. Ain't nobody gettin' through them mountains this winter. I was the last man out and damn lucky to do so." Rowdy said, "Lassiter you are absolutely right. I didn't ask for your, or anyone else's, advice but I'll pass the information on to the Donner Party that hired me to safely get them to California." It's unlikely Rowdy passed the information on to the Donners since he was offered a $100.00 bonus if he could get them to California before Winter set in. Lassiter pushed on an arrived just in time to hear the Priest, sober for a change say, "In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I baptize you 'Lil' Madeline." 'Lil' Madeline, all dressed up in her brand new homespun dress was especially happy that day with a distinctive sparkle in those little stone cold steely gray eyes when she saw that Grampa Lassiter made it to the ceremony. Everyone celebrated with a dram of St Magdalene 19 year old, 63.8 vol with a full gold color, brunt grass and juicy oak nose, chewy, liquorice-maltiness and peat and sappy bitter finish. St Magdalene was built on the former sight of a leper colony and convent. With the Priest passed out and all the family members home, Lassiter wondered what happened to the Donner Party? Sláinte, Tommy Maaltman

Kid Colton says, "Mama don't go, Daddy come home."

Kid Colton, the abandoned son of Lassiter, the lone gunman, professional killer for hire, was making quite a name for himself in the Territory West of the Law. Well known as a young, edgy, brash, jittery, killer for hire with a deadly fast draw and a huge chip on his shoulder, the young professional was a valuable commodity to wealthy land owners settling disputes. One evening "The Kid" pushed through the rotting doors of the North Dakotan Saloon in the northern territory of........North Dakota, knocking over drunk patrons as he made his way to the bar. The angry drunks realizing who it was, slowly and carefully leathered their guns and scurried away like rats into the night. The Kid sat down next to Lassiter who was nursing a dram of his favorite cask strength single malt Scotch whisky and said, "Daddy, you left me but I never left you. I needed you but you didn't need me. So I just got to tell you, Goodbye, goodbye. I saw Mama working her fingers to the bone trying to make ends meet to keep the family together after you left, but it didn't work and slowly day by day she got weaker and weaker and slipped away. How many nights did I tighten my belt and hungrily cry myself to sleep thinking, Mama don't go, Daddy come home? Well Mama died and you never came home." Lassiter looked into The Kid's steely gray, stone cold killer's eyes and said, "Son, it don't take a very big man to hold a grudge. Every trail has a puddle and there is no use crying over spilt milk. Why don't you have a dram of Clynelish, 14 year old, 46 vol. Hidden Malts with a bright pale orange color, fragrant stroll in the sand dunes nose, firm, oily, smoky but cleansing flavor and a spicy, perfume, exotic, satisfying finish? Little did anyone IMAGINE that 100 years later, John Lennon would immortalized their dialog in the 1970 song Mother and then ten years later be gunned down and killed with 4 slugs to the back by a lone gunman in front of the Dakota in New York City. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Lassiter discovers the need for a new specialty in medicine, later to be known as Anesthesiology.

Lassiter, feeling pretty good, paid the doctor and as he was leaving said, "Oh by the way Doc, when you were amputating poor Billy's arms, I noticed several bottles of cask strength single malt Scotch whisky sitting on the back table. Do you use the whisky to ease the patient's pain while you are working?" "Good God man, NO!" Doc replied, "That whisky's too good for the patients. They get an oak block of wood to bite down on! The whisky is for me. Care to join me for a dram?" Lassiter obliged and the Doctor poured two glasses of Lagavulin 16 year old, 43 vol with a full amber color, sea spray and peat nose that stings, peat, gunpowder, oil, grass and salty taste and a big peat fire warming finish. Lassiter agreed, this stuff was too good to waste on a sick, in pain dying patient. They simply wouldn't appreciate it. Doc poured another dram and as he lifted his glass said, "Here's to your health and a healthy life style." The two professionals parted ways but this encounter started a life long association. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman. [Note: This is the third installment written in Ye Olde Knife in the Kidney Tavern.]

Lassiter invents Preventive Health Care.

Doc looked into the steely gray cold eyes of Lassiter the lone gunman, professional killer for hire, and said, "What can I do you for?" Lassiter replied, "I'd like a physical examination." Doc pulled out a bell shaped listening device known as a stethoscope and auscultated Lassiter's lungs and stone cold black hardened heart. He then percussed and palpated his abdomen. When it was time for the digital rectal exam (DRE) Lassiter said "Whoa Doc, ain't no man goes where the sun don't shine. That's enough for one day. So what's your prognosis?" A. T. Still said, "There ain't nothin wrong with you Mr. Lassiter, you're as fit as a fiddle. What's the secret to your good health?" Lassiter said, "Clean livin' I guess." Doc said, "Well whatever it is, keep it up and do more of it. That and good genes are God's blessings." Lassiter didn't think it was a good idea to build and smoke more filterless cigarettes but did think he could consume more cask strength single malt Scotch whisky and made a mental note to do so. As for good genes, if Doc only knew that Pa died of a massive coronary at the age of 42 when he found out that his three older boys moved to New York City and joined the Army of Northern Aggression. Ma at age 37 died six months later of a broken heart. So much for good genes he thought. To be continued.....Slainte, Tommy Maaltman. [Note: This is the second entry written in Ye Olde Knife in the Kidney Tavern.]