Lassiter ventures out on Christmas Eve.

Lassiter, the lone, stone cold killer for hire with steel gray eyes, had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach when he got the call to do a job on December 24, Christmas Eve. The request was to settle an old debt at a small cabin nestled in the foot hills of the Teton Mountains near the Teton Pass in the woefully willful town of Wilson, Wyoming, population 100. Sensing a setup or an ambush by one of his many enemies, Lassiter took extra precautions as he cinched his oak leather rig around his 29 inch waist and carefully placed his two Smith and Wesson, fully loaded, 44 magnum six-shooters into the right and left holsters. For extra precaution, he tucked his Sharps Pepperbox breech loader 32 caliber pistol into his waist band and his .41 rimfire Remington model 95 over and under Derringer into his right ankle holster. Mounting Blaze, his trusted, pitch black steed he headed west out into a storm that was blanketing the ground with six to eight inches of sparkling white fluffy snow. He rode hard most of the day and at dusk spotted the flickering, yellow candle light coming through the windows of the snug, small cabin with a swirl of white smoke drifting skyward to the heavens from the chimney. It looked too good, too comfortable, too easy to be true. Lassiter dismounted Blaze and tied the reins to a Blue Spruce pine tree and slowly, cautiously and quietly approached the cabin on foot. By now it was dark with a full moon and a sky full of twinkling stars illuminating the way. For a moment Lassiter had a pleasant thought of how all the little Christian children dressed in their red flannel one piece pajamas in the world would be looking out the windows of their little homes hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus and his reindeer. Lassiter's stone cold mind quickly and professionally snapped back to the task at hand, that of a gun for hire, professional killer, paid to settle a debt permanently and terminally. Without a sound he climbed the three steps leading to the porch of the cabin and stood in front of the door. He drew both Smith and Wesson 44 magnum six shooters and with a powerful blow kicked open the door and stepped into the cabin. A millisecond before pulling the triggers and turning the inside of the cabin into a deadly, blazing inferno of white hot molten lead from his six shooters he noticed his family including Inge, his smoking hot twenty year old Swedish bride, son Kid Colton, the edgy, hot headed young gun for hire with a huge chip on his shoulder, chronically mistreated and abused daughter Minerva with her new husband Jimmy, the frontier school third grade drop out gainfully employed as a dung boy, and granddaughter 'Lil' Madeline with those owl eyes and a square smile so big you could shove a child's toy wooden block into with room to spare. Startled, they all turned towards the door and in unison said, "MERRY CHRISTMAS." Lassiter stood down, leathered his guns and walked towards the hearth of the fireplace and his family feeling the warmth of the fire and for the first time in his life the joy Christmas. Later that evening just around midnight after a dinner of cooked goose, yams, corn pudding and Dutch apple pie, the family gathered around the glowing embers in the fireplace for a dram of Scapa Cask Strength Edition, 14 year old 60.6 vol whisky with a deep gold color, mint, straw, grapefruit, chocolate covered cherries nose, silky smooth but slightly oily body, mint, straw and vanilla taste and long peppery dry menthol finish. With a belly full of Christmas dinner and the warmth of cask strength single malt Scotch whisky coursing through his veins, Lassiter built himself a smoke and with the slightest tremor in his right hand placed the cigarette between his tight thin lips and gazed at his family one by one dozing off cuddled around the warmth of the fireplace with visions of sugar plums dancing through their heads. Lassiter couldn't help but think, "If only they new how close they all were to having their brains splattered all over the walls of the cabin on Christmas Eve." It's never a good idea to surprise a stone cold professional killer for hire. Slàinte and Merry Christmas, Tommy Maaltman.

Lassiter seeks revenge and finds rapture.

Lassiter mounted Blaze and headed West for home. As luck would have it he came across a "Feel Good Southern Pentecostal Church Born Again Revival" being conducted by The Preacher Man, the same preacher man that stole Minerva's 40 worthless, after the war of Northern Aggression Confederate dollars leaving her helpless, hopeless and destitute. Lassiter thought it would do his soul good to attend this "Come to Jesus" time with the great and pious, Preacher Man. Lassiter listened to The Preacher Man's sermon about repenting, changing evil and sinful ways and following in the footsteps of the Lord. This was followed by hours of personal testimony by Born Again Christians, full emersion baptisms in the brachish back waters of a small tributary of the Missouri River and miraculous faith healings. Later that evening, everyone was exhausted and went home to rest and recover. Lassiter thought it might be a good idea to have a "one on one" with the man of the cloth. The knocking on the door of the parsonage where the Preacher Man lived was answered by the Preacher Man's wife, a rather frump, squat, dowdy appearing middle aged women dressed all in black homespun. She explained to Lassiter that her husband wasn't in. He was out counseling and tending to his flock, his parishioners in need. It seemed to her that his work was never done. There was no rest for the weary as long as the Devil had his way and there were sinners to convert. Lassiter followed the Preacher Man's wagon tracks to a small weather beaten clapboard house on the edge of town and noticed a flickering candle illuminating the window. Lassiter kicked in the door and caught The Preacher Man with his pants down in a dalliance with Mrs. Betty Miller a faithful and nubile follower of the Preacher Man who was unfortunately married to Davey Miller, a poor sod buster and father of their three boys who spent most of his time at the local watering hole drinking cheap rye whiskey that was slowly rotting his brain and liver. Lassiter drew his Smith and Wesson 44 magnum six shooter and with surgical precision pulled the trigger sending a 256 grain lead slug directly into the Preacher Man's fifth lumbar vertebrae, severing his spinal cord rendering him paraplegic from the waist down and impotent. Betty screamed hysterically and modestly tried to cover her body with the blood soaked sheets as she scrambled out of the bed. Lassiter slowly turned and pulled an envelope with 40 worthless Confederate dollars out of his pocket and placed it on the kitchen table with a note that read, Dear Mr. Preacher Man, I am so sorry for your misfortune. Perhaps you can use this money to help defray your medical bills. Yours in faith, Colton Lassiter. Lassiter mounted Blaze and headed West. With a five day and night ride ahead of him he knew he would have plenty of time to reflect on his life, the past week's events and religion. He built a smoke and pulled out his Sterling silver flask containing a very special Macallan 30 year old, 43 vol. single malt whisky with a full orange color, resiny polished oak nose, mellow, mature complex slightly smoky taste, and warm smooth finish. That night he came to the conclusion that he didn't need no organized religion. Revenge is rapture for men like Lassiter. Sláinte, Tommy Maaltman

In Lassiter's world the truth hurts and sometimes it's fatal.

Lassiter didn't look back. He mounted Blaze and road East for five days and nights arriving in Valdosta, Georgia at sunrise on Monday morning. At 10:00 AM, Southern Union Bank's opening time, he walked through the lavish doors and asked to see the Bank's President, a Mr. Balfour Bagette. Mrs. Genivieve Easley, the prim and proper receptionist looking over her nose saw Lassiter with five days of trail dust and dirt covering his black leather vest, pants and boots and said in a self important, fake English accent, "Is Mr. Bagette expecting you." Not answering, Lassiter proceeded forward and kicked in the doors of Mr. Bagette's expensively decorated presidential office suite. Mr. Bagette, the pink moist skinned, bald, fat, gout inflicted from years of over eating and excessive drinking bank president was sitting at his palatial desk enjoying a platter of pouched eggs smothered in Hollandase sauce and fried clams. As he washed down a gluttonous mouthful of the greasy food with an expensive French Claret he looked up to see Lassiter starring at him with stone cold, steely gray killer eyes. All the color drained out of the bank president's face accentuating his grease and spittle glistening frothy double chin as Lassiter said, "Mr. Bagette, my name is Colton Lassiter, Minerva's father." Mr Bagette struggling to his feet said, "Mr. Lassiter, I can explain everything." Seconds later, the corpulent man keeled over and dropped dead of a massive heart attack as his cholesterol laden blood terminally occluded the left anterior descending coronary artery, better known to those in the profession as "The Widowmaker." It seemed that the stress and anxiety brought on by confronting Lassiter, the man he cheated, in addition to a life of excess was just too much for the greedy, self absorbed fat man. Lassiter turned around and walked out of the office. As he passed Mrs. Easley he mentioned that Mr. Bagette may need some assistance. Having heard the loud crash as Mr. Bagette's massive body collapsed scattering food, wine and fine expensive china shattering on the marble floor, Mrs. Easley said, "Should I call a doctor?" Lassiter, this time looking down over his nose at her said, "No, call the undertaker." To be continued.......Sláinte, Tommy Maaltman

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