Lassiter takes a vacation.

Lassiter, the lone, stone cold professional killer for hire with icey, steely gray eyes was tired after several years of settling disputes, collecting debts and evening the score, for a fee. In fact, he was dog gone bone tired and need a break. He decided to book a wild Russian Boar hunt in the southwestern territory of Arkansas, known for big, vicious razorbacks perfect for trophy head mounts and wonderful tasting pork sausage. Wild Boar hunts, as popular today as they were in the 19th century, can be accomplished at a distance with a powerful rifle, up close with a large caliber revolver, or for the "in your face aficionado," with an expertly placed stick in the neck severing the jugular veins and carotid arteries, with a Jim Bowie knife. Lassiter mounted Blaze, his trusty steed, and road through the night arriving at the Stick'em, Bleed'em, Kill'em, and Gut'em, exclusive ranch. To his surprise, Rowdy Higgins was working as a hunt guide. The last time the two men saw each other was when Lassiter was coming out of the Sierra Nevada Mountains and warned Rowdy, then working as the Donner Party wagon master, not to attempt a crossing due to an early blizzard making the pass treacherous. Rowdy, eager to earn a bonus, ignored the advice and the Donner Party was stranded in the mountains in one of the worst snow storms in the history of the West, resorted to cannibalism and perished. Rowdy, more fortunate, survived to guide another day. Lassiter, not one to dwell on the past, refrained from saying, "I told you so," and instead said, "Rowdy, let's get me a big hog." Rowdy released a pack of dogs and the two men sat down to drink strong black coffee and smoke filterless cigarettes. It didn't take long for the dogs to corner a massive, powerfully built boar foaming at the mouth anxious to sink its teeth into a dog's face. The boar, ferocious, savage, dangerous and probably rabid, was wildly swinging its large head fending off the pack of growling dogs. Rowdy and Lassiter rode towards the commotion. Dismounting, Lassiter pulled his model 1859 Sharps carbine rifle from his saddle and walked toward the boar. About thirty feet from the beast he carefully laid down his rifle and drew his Smith and Wesson 44 magnum six shooter and walked closer. Ten feet away from the encircled raging monster, he layed down his pistol and unsheathed his Jim Bowie knife with a 13 inch razor sharp blade and walked closer. The dogs sensing Lassiter's prescence parted like the Red Sea and Lassiter stepped forward stopping inches away from the beast. Lassiter stared into the animal's eyes and slowly put down his Jim Bowie knife, stood up and stomped its head into an unrecognizable bloody pulp with the heel of his boot. Rowdy, running up, quickly realized he wasn't going to get the commission for a trophy head mount. Hoping to salvage something from the hunt Rowdy asked, "Should I have the boys field dress the pig?" Lassiter looked over and said, "Why?" Later that night back at the ranch, Lassiter and Rowdy sat down to enjoy a dram of Cask Strength Caol Ila 55 vol. with a remarkably pale white wine color, intense,smoky sweet nose, malty, sweet peppery taste and strong alcohol finish. Noticing that Rowdy put a couple of pieces of ice in his malt couldn't help but remark, "I thought after the Donner Party you wouldn't want anything to do with ice." Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman

Lassiter meets Jocko McQualters

Lassiter, the lone, stone cold professional killer for hire stepped from the rainy, cold, damp, dank, dark night through the doors into the dimly lit, smokey, grungy, Hole in the Wall Saloon in the God forsaken, dirty, forlorn, forgotten town of.....Forgotten. Despite the poor lighting in the smoke filled room, Lassiter espied a stranger sitting at his usual spot at the distant corner bar stool facing the door. Gums, the toothless bar keep scurried over like a sycophantic rat trying to please and said, "I'm so sorry Mr. Lassiter, but the stranger insisted on sitting at your place. I warned him. Says he's a professional soldier, one of the King's men from the Cumberland region of the United Kingdom. I cain't hardly understand a word he's a sayin. Don't seem to be speakin' English like us." Lassiter nodded and slowly approached the stranger who was hunched over three fingers of cheap rot gut rye whiskey in a dirty, chipped glass. The stranger paid no attention until Lassiter said, "Stranger, you're sittin' in my place." He suddenly stood up knocking the stool crashing onto the filthy floor and turned to face Lassiter. Standing no more than two inches apart, their eyes locked, hands ready to draw the first belly shot. The tension in the room was almost as thick as the smoke and could have been cut with a knife. After several minutes that felt like several hours, both men sat down at the bar, Lassiter in his usual spot, instinctively and intuitively realizing they were men cut from the same cloth. Lassiter, a lone, stone cold, professional killer for hire and the stranger a professional soldier paid to do the Kings dirty work (mame and kill) whatever, whenever and where ever it may be. The stranger spoke first. "Me noomes Jocko McQualters, Fourteenth Army, Ninth Division of His Majesty's Royal Army." Lassiter responded, "Why are you drinking that cheap rot gut rye whiskey in a dirty glass? This ain't no war zone." Jocko asked, "Ye goe soomthun betta?" Lassiter nodded to Gums who brought two clean glasses and a bottle of Teaninich, 10 year old, Flora and Fauna, 43 vol. with a pale gold color, fruity nose, sweet dry peaty taste and an herbal finish. Jocko took a taste and said, "Ayed say tha es fookin goode. Ah'm crappin' ivvery color bar blue. Aye well, ah'd sooner ev a pint anyways. Booger this for a lark. The whole bloody sub-cheese, the lot. Ga'n git stoofed, sod that!! What about you, owd feller?" Lassiter, not really understanding a word said and being a man of few words simply replied, Amen brother. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman

Mrs. Florence Bagette flees into the night.

It didn't take long for Mrs. Florence Bagette to realize that, with the untimely death of her embezzling Southern Union Bank president husband, his crimes would be soon discovered and she would become persona non gratis in the town of Valdosta, Georgia deep in the reconstructed South after the unsuccessful War of Southern Independence. She immediately gathered anything of value and fled into the night in search of an unsuspecting wealthy gentleman (meal ticket) and a new beginning, if you will. Within minutes of her departure, one by one, Dynah and the other former slaves, now abandoned servants, crept back into the house to discuss their fate and plan their bleak future as "unemployed Negroes" in the hostile, bigoted, and dangerous deep South populated by disgruntled, disillusioned, disempowered white former plantation owners seeking a scapegoat. Dynah, seeing that the house had been ransacked, went to the recently deceased Mr. Balfour Bagette's personal chambers and behind a secret walnut panel retrieved a bottle of his finest cask strength single malt Scotch, a Glenury 50 year old, 42.8. vol., whisky. With a dark orange color, smooth burnt skin of chestnut roasting nose, liquered chocolate, cherry and coffee taste and old sappy oak finish, it was just what the doctor ordered . Drinking the fine single malt while smoking Mr. Bagette's top shelf plantation tobacco hand rolled into cigarettes, the former slaves for a brief moment, started to feel better, but nevertheless an overwhelming since of doom and despair prevailed. One by one they got up to leave the house one last time and disappeared into the night to face their bleak, dark future. Dynah, the only one left, got up and "accidentally" knocked over the ash tray containing smoldering cigarette butts. Moments later the all wood, uninsured but mortgage free mansion, bursted into a blazing inferno. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman

Florence Bagette learns of her husband's demise.

Mrs. Florence Bagette, the wife of the Southern Union Bank president, Mr. Balfour Bagette, was enjoying her afternoon tea and petits fours on the veranda of her Southern style plantation home in Valdosta, Georgia when Mrs Genivieve Easley burst through the screen door and blurted out, "Mrs. Bagette, I'm so sorry but your beloved husband, Balfour, died this morning while eating breakfast, of a massive coronary. Florence was overcome with emotion, but not because she lost a dear husband. The marriage had died years ago. Mr. Bagette was simply too fat to do anything other than to embezzle from the bank and to eat and drink himself to death. No, Florence was momentarily immobilized by emotion wondering how she was going to maintain her lavish lifestyle now that Balfour was gone. She calmly collected her wits and gently placed her teacup and saucer down on the sterling silver tray next to the sterling silver tea pot, cream and sugar container. She got up and walked across the room and slapped Dinah, her former slave, now serving as head of the household servants in the newly reconstructed South after the Confederacy was ruined by the overly aggressive and destructive Northern troops lead by the punitive demon General William Tecumseh Sherman during the War of Northern Aggression. Dinah said, "I'm so sorry for your loss Miz Bagette. Is there anything I can do to hep?" Florence responded, "Why yes Dinah, you can pack up your things and get out. I can no longer afford to provide for you. And tell the rest of your kind to leave also. There will be no more free lunches on this plantation. And don't let the door hit you on the rear end as you leave." To be continued... Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman

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