Tommy Maaltman, the Oracle

Tommy Maaltman "is a polital genius, an oracle, a wise sage with his finger on the pulse, a rare man who keeps his head and clearly sees the future." (See Tommy Maaltman's Malt Musings, 2/26/2011, once again, another shameless plug.). These are the words Kellyanne Conway used when after the 2016 Presedential Election she imediately telephoned Tommy Maaltman asking, no begging, him to join her team she is assembling to smooth the transition of power from the communist O'bama to President Donald J. Trump. It's a new dawn Maaltmen. It's true, Tommy Maaltman predicted the Trump movement. Tommy Maaltman saw the tidal wave of polital change coming. Tommy Maaltman saw the signs and read them correctly. Tommy Maaltman saw the times changing. Tommy Maaltman saw the pain and suffering of the people. Too many taxes, too much political correctness, too little incentive to succeed and Tommy Maaltman giggled when the Tsunami hit on November 8, 2016. So Tommy Maaltman is going to sit back with his feet on the desk and grab a huge juicy........dram of Macallan, the Highland Single Malt Scotch Whisky, Whisky Maker's Edition, 42.6% Alc/vol. with a burnt corn syrup color, fresh fruit and toffee nose, sweet fruit with spice first taste, smooth mellow smoky fruit with roasted ginger and clove second taste and a subtle smoky finish. And no Kellyanne, Tommy Maaltman won't be joining your team or any other team for that matter. That's not what Tommy Maaltman is all about. It would dramatically interfere with his true passion, i.e., procuring, sampling, tasting, discovering and critiquing cask strength single malt Scotch whisky. It's going to be HUGE, it's AMAZING, make Tommy Maaltman......I mean America great again. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman

Colton NMI Lassiter list of chief characters continued. The Gambler.

The Gambler, deceased. Cheatin', scumbag, card shark dressed in a fine black silk suit, black felt Homburg hat, rattle snake skull bolo tie, and fine white linen shirt. Caught a lead slug in his blackened heart after trying to cheat Lassiter at cards. Favorite Scotch single malt, The Glenlivit 18 year old, 43 vol. Color, the Gambler's favorite, pure gold. Nose, sweet, fruit and flowers. Taste, flowers, peach and nutty flavors. Finish, sweet and bitter. Just what the Doctor ordered for a evil, blackened heart. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman

Morning in Paradise. Lassiter's eyes instinctively snapped open at daybreak and as he stood up out of his plank board bed strewn with flea infested straw, his knees creaked and moaned like an old barn door slowly swinging in the breeze. Spitting, he missed the spittoon and the brown gelatinous wad slowly rolled down the corner wall at the mercy of gravity. He walked to the creek with steely gray eyes glazed over by the effect of a typical poor night's sleep, the result of the ever present demons of being a lone, stone cold killer for hire. He knelt down and plunged his face into the icy cold water of the nearby creek that served as the sewer system for the dirty, dusty forgotten town of.....Forgotten. The cold water on his sun damaged face awakened him fully and upon opening his eyes underwater he saw several fluid laden corpulent scum bags float by cascading off his nose as the current took them down stream. Violently withdrawing his head with a painful jerk from the water he stood up and exhaled the remaining stale air from his emphysematous lungs and ejaculated, "Sheeeeeit, this town West of the law is becoming too damned populated." A typical start of Lassiter's day! Walking back to his frontier log cabin he shared with his smoking hot Swedish wife with platinum blonde hair and a "Come to Jesus" body, he knew what he had to do. Reaching for the bottle, he poured himself a dram of Glen Moray. 53.8% alcohol, aged 34 years in a refill hogs head, ex bourbon cask. With a masculine nose of Egyptian tobacco, the pale straw yellow whisky was smooth, mellow and surprisingly sweet with a long, light nutty finish. As the cask strength whisky took affect, Lassiter realized that at least the seed of some drunken, degenerate, derelict didn't impregnate one of the feckless whores plying her trade at The Hole in the Wall Saloon. Lassiter was always able to see the good in the bad. Sàlainte, Tommy Maaltman

The Legend of Colton NMI Lassiter. List of characters

Colton NMI Lassiter. The fearsome, lone, stone cold professional killer for hire (gunslinger) with steely gray eyes and decorated Confederate Veteran of the War of Northern Aggression. The NMI stands for no middle initial. Favorite cask strength single malt Scotch whisky: Macallan 1953. Color, dark bronze. Nose, woody oak. Taste, wood, sherry and fruit. Finish, lovingly smooth. Availability, limited.

Lassiter reflects on Thanksgiving

The wooden planks,of the floor creaked as Lassiter walked to the table, pulled out a large oak chair and sat down. Leaning forward, he removed from his back hip pocket an Injun skin pouch filled with premium Turkish tobacco and began to expertly build himself a smoke. His mind began to wander to an earlier conversation between two Easterners that he overheard at the train station about a new fangled machine the government was working on that could roll hundreds of cigarettes in a short period of time. The thought disgusted Lassiter. What self sufficient man living in the Territory West of the Law would smoke a machine rolled cigarette? What was happening to this country, he thought to himself? Next thing you know the government would be issuing checks to the folks too old, too sick, to infirmed, too disabled or just plain too lazy to work! At least the redskins knew how to deal with these people. They simply moved camp and left the weak behind to fend for themselves. Who knew, perhaps the government would issue food coupons for those unable to provide food for their families. Maybe if a man couldn't put food on the table for his family, he shouldn't have one, Lassiter thought to himself. Maybe in the future the government would even pay a man's Doctor's bills! Of course if this happened the government would have to collect massive taxes to pay for all these entitlements. The Founders would be spinning in their graves. Lassiter placed the cigarette between his taught pencil thin lips, cupped his hands around the end and sparked the tobacco. Inhaling deeply, he felt the familiar seering, "come to Jesus" burn as his lungs filled with the heavily nicotene laden unfiltered smoke. The tension began to ease. Lassiter couldn't help but think about what a good life he had. Decorated Confererate Veteran of the War of Northern Aggression, gunslinger, self employed killer for hire with a smoking hot blonde Swedish super model half his age named Inge, for a wife. He decide to pour himself a dram of Ardbeg, Uigeadail, a single malt Islay Scotch Whisky. Non chill-filtered aquae vitae with a the color of watered down cola found in a glass of ice and coke the next morning. The nose of peat, iodine and brine from a westernly sea breeze with a wet November leaf burning smoke. The taste, a powerful smoke, peat and burned decomposed wet leaves with figgs, raisons and currants. The finish, a coal soap and creoaote presence. Savoring the flavor Lassiter leaned back in his chair. A satisfied man is a thankful man. Happy Thanksgiving. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman.

Lassiter and the Stampede of 1885.

Lassiter, the lone, stone cold professional killer for hire with steely gray eyes had just returned from El Paso in the Territory of Texas after straightening out some crooked Texas Rangers and was about to sit down at his favorite stool for a well deserved dram at The Hole in the Wall Saloon when he felt the ground tremor. As the trembling increased in intensity, he heard a rumbling sound off in the distance. The miscreants, drunks, derelicts and degenerates at the bar started to panic and screamed, "It's a bad prairie dust storm, no its an earthquake." Then Gums, the toothless barkeep not known for his intellectual prowess screamed, "Save yourselves, it's the end of the world as we know it!" Lassiter stood up and calmly emptied both of his Smith and Wessen 44 magnum six shooters into the ceiling of the saloon to get their attention and restore order. By now the ground was violently shaking and there was a thunderous roar as Lassiter forcefully stated, "Relax, it's them damned Texas cowpokes runnin' their heard of longhorns too close to town trying to make time getting their heard to Kansas City to be butchered so they can get top dollar selling their beef to the insatiable, fat, pampered and spoiled city slickers in New York City. Just as Lassiter was about to sit down, Minerva, his abandoned daughter making a new life for herself in the dirty, dusty, forgotten town of....Forgotten burst through the doors of the saloon and shrieked hysterically, " 'Lil' Madeline is missing!" She was last seen playing in the dirt outside in front of their one room sod buster's house. Lassiter immediately ran out the door of the saloon and leaped onto the back of Blaze, his trusted and much loved steed. Digging his spurs deep into Blaze's flanks they headed at lightning speed toward the stampeding heard. Seeing 'Lil' Madeline playing on the prairie floor directly in harms way looking for pine cones totally oblivious to the danger of being trampled to death by thousands of pounds of beef, Lassiter kicked harder sinking his spurs deeper into Blaze's flesh. Lassiter was now in front of the stampede and swooped down like an American eagle with outstretched talons and grabbed 'Lil' Madeline's tiny hand swinging her up and onto the saddle where she instinctively clutched Lassiter's rough hewn shirt and hung on for dear life. Milliseconds after realizing the relief that 'Lil' Madeline's life had been sparred, Lassiter felt a thump from behind and knew immediately that Blaze had been gored in the hind flank by one of the charging longhorns. As the stampeding heard passed, Lasssiter, 'Lil' Madeline and Blaze limped back to town. Lassiter dismounted Blaze and handed 'Lil' Madeline to her mother Minerva whose face was streaked with dirt and tears from crying uncontrollably. Lassiter walked back into the dirty, dusty street to care for the mortally wounded Blaze. Drawing his 44 Magnum he stepped up to his horse and without saying a word sent with surgical precision a 246 grain lead round nose slug directly between Blaze's ears putting the beast out of his misery. Remarkably, the bullet passed through the horse's head and hit Rowdy Higgins, the trail boss responsible for the irresponsible stampede who was returning to apologize, right between the eyes killing him instantly. All present agreed, it was an unavoidable accident. Lassiter said, "Dump Blaze and Rowdy in the same hole and let the buzzards have their beggar's feast." Later that day, all gathered at The Hole in the Wall Saloon where Lassiter poured drams of Dalmore "Black Isle" 12 year old vol. 43 with a dark reddish copper color, sherry, apricot, cherry and tobacco nose, orange and mincemeat taste and liquorice finish. Just as Lassiter lifted his dram to his lips, 'Lil' Madeline's silver dollar sized light gray steely blue eyes caught Lassiter's stone cold gray eyes and said, "Me try." Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman.