PAPPY TO THE RESCUE

"How could a single shot of whiskey be worth $100.00?"

"Don't ask me. Ask Pappy Van Winkle," said the bartender. "Let me set one up for you," he added.

"If I could afford that, I'd be staying at a better hotel," I told him.

"No, you wouldn't. You reserved room 217 for a week and you reserved it a year ago. Now you're standing at the Whiskey Bar and every day you bother me with questions about whiskey you can't afford and wouldn't appreciate if you had it."

The bartender wandered off to wait on someone at the other end of the bar and I went back to studying the bottom of my glass of Jack Daniels.

I could sense a formidable presence approaching me from behind. I turned my back to the bar. Imagine my surprise to see a pot-bellied pig striding towards me on its hind hooves and wearing a three-piece suit.

"Hey buddy. Glad you got to meet me," said the pig, slapping me on the shoulder.

He slipped down on a stool next to me and said, "Yeah, Boulder. What a great town. I always stop here at the Stanley when I'm passing through. Barkeep!" he yelled. "Get this man a shot of Pappy Van Winkle's whiskey and put it on my tab."

"But, um, uh, do I know you?" I asked the pig.

"I'm Carlton the Crime-Fighting pig," said the generous newcomer. "You invented me. Now I'm returning the favor."

The bartender scurried back with a one-ounce glass of ridiculously expensive whiskey and a glass of water.

"Enjoy," said Carlton.

"Thank you," I said. "I'm overwhelmed. What can I do for you?"

"I heard that you know how to make pipe bombs," said Carlton.

"Yes, the FBI taught me how to do that a couple years ago."

"We could use you," said the pig. "Come up to room 401. We have a lot to talk about."

"We do," I answered, taking my first sip of the fiery liquor.

"3:00," said the pig.

"3:00," I answered.