“Hrmph,” had been the extent of what John McClanahan had said in the last fifteen minutes. And, near as his reporters and editors could tell, it was said in response to his glass being empty.

As McClanahan turned to pour himself another drink, the men in his office glanced nervously at each other. Their publisher was known for his drinking, but this was, quite literally, a matter of life or death.

“You hear what we said, John? The Union’s on its way here, right now. And the Appeal is the most xenophobic, pro-Confederate paper in three states! They’ll kill us all!”

McClanahan snarled as the amber liquor rose to the top of his glass, then spilled over. He swore, profusely.

“God’s sake, man, what are we going to do?”

Suddenly, McClanahan pitched the glass across the room, shattering it on the back wall.

“Pack up the press and the plates. We’re taking the paper on the road.” he growled at them. “Let’s see just how bad they want us.”

“But what if they keep coming?”

McClanahan smiled, carefully pouring himself another drink, “Then we’ll keep running ‘til they get bored, they kill us, or we run out of ink!”

Memphis Note
John Reid McClanahan was a man of singular vision, and profusion of drink. He was the founder, editor-in-chief and publisher of the Appeal. The Appeal was one of the most important papers in the South during the Civil War. It was defiantly Confederate, and once ousted from Memphis, crisscrossed the South fleeing from a city after city days before they fell to Union forces. And, yes, it is the grandfather to the still running Commercial Appeal.

George Kelly spat blood into the gutters of Beale Street. The coppery red mixed with the amber of bootleg whiskey pouring from broken bottles, swirling down into the drain.

Wasn’t the first time the cops had roughed him up for peddling hooch. But as he gathered up the whiskey-soaked clothes basket he used to hide his wares, he swore it would be the last.

He walked off, thinking maybe it was time to move on. Find something new.

The police knew who he was, so chances of him moving up were slim. And his girl? Well, she was just a waitress, and they could find work anywhere.

George Kelly felt an anxiousness to head West. To see that big piece of country just over the river. To make a mark on some place fresh and new. And to do it right, do it big. Not like he’d failed to do here.

He decided he would need a gun, too. A big, scary one. Like a shotgun, or maybe a machine gun. Something people would remember.

George Kelly made up his mind right then. He would take on the West. And all he needed was his girl. And his gun.

Memphis Note
George Kelly might better known to you as Machine Gun Kelly, the notorious gunman from the 1930s. He was from Memphis, and did sell bootleg liquor on Beale before striking out to the West. Sadly, the girl he left Memphis with was not the one that ended up buying him that fabled machine gun. Or maybe that should be fortunately?