Whiskey Leavins was born in the desert of Northern Mexico into a traveling, snake-oil-selling gringo family. By the time he was eight, he had traversed six states south of the border and twenty stateside. On a fateful August night in El Paso, a family outing to the Circus Vargas ended in tragedy. That was the night, well documented in the local press, that Colmillazo the elephant went rogue mid-performance, trampling the ringmaster, the two smaller Flying Capellinis, Lobster Boy, and several members of the audience including, sadly, Whiskey’s entire family. Orphaned at eight, he was taken in and raised by a pack of wild circus clowns. He became one of them, learning their language as well as a proper appreciation for the perfectly timed pratfall.
Although grateful for all that Chuckles, Slappy, Bobo and the rest had done for him, on his sixteenth birthday Whiskey decided it was time to leave the Big Top. He set out on his own, determined to make his own way. Over the next twenty years, he became an inveterate gambler who wandered from place to place – Florida Keys to Salem, Oregon, and back, doing this and that. At various times, he supported himself as a dishwasher in Atlanta, blackjack dealer on the Mississippi, bartender in Toledo, bass player in the house band at a tourist-trap honky-tonk in Nashville, and by betting on the horses at Louisiana Downs. It was during his stint as a gator wrastler in central Florida that he caught the eye of a wealthy and older divorcée, Mrs. Lotta Dash, who offered to engage Whiskey as her handyman and companion. He held that position firmly for nearly five years – right up until Lotta passed away suddenly in a horrific rose-pruning accident. Contrary to Mrs. Dash’s promises, Whiskey had not been written into the will. Ridden out of town by Lotta’s children, he decided to head west. So it was that in his early forties, Whiskey found himself hitchhiking the entire length of the United States, eventually settling in the land of milk and honey and crispy flakes: California.
Since his arrival in the Golden State, Whiskey has tested the waters of Sacramento, San Francisco, Monterey, and Chualar. He chose to settle down in Surf City, USA otherwise known as Santa Cruz, California. These days, Whiskey lives a quiet and relatively sedate life. He enjoys long walks on the beach and the rainbow farts of unicorns. He spends much of his time conducting focused research on the whole Maker’s Mark vs. Knob Creek debate. Still an inveterate gambler, he shares a small apartment with his bulldog, Chuckles. He holds down a conventional, boring job to make money, and he sometimes writes delightful tales to amuse himself. He hopes you are amused as well.