The script played out time and time again. The sun would still wake on the horizon as he settled himself at the base of that same old Alabama oak. His talking voice firm and rugged, but oh, his call of the hen -- it pierced across the old graveyard and down the foggy hollow, singing a familiar song to that prized bird he had long been in pursuit of.

A luring and unrelenting song that the bird would inevitably succumb to, the bird ought not to feel defeated, for he was not the first and would not be the last -- that is, until there was a last. With what you hold in your hand, join black label game calls in carrying his legacy through the hills and hardwoods, broadcasting to the Easterns, the Merriams, the Rios, and the Osceolas that Alton "Cootie" Lewis is still here. This is the "Cootie" Lewis Special.