The pocket gophers were Nazis. That much was clear. The squirrels were American GIs. The hedgehogs, were they British? The chipmunks, French?
"Ooh, look at this one! This one got his arm blow off!" Shelly said, tapping on the glass.
"It's really fucking detailed," Frank said.
The taxidermied Invasion of Normandy was stretched out inside a glass case, the landing crafts and molded water on the left, the beach littered with the dead bodies of little dead animals in the middle, the cliffs and German/gopher pill boxes on the right. Each critter carried period-appropriate to-scale weapons and equipment. They wore tiny but historically accurate helmets. The wounded were marred with some kind of fake blood that matted down their fur. All of them had been brought back to life in this glorious snapshot of human conflict. Some of them were dead yet again.
One squirrel in particular caught Shelly's eye. He was a US soldier, a captain by the tiny rank on his OD green helmet. He carried a tommy gun in one hand, a pineapple grenade in the other. He was charging forward, his little paws digging through the loose sand of the beach. He was screaming. His lips were pulled back and his sharp and yellowed buck teeth exposed. There were two Nazi gophers reloading in a machine gun nest just a foot away. They didn't stand a chance.
"He won't tell you to your face, but that's Byron's favorite," the old woman said from behind Shelly.
Shelly pulled herself away from the display case and turned to the old woman. "It's incredible."
"Oh, you're too kind," the woman said. "And take as many pictures as you like."
Shelly would. She had to photograph it all. This stuff was taxidermy gold. It deserved to be shared with the world. "Thanks so much," she told the woman.
Shelly looked around the bar to try to take it all in. She had read about the Moccasin Bar in Hayward Wisconsin on the Internet, but the posts didn't do it justice. Every wall was filled with display cases of bizarre but detailed dioramas of mounted animals. Each case was a different scene and a different story. Near the front were some rabbits standing on their hind legs singing Christmas carols. A little further in, an assortment of raccoons and ferrets and a skunk played poker. The skunk was hiding cards. A ferret had lost all his money but brandished a switchblade. Opposite the card game, there were a pair of foxes in blaze orange carrying shotguns on a hunt. A fox hunt, it looked like. The one fox smoked a pipe. The other wore a monocle. The back of the display case was painted with a field surrounded by fall trees, another fox riding a black horse and there were hound dogs painted into the background. The painted hound dogs were on all fours and sniffing the ground like hound dogs should. But what were they smelling for? What were the human-like foxes hunting? Other less-human foxes?
"What can I get you to drink?" said an old man behind the bar.
Shelly snapped out of the trance. She'd almost forgotten this was a bar. "Oh. Sorry. Um. A PBR?"
"How about your friends?" he asked her.
Shelly looked to Frank and then Mary. Frank was eyeing a boxing match between a pair of raccoons with a beaver referee. He had his hands clasped behind his back like he was in an art museum. This was an art museum, just not like any she'd ever seen before. Mary was still by the front entrance. A little of the mid-day sun leaked through, but not enough to make her look comfortable.
"Make it three," Shelly told the bartender. The old man went about pouring three Pabsts from the tap. Shelly went up to the bar and put a butt cheek on a stool opposite the old man.
"Where did all these come from? I mean, who did all these?" she asked.
The old man grumbled a bit. He wasn't as cheerful or polite as his wife. Where had she wondered off to? "They're mine," the man said as he put one mug of PBR on the counter.
"You mean, you did all these?" Shelly asked.
The old man broke into a lopsided grin. The second PBR landed on the bar. "Every god damn one. You see the three fawns next to the pull tab boxes? Those three were unborn. Mother died in an auto accident. I had to tape the legs just to get them to stand up."
Shelly looked. Not all taxidermy in the bar was anthropomorphic. The three tiny deer were just three tiny deer, standing on twelve spindly legs in a field of snow. Still, the painted background told a story slightly skewed from reality. It was night in a forest. The moon hung in the night sky on the left. On the right was a pair of headlights aimed into the trees. Shelly knew that if she could see through the painted-on glare of the lights, there would be a doe laid out in front of the car's bumper. In the diorama, the old man had still hit the mother with his car, but the fawns had lived.
Shelly turned back to the old man. All three PBRs were on the bar. A Wisconsin Badger's football game was on behind him. He had lost his reluctant smile but still fixed her with his cataracted eyes. "Six seventy five," he said.
$2.25 for a beer. Cheaper than any beer she'd ever get back around campus. She gun out a ten and set it on the dried out wooden bar. "Guys. Beer," she called to Mary and Frank.
From the looks of it, Mary wouldn't go any further than ten steps inside the door. She stood next to the closest table to the exit, one arm straight at her side, the other holding her elbow. Shelly grabbed the two beers, one for her, and brought the other over to Mary.
Frank picked up the third beer and sat in front of the old man and the Badgers game. "This place is really incredible. I mean, it's amazing. Where do you get, you know, the raw materials?"
The old man turned his back and muttered again. Frank couldn't hear him over the sound of the game.
"Byron!" the old woman called. She was back from the kitchen with a rack of clean glasses. She came close to her husband. "Byron-honey, they're interested in your work. You should tell them about it."
The old man, Byron, turned back to Frank.
Shelly looked at Mary. Mary had sat down at the high table but hadn't touched her beer. "Shelly, this place is fucking creepy as shit," she said.
Shelly, didn't have time for that. She could tell the old man was about to dish out the goods. He was already talking to Frank.
"Walton's across the road. The funeral home," Byron said, impatient with their lack of knowledge of the local businesses. Shelly came back to the bar next to Frank. The old man went on. "They do the same kind of thing. It's no different. They don't get asked those types of questions. Nobody scrutinizes their work."
"I didn't mean to-" Frank started to apologize.
"It's no different over there than it is here. But they're respectable. Huh! My ass, those meat-carvers over there..." he trailed off. He kept talking but couldn't be heard.
"Sir?" Shelly called to him.
He stopped his quiet monologue and faced her. "What's that?"
"Um. I run a blog... Well, we run a blog on taxidermy oddities," she said. It was a humor site. They mocked shoddy stuff-jobs and had a great time doing it. This place though, it actually wasn't shotty. It was just bizarre. She couldn't tell him that. She hoped to God he wouldn't ask.
"You run a what?" he pronounced the ‘h’.
"A blog, on the Internet. Is it okay if we post some of your work?"
"I don't give a god damn coon's ass about that nonsense," he said, wandering off again.
That was enough for Shelly. She couldn't contain her smile. Neither could Frank. They grinned and fist bumped. This place alone would give them fresh content for the next three years.
"You kids take as many pictures as you like. That's Byron and you can call me Paulie," the old woman said. "You just let me know if you need anything."
They thanked her and brought their beers back to Mary, who still hadn't moved from the table closest to the exit. When they got to her, she said, "Shelly, please, can we get the fuck out of here?"
Mary didn't bother to lower her voice, almost as if she wanted the old couple to hear her. Frank was more discrete. "You know, this stuff really isn't that crappy. I mean we have to post this. All of this. Did you see those porcupines?"
"Oh, I know!" Shelly said, just under her breath. “And how fucking weird were those baby deer? I mean, he had to have done like a C-section to pull them out, right?"
"How did he even know the deer was pregnant?" Frank whispered.
"I can't take it," Mary said at full volume. Her face looked on the verge of crying or vomiting or both. Her beer was still topped off. "I can't fucking handle this shit. I follow you guys around and normal dead animals are one thing. I can tolerate the normal ones. But this fucking place?" she glared at Frank.
"Would you kids like to see the museum?" Paulie called from the bar.
Frank and Shelly locked eyes. She said, "There's a fucking museum!"
"Frank?" said Mary.
"Byron!" Paulie called. "Byron-honey, they'd like to see the museum."
"It's closed!" He yelled from somewhere behind the bar. He was in the kitchen now, or in a stock room, or back office, somewhere out of sight. "Monday through Friday, four PM to nine!"
"Byron-honey-"
"Please!" Shelly called. "You have to show us the museum! We drove her all the way from Chicago just to see this place. You have to let us see the museum."
"Shelly! Frank?" Mary said.
"Today is Saturday god damn it!" Byron yelled. "It's closed!"
"Oh, Byron. Don't be a grouch," Paulie said.
Shelly and Frank were back at the bar now. "You have to convince him to let us in the museum," Shelly said.
"Yeah. I mean, if this is just the bar, the museum... the museum has to be fantastic," Frank said.
"Oh, well, it is Saturday and..." Paulie was saying.
The old man, Byron, came back behind the bar. He was wiping something in his hand. "You kids want to see the museum?"
"Please? Can we?" Shelly said.
Byron smiled that right-side-only smirk. "You kids know what this is?" he asked and showed them what he was wiping with the rag.
He held a short knife in his open palms like he was showing a robin's egg to a class of kindergarteners. The handle was old and worn, oiled with palm sweat and other fluids. The blade was short but wide, wider than the handle. The tip was curved near round and on the back side of the tip was a razor sharp hook.
"This is a skinning knife. Used this particular skinning knife on just about every mount you see in this place," he told them. His grin grew bigger. "Skin 'em and stuff 'em. Skin 'em and stuff 'em. That's about all there is to it, really."
The old man wrapped the knife back up in the dirty rag like he was a magician hiding his sleight of hand. "I'll let you in, but all three of ya have to pay full price. Got to keep the lights on."
Shelly and Frank turned to Mary, still sitting as close as she could to the door, still with a full beer. They waved at her to follow as Byron moved to the end of the bar and came around.
"Have to leave your beer out of the museum," Byron called. Shelly and Frank slammed theirs. "Cost is ten dollars cash! No plastic and no out-of-town checks!" Shelly and Frank waved frantically to Mary. Byron led them to a door past the billiards table and a flight of wood ducks and piglet country/western singer. "Cash goes in the box next to the door! No re-entry and NO refunds!"
They arrived at a plain door with a simple sign above it that read, "Museum." Byron stopped in front of the door and looked at Shelly and Frank as they dug out cash. Then he gestured with his chin towards Mary.
"Mary, get your ass over here. Right now," Shelly said.
Mary hesitated. She glared at her friends. She wanted to pose an argument but had no words. She thought about just staying there at the table but didn't want to be left alone in the bar. Byron, Shelly and Frank waited for her. She cracked and sulked away from the table and up to the museum door. "I fucking hate you guys," she said.
"Money in the box before I open the door," Byron said.
Frank put in a ten. "I am not paying for this shit," Mary said. Shelly smiled and put in a twenty.
Byron opened the door. "Welcome to the Mocassin Bar Museum of Taxidermy Oddities!"
They went inside. The museum was one large room, a well-lit pole barn separated by head-tall display cases like shelves in a library. Every case was another exhibit of animals dressed and posed like humans. Byron followed them in. Mary stayed as close to Frank as she could.
"Now this display here," Byron directed them to the first exhibit, a showcase waist to head high and ten feet long. "This represents the struggle between the Sauk Indians who first lived on these lands and the white settlers. This scene in particular is of the Bad Axe Massacre that took place near present day Victoria Wisconsin, not two hour’s drive from here."
The Indians were rabbits, their ears posed as the feathers of brave warriors. The US Soldiers were bobcats and lynx. The rabbits weren't faring well. There was plenty more of that fake pinkish blood matting down the hair.
"This exhibit shows us the Tragedy of Sand Lake, where the Chippewa Indians were marched from their lands under the direction of President Zachary Taylor."
More rabbits, these marching through a winter-scape, trying to stay warm under thin and miniature blankets.
"On we move through history to Wisconsin's logging era. To the time of folk Hero's like Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox..."
"What the shit is that?" Frank interrupted.
"Frank," Mary whined as he wandered deeper into the museum. Shelly followed.
"Oh, sure. Everybody wants to skip ahead. No needs to learn an ounce of goddamn history. Stupid shit-stained kids getting dumber every god-forsaken year I'm alive. Just a man trying to run his business and maybe teach something to this degenerate generation."
Shelly didn't hear a third of what Byron said. She was already chasing after Frank.
"It's a fucking Bigfoot," he said.
"Ew. It has a penis," Mary said.
"Oh my god, is that incredible," Shelly said. "This is definitely going on the blog."
The stuffed and mounted Bigfoot towered over all of them. It had to be ten feet tall. It was the only piece not inside a display case, probably because it was just too large. It's face, obviously sculpted from clay and fake, was dusty and the paint was cracked. It's nose was flat and large. It's brow was thick and sloped like a Neanderthal. It carried a tall walking stick. Between it's feet was a plaque labeled "Primitive Man."
"It does have a penis," Frank said. "Look."
"That is so fucking gross," Mary said. "Frank, give me the car keys. I'm out. I can't take it anymore. Give me the keys."
"That one is all the kid's favorite," Byron called. He moved slow and took his time catching up. "I had to shorten the leg bones and make the arms longer to make him right."
Frank, all smiles, looked back and forth from the Bigfoot to the old man. "What did you use?"
"Huh?" Byron asked.
"For the bones, and for the fur. What did you start with?"
"A Bigfoot. That's the real thing," Byron said.
"But you just said..."
"Frank?" Mary said. "The fucking car keys? Please?"
"You didn't see the brewery display. Got a whole family of chipmunks brewing Milwaukee's best," Byron told them. "And over here is the entire 1967 Green Bay Packers and Dallas Cowboys reenacting Bart Starr's famous quarterback sneak at the Ice Bowl. Vince Lombardi is a woodchuck. The rest are box turtles."
"Is this your work shop?" Shelly asked. She stood in front of a window to another room. There were no lights on, but she could see a workbench and tools. There were various knifes and clippers, plyers and spreaders. A pistol tranquilizer gun sat there too.
Byron slowly came over to her, nodding as he did. "Sometimes I like to see my museum while I work, for inspiration.” He stood next to her facing the darkened room, shoulder to shoulder. Behind them Frank and Mary had a quiet little argument over keys.
"You seem particularly interested in the inner workings of taxidermy. More so than your friends at any rate," Byron said.
Shelly blushed. The old man had a bit of charm hidden somewhere in that half-faced smile. "Mary can be a pain the ass, but Frank, he's-"
"Would you like to see inside my workshop?" Byron asked.
"Would you? I mean, you wouldn't mind if I put some of this on my blog? I'm sure we'd bring in more business for you. I mean, this place really is amazing," Shelly smiled.
Byron lost his grin almost instantly. "I told you before I don't give a rat's behind about any of that techno garbage. I want to show you something real." Just as quick, his rictus came back. "Your friends have to come too. I can't have them wondering around the displays unsupervised." Byron turned away from the dark window and saw Frank fondling the Bigfoot. "Hey, god damn it! Don't touch the exhibits. Makes them lose their fur."
"Sorry."
Byron turned back to Shelly. "Do they want to see the workshop or not? I keep my most special displays in there."
"Yes. Oh god, yes. And I'll make sure they stay in line. We'll be good," Shelly said.
Byron grinned. "Alright, you two. Get your butts over here so I can show you the workshop."
"Seriously?" Mary said. "The workshop? Shelly, there plenty of weird fucking animals in the museum and in the bar. Do we really have to go in his workshop?"
Frank took her hand. "Mary, come on. You're being rude."
"Just give me the car keys," she said.
"All or none!" Byron called out. "I ain't giving tours for just two of you. Ain't here to waste my Saturday afternoon. Badgers are on."
"Mary!"
"Come on, Mary. It won't take long."
"Come on. Real quick. We'll check out the workshop and then you can have the keys."
She stood there like a child, defiant but helpless. Just like in the bar, after she had her moment in the spotlight, she broke. "You guys fucking owe me, big time."
Byron fished out keys from his pocket. "Come on, then. Everybody in." He unlocked the door and pushed it open wide. The three friends slowly went into the dark room. "Come on, now. Don't be timid. The light switch is inside a bit. Let me follow you in."
Shelly shuffled deep into the workshop, her tennis shoes kicking clear tools and bits of fur and other unidentifiable litter on the floor. The further into the shop she went, the darker the room became. Frank was behind her. Mary, too.
"Keep moving now. Let me get to the light," Byron said. He closed the door behind them and the room grew a little darker.
More shuffling. Then the old man found the switch and the light came on with a pop.
It was too bright too see at first. Shelly's eyes were clamped shut. Something aside from the light made her afraid to open them. When she did open her eyes, she immediately regretted it.
There were humans standing in front of them. Some of them were clothed. Some were naked. Some were covered with fur and posed like animals, crawling on all fours. All of them were still. Their skin was like crumpled bakers paper, waxed but broken.
Mary screamed. Shelly and Frank turned around to see the old man grabbing her chest from behind. Then he brought up the skinning knife and slid it across her neck. Her throat opened up and poured out blood. She choked and gargled, then collapsed onto the floor.
Byron's lop-sided smile was back, more fierce now than ever. The hooked skinning knife in his hand dripped blood on the wood floor. He reached to his workbench and picked up the tranquilizer gun with the other hand.
Frank stepped backward, into a naked college kid mounted like a cat clawing the air. Little claws molded into the murdered kid's hand hooked into Frank's shirt. Then Byron shot him with the tranquilizer and he fell over backwards over the macabre taxidermy.
"No! Stop it!" Shelly screamed. "What are you doing?"
"Skin 'em and stuff 'em!" Byron said. "That's all there is to it. Skin 'em and stuff 'em!"
He lunged at her with the skinning knife, faster than he ever moved before, but still too slow to stick her. She reeled back and knocked over another human mount. This one, a full dressed housewife, toppled to the floor. Shelly ran around Byron, back to the door to the workshop. She fought with the knob. It was locked.
Byron braced himself against a wolf-boy, leering and aiming the knife at her. "You wanted to see my inner workings. You paid admission. You got the full tour. Now don't be shy. I want to see you inner workings too!"
"Don't do this," she said. The door wouldn't budge. She put all her weight on the knob and shouldered the door. It wouldn't move an inch. The window. Shelly scrambled onto the workbench, scattering tools and bits of skin and fur on to the floor. She slammed her fist into the glass. Then again. Again. The glass shook but wouldn't break.
Byron started her way.
There was a fire extinguisher on the wall. She grabbed it and swung. The glass spider webbed but didn't shatter. She reared back for another swing. That's when the skinning knife met her right shoulder blade and drew down through to her left hip. She felt like her back was on fire. She ignored the pain and swung again with the fire extinguisher. The glass window shattered. Then Byron was there, grabbing at the fire extinguisher. She screamed and fought to pull it away. He was climbing onto the workbench with her, pressing her against the shards of broken glass.
She spotted the skinning knife on the far end of the counter. Byron had dropped it when he grabbed the fire extinguisher. She reached for it. He pulled at the extinguisher. She let it go and grabbed the knife. Byron came down swinging with the metal red cylinder.
It connected with the side of her head. The room went dark again.
#
Shelly's head throbbed like a hangover. She couldn't remember where she was. She couldn't guess how long she'd been asleep. There was a glare against her closed eye encouraging her to keep them closed. She heard shuffling.
Her eyes opened. She was strapped down to a hospital bed. The bed was inclined so she could see the room, but this was no hospital suite. She was still in her clothes and still in the workshop. Byron was standing next to a new display, this one covered in a dirty white bed. He wore a black rubber apron and handled the now-clean skinning knife in his hand. Paulie stood not far from him, patient and still, with her hands clasped before her. Shelly struggled against the thick leather straps but couldn't move.
"Always sleeping in, you kids," Byron muttered. "Always lazy. Always playing with your God forsaken Internet toys. Never minding your history. Never minding how you got to where you are. Armageddon come, I say. To hell with this generation and the next."
"What are you doing?" Shelly said. "What have you done?"
"You wanted to see the taxidermy, you little bitch. You wanted to see it all, so I’m going to show you. I saved you for last, just so you could see," Byron smiled at her.
The old man pulled off the sheet and revealed Frank and Mary. They were standing up, in their own clothes, looking healthy and normal. Frank was giving Mary the keys to the car. She still looked pissed off and pouty. There was a look on Frank's face that was half frustration and half disappointment. If Shelly didn't know better, she would have sworn they were alive. The painted over scar stretching across Mary's neck told her different.
“Byron-honey. They’re your best yet!” Paulie said. “I just love the detail in the facial work.”
Shelly sobbed. "Please..."
"Skin 'em and stuff 'em. That's all I do. No different than across the street," Byron told her as he approached with the skinning knife.
“I bet she’ll be even more gorgeous than the others, Byron,” his wife said. “Save her face from the knife, dear.”
“No… please…”
"Skin 'em and stuff 'em!” Byron said. He plunged the knife into her belly and started up from there.
"Ooh, look at this one! This one got his arm blow off!" Shelly said, tapping on the glass.
"It's really fucking detailed," Frank said.
The taxidermied Invasion of Normandy was stretched out inside a glass case, the landing crafts and molded water on the left, the beach littered with the dead bodies of little dead animals in the middle, the cliffs and German/gopher pill boxes on the right. Each critter carried period-appropriate to-scale weapons and equipment. They wore tiny but historically accurate helmets. The wounded were marred with some kind of fake blood that matted down their fur. All of them had been brought back to life in this glorious snapshot of human conflict. Some of them were dead yet again.
One squirrel in particular caught Shelly's eye. He was a US soldier, a captain by the tiny rank on his OD green helmet. He carried a tommy gun in one hand, a pineapple grenade in the other. He was charging forward, his little paws digging through the loose sand of the beach. He was screaming. His lips were pulled back and his sharp and yellowed buck teeth exposed. There were two Nazi gophers reloading in a machine gun nest just a foot away. They didn't stand a chance.
"He won't tell you to your face, but that's Byron's favorite," the old woman said from behind Shelly.
Shelly pulled herself away from the display case and turned to the old woman. "It's incredible."
"Oh, you're too kind," the woman said. "And take as many pictures as you like."
Shelly would. She had to photograph it all. This stuff was taxidermy gold. It deserved to be shared with the world. "Thanks so much," she told the woman.
Shelly looked around the bar to try to take it all in. She had read about the Moccasin Bar in Hayward Wisconsin on the Internet, but the posts didn't do it justice. Every wall was filled with display cases of bizarre but detailed dioramas of mounted animals. Each case was a different scene and a different story. Near the front were some rabbits standing on their hind legs singing Christmas carols. A little further in, an assortment of raccoons and ferrets and a skunk played poker. The skunk was hiding cards. A ferret had lost all his money but brandished a switchblade. Opposite the card game, there were a pair of foxes in blaze orange carrying shotguns on a hunt. A fox hunt, it looked like. The one fox smoked a pipe. The other wore a monocle. The back of the display case was painted with a field surrounded by fall trees, another fox riding a black horse and there were hound dogs painted into the background. The painted hound dogs were on all fours and sniffing the ground like hound dogs should. But what were they smelling for? What were the human-like foxes hunting? Other less-human foxes?
"What can I get you to drink?" said an old man behind the bar.
Shelly snapped out of the trance. She'd almost forgotten this was a bar. "Oh. Sorry. Um. A PBR?"
"How about your friends?" he asked her.
Shelly looked to Frank and then Mary. Frank was eyeing a boxing match between a pair of raccoons with a beaver referee. He had his hands clasped behind his back like he was in an art museum. This was an art museum, just not like any she'd ever seen before. Mary was still by the front entrance. A little of the mid-day sun leaked through, but not enough to make her look comfortable.
"Make it three," Shelly told the bartender. The old man went about pouring three Pabsts from the tap. Shelly went up to the bar and put a butt cheek on a stool opposite the old man.
"Where did all these come from? I mean, who did all these?" she asked.
The old man grumbled a bit. He wasn't as cheerful or polite as his wife. Where had she wondered off to? "They're mine," the man said as he put one mug of PBR on the counter.
"You mean, you did all these?" Shelly asked.
The old man broke into a lopsided grin. The second PBR landed on the bar. "Every god damn one. You see the three fawns next to the pull tab boxes? Those three were unborn. Mother died in an auto accident. I had to tape the legs just to get them to stand up."
Shelly looked. Not all taxidermy in the bar was anthropomorphic. The three tiny deer were just three tiny deer, standing on twelve spindly legs in a field of snow. Still, the painted background told a story slightly skewed from reality. It was night in a forest. The moon hung in the night sky on the left. On the right was a pair of headlights aimed into the trees. Shelly knew that if she could see through the painted-on glare of the lights, there would be a doe laid out in front of the car's bumper. In the diorama, the old man had still hit the mother with his car, but the fawns had lived.
Shelly turned back to the old man. All three PBRs were on the bar. A Wisconsin Badger's football game was on behind him. He had lost his reluctant smile but still fixed her with his cataracted eyes. "Six seventy five," he said.
$2.25 for a beer. Cheaper than any beer she'd ever get back around campus. She gun out a ten and set it on the dried out wooden bar. "Guys. Beer," she called to Mary and Frank.
From the looks of it, Mary wouldn't go any further than ten steps inside the door. She stood next to the closest table to the exit, one arm straight at her side, the other holding her elbow. Shelly grabbed the two beers, one for her, and brought the other over to Mary.
Frank picked up the third beer and sat in front of the old man and the Badgers game. "This place is really incredible. I mean, it's amazing. Where do you get, you know, the raw materials?"
The old man turned his back and muttered again. Frank couldn't hear him over the sound of the game.
"Byron!" the old woman called. She was back from the kitchen with a rack of clean glasses. She came close to her husband. "Byron-honey, they're interested in your work. You should tell them about it."
The old man, Byron, turned back to Frank.
Shelly looked at Mary. Mary had sat down at the high table but hadn't touched her beer. "Shelly, this place is fucking creepy as shit," she said.
Shelly, didn't have time for that. She could tell the old man was about to dish out the goods. He was already talking to Frank.
"Walton's across the road. The funeral home," Byron said, impatient with their lack of knowledge of the local businesses. Shelly came back to the bar next to Frank. The old man went on. "They do the same kind of thing. It's no different. They don't get asked those types of questions. Nobody scrutinizes their work."
"I didn't mean to-" Frank started to apologize.
"It's no different over there than it is here. But they're respectable. Huh! My ass, those meat-carvers over there..." he trailed off. He kept talking but couldn't be heard.
"Sir?" Shelly called to him.
He stopped his quiet monologue and faced her. "What's that?"
"Um. I run a blog... Well, we run a blog on taxidermy oddities," she said. It was a humor site. They mocked shoddy stuff-jobs and had a great time doing it. This place though, it actually wasn't shotty. It was just bizarre. She couldn't tell him that. She hoped to God he wouldn't ask.
"You run a what?" he pronounced the ‘h’.
"A blog, on the Internet. Is it okay if we post some of your work?"
"I don't give a god damn coon's ass about that nonsense," he said, wandering off again.
That was enough for Shelly. She couldn't contain her smile. Neither could Frank. They grinned and fist bumped. This place alone would give them fresh content for the next three years.
"You kids take as many pictures as you like. That's Byron and you can call me Paulie," the old woman said. "You just let me know if you need anything."
They thanked her and brought their beers back to Mary, who still hadn't moved from the table closest to the exit. When they got to her, she said, "Shelly, please, can we get the fuck out of here?"
Mary didn't bother to lower her voice, almost as if she wanted the old couple to hear her. Frank was more discrete. "You know, this stuff really isn't that crappy. I mean we have to post this. All of this. Did you see those porcupines?"
"Oh, I know!" Shelly said, just under her breath. “And how fucking weird were those baby deer? I mean, he had to have done like a C-section to pull them out, right?"
"How did he even know the deer was pregnant?" Frank whispered.
"I can't take it," Mary said at full volume. Her face looked on the verge of crying or vomiting or both. Her beer was still topped off. "I can't fucking handle this shit. I follow you guys around and normal dead animals are one thing. I can tolerate the normal ones. But this fucking place?" she glared at Frank.
"Would you kids like to see the museum?" Paulie called from the bar.
Frank and Shelly locked eyes. She said, "There's a fucking museum!"
"Frank?" said Mary.
"Byron!" Paulie called. "Byron-honey, they'd like to see the museum."
"It's closed!" He yelled from somewhere behind the bar. He was in the kitchen now, or in a stock room, or back office, somewhere out of sight. "Monday through Friday, four PM to nine!"
"Byron-honey-"
"Please!" Shelly called. "You have to show us the museum! We drove her all the way from Chicago just to see this place. You have to let us see the museum."
"Shelly! Frank?" Mary said.
"Today is Saturday god damn it!" Byron yelled. "It's closed!"
"Oh, Byron. Don't be a grouch," Paulie said.
Shelly and Frank were back at the bar now. "You have to convince him to let us in the museum," Shelly said.
"Yeah. I mean, if this is just the bar, the museum... the museum has to be fantastic," Frank said.
"Oh, well, it is Saturday and..." Paulie was saying.
The old man, Byron, came back behind the bar. He was wiping something in his hand. "You kids want to see the museum?"
"Please? Can we?" Shelly said.
Byron smiled that right-side-only smirk. "You kids know what this is?" he asked and showed them what he was wiping with the rag.
He held a short knife in his open palms like he was showing a robin's egg to a class of kindergarteners. The handle was old and worn, oiled with palm sweat and other fluids. The blade was short but wide, wider than the handle. The tip was curved near round and on the back side of the tip was a razor sharp hook.
"This is a skinning knife. Used this particular skinning knife on just about every mount you see in this place," he told them. His grin grew bigger. "Skin 'em and stuff 'em. Skin 'em and stuff 'em. That's about all there is to it, really."
The old man wrapped the knife back up in the dirty rag like he was a magician hiding his sleight of hand. "I'll let you in, but all three of ya have to pay full price. Got to keep the lights on."
Shelly and Frank turned to Mary, still sitting as close as she could to the door, still with a full beer. They waved at her to follow as Byron moved to the end of the bar and came around.
"Have to leave your beer out of the museum," Byron called. Shelly and Frank slammed theirs. "Cost is ten dollars cash! No plastic and no out-of-town checks!" Shelly and Frank waved frantically to Mary. Byron led them to a door past the billiards table and a flight of wood ducks and piglet country/western singer. "Cash goes in the box next to the door! No re-entry and NO refunds!"
They arrived at a plain door with a simple sign above it that read, "Museum." Byron stopped in front of the door and looked at Shelly and Frank as they dug out cash. Then he gestured with his chin towards Mary.
"Mary, get your ass over here. Right now," Shelly said.
Mary hesitated. She glared at her friends. She wanted to pose an argument but had no words. She thought about just staying there at the table but didn't want to be left alone in the bar. Byron, Shelly and Frank waited for her. She cracked and sulked away from the table and up to the museum door. "I fucking hate you guys," she said.
"Money in the box before I open the door," Byron said.
Frank put in a ten. "I am not paying for this shit," Mary said. Shelly smiled and put in a twenty.
Byron opened the door. "Welcome to the Mocassin Bar Museum of Taxidermy Oddities!"
They went inside. The museum was one large room, a well-lit pole barn separated by head-tall display cases like shelves in a library. Every case was another exhibit of animals dressed and posed like humans. Byron followed them in. Mary stayed as close to Frank as she could.
"Now this display here," Byron directed them to the first exhibit, a showcase waist to head high and ten feet long. "This represents the struggle between the Sauk Indians who first lived on these lands and the white settlers. This scene in particular is of the Bad Axe Massacre that took place near present day Victoria Wisconsin, not two hour’s drive from here."
The Indians were rabbits, their ears posed as the feathers of brave warriors. The US Soldiers were bobcats and lynx. The rabbits weren't faring well. There was plenty more of that fake pinkish blood matting down the hair.
"This exhibit shows us the Tragedy of Sand Lake, where the Chippewa Indians were marched from their lands under the direction of President Zachary Taylor."
More rabbits, these marching through a winter-scape, trying to stay warm under thin and miniature blankets.
"On we move through history to Wisconsin's logging era. To the time of folk Hero's like Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox..."
"What the shit is that?" Frank interrupted.
"Frank," Mary whined as he wandered deeper into the museum. Shelly followed.
"Oh, sure. Everybody wants to skip ahead. No needs to learn an ounce of goddamn history. Stupid shit-stained kids getting dumber every god-forsaken year I'm alive. Just a man trying to run his business and maybe teach something to this degenerate generation."
Shelly didn't hear a third of what Byron said. She was already chasing after Frank.
"It's a fucking Bigfoot," he said.
"Ew. It has a penis," Mary said.
"Oh my god, is that incredible," Shelly said. "This is definitely going on the blog."
The stuffed and mounted Bigfoot towered over all of them. It had to be ten feet tall. It was the only piece not inside a display case, probably because it was just too large. It's face, obviously sculpted from clay and fake, was dusty and the paint was cracked. It's nose was flat and large. It's brow was thick and sloped like a Neanderthal. It carried a tall walking stick. Between it's feet was a plaque labeled "Primitive Man."
"It does have a penis," Frank said. "Look."
"That is so fucking gross," Mary said. "Frank, give me the car keys. I'm out. I can't take it anymore. Give me the keys."
"That one is all the kid's favorite," Byron called. He moved slow and took his time catching up. "I had to shorten the leg bones and make the arms longer to make him right."
Frank, all smiles, looked back and forth from the Bigfoot to the old man. "What did you use?"
"Huh?" Byron asked.
"For the bones, and for the fur. What did you start with?"
"A Bigfoot. That's the real thing," Byron said.
"But you just said..."
"Frank?" Mary said. "The fucking car keys? Please?"
"You didn't see the brewery display. Got a whole family of chipmunks brewing Milwaukee's best," Byron told them. "And over here is the entire 1967 Green Bay Packers and Dallas Cowboys reenacting Bart Starr's famous quarterback sneak at the Ice Bowl. Vince Lombardi is a woodchuck. The rest are box turtles."
"Is this your work shop?" Shelly asked. She stood in front of a window to another room. There were no lights on, but she could see a workbench and tools. There were various knifes and clippers, plyers and spreaders. A pistol tranquilizer gun sat there too.
Byron slowly came over to her, nodding as he did. "Sometimes I like to see my museum while I work, for inspiration.” He stood next to her facing the darkened room, shoulder to shoulder. Behind them Frank and Mary had a quiet little argument over keys.
"You seem particularly interested in the inner workings of taxidermy. More so than your friends at any rate," Byron said.
Shelly blushed. The old man had a bit of charm hidden somewhere in that half-faced smile. "Mary can be a pain the ass, but Frank, he's-"
"Would you like to see inside my workshop?" Byron asked.
"Would you? I mean, you wouldn't mind if I put some of this on my blog? I'm sure we'd bring in more business for you. I mean, this place really is amazing," Shelly smiled.
Byron lost his grin almost instantly. "I told you before I don't give a rat's behind about any of that techno garbage. I want to show you something real." Just as quick, his rictus came back. "Your friends have to come too. I can't have them wondering around the displays unsupervised." Byron turned away from the dark window and saw Frank fondling the Bigfoot. "Hey, god damn it! Don't touch the exhibits. Makes them lose their fur."
"Sorry."
Byron turned back to Shelly. "Do they want to see the workshop or not? I keep my most special displays in there."
"Yes. Oh god, yes. And I'll make sure they stay in line. We'll be good," Shelly said.
Byron grinned. "Alright, you two. Get your butts over here so I can show you the workshop."
"Seriously?" Mary said. "The workshop? Shelly, there plenty of weird fucking animals in the museum and in the bar. Do we really have to go in his workshop?"
Frank took her hand. "Mary, come on. You're being rude."
"Just give me the car keys," she said.
"All or none!" Byron called out. "I ain't giving tours for just two of you. Ain't here to waste my Saturday afternoon. Badgers are on."
"Mary!"
"Come on, Mary. It won't take long."
"Come on. Real quick. We'll check out the workshop and then you can have the keys."
She stood there like a child, defiant but helpless. Just like in the bar, after she had her moment in the spotlight, she broke. "You guys fucking owe me, big time."
Byron fished out keys from his pocket. "Come on, then. Everybody in." He unlocked the door and pushed it open wide. The three friends slowly went into the dark room. "Come on, now. Don't be timid. The light switch is inside a bit. Let me follow you in."
Shelly shuffled deep into the workshop, her tennis shoes kicking clear tools and bits of fur and other unidentifiable litter on the floor. The further into the shop she went, the darker the room became. Frank was behind her. Mary, too.
"Keep moving now. Let me get to the light," Byron said. He closed the door behind them and the room grew a little darker.
More shuffling. Then the old man found the switch and the light came on with a pop.
It was too bright too see at first. Shelly's eyes were clamped shut. Something aside from the light made her afraid to open them. When she did open her eyes, she immediately regretted it.
There were humans standing in front of them. Some of them were clothed. Some were naked. Some were covered with fur and posed like animals, crawling on all fours. All of them were still. Their skin was like crumpled bakers paper, waxed but broken.
Mary screamed. Shelly and Frank turned around to see the old man grabbing her chest from behind. Then he brought up the skinning knife and slid it across her neck. Her throat opened up and poured out blood. She choked and gargled, then collapsed onto the floor.
Byron's lop-sided smile was back, more fierce now than ever. The hooked skinning knife in his hand dripped blood on the wood floor. He reached to his workbench and picked up the tranquilizer gun with the other hand.
Frank stepped backward, into a naked college kid mounted like a cat clawing the air. Little claws molded into the murdered kid's hand hooked into Frank's shirt. Then Byron shot him with the tranquilizer and he fell over backwards over the macabre taxidermy.
"No! Stop it!" Shelly screamed. "What are you doing?"
"Skin 'em and stuff 'em!" Byron said. "That's all there is to it. Skin 'em and stuff 'em!"
He lunged at her with the skinning knife, faster than he ever moved before, but still too slow to stick her. She reeled back and knocked over another human mount. This one, a full dressed housewife, toppled to the floor. Shelly ran around Byron, back to the door to the workshop. She fought with the knob. It was locked.
Byron braced himself against a wolf-boy, leering and aiming the knife at her. "You wanted to see my inner workings. You paid admission. You got the full tour. Now don't be shy. I want to see you inner workings too!"
"Don't do this," she said. The door wouldn't budge. She put all her weight on the knob and shouldered the door. It wouldn't move an inch. The window. Shelly scrambled onto the workbench, scattering tools and bits of skin and fur on to the floor. She slammed her fist into the glass. Then again. Again. The glass shook but wouldn't break.
Byron started her way.
There was a fire extinguisher on the wall. She grabbed it and swung. The glass spider webbed but didn't shatter. She reared back for another swing. That's when the skinning knife met her right shoulder blade and drew down through to her left hip. She felt like her back was on fire. She ignored the pain and swung again with the fire extinguisher. The glass window shattered. Then Byron was there, grabbing at the fire extinguisher. She screamed and fought to pull it away. He was climbing onto the workbench with her, pressing her against the shards of broken glass.
She spotted the skinning knife on the far end of the counter. Byron had dropped it when he grabbed the fire extinguisher. She reached for it. He pulled at the extinguisher. She let it go and grabbed the knife. Byron came down swinging with the metal red cylinder.
It connected with the side of her head. The room went dark again.
#
Shelly's head throbbed like a hangover. She couldn't remember where she was. She couldn't guess how long she'd been asleep. There was a glare against her closed eye encouraging her to keep them closed. She heard shuffling.
Her eyes opened. She was strapped down to a hospital bed. The bed was inclined so she could see the room, but this was no hospital suite. She was still in her clothes and still in the workshop. Byron was standing next to a new display, this one covered in a dirty white bed. He wore a black rubber apron and handled the now-clean skinning knife in his hand. Paulie stood not far from him, patient and still, with her hands clasped before her. Shelly struggled against the thick leather straps but couldn't move.
"Always sleeping in, you kids," Byron muttered. "Always lazy. Always playing with your God forsaken Internet toys. Never minding your history. Never minding how you got to where you are. Armageddon come, I say. To hell with this generation and the next."
"What are you doing?" Shelly said. "What have you done?"
"You wanted to see the taxidermy, you little bitch. You wanted to see it all, so I’m going to show you. I saved you for last, just so you could see," Byron smiled at her.
The old man pulled off the sheet and revealed Frank and Mary. They were standing up, in their own clothes, looking healthy and normal. Frank was giving Mary the keys to the car. She still looked pissed off and pouty. There was a look on Frank's face that was half frustration and half disappointment. If Shelly didn't know better, she would have sworn they were alive. The painted over scar stretching across Mary's neck told her different.
“Byron-honey. They’re your best yet!” Paulie said. “I just love the detail in the facial work.”
Shelly sobbed. "Please..."
"Skin 'em and stuff 'em. That's all I do. No different than across the street," Byron told her as he approached with the skinning knife.
“I bet she’ll be even more gorgeous than the others, Byron,” his wife said. “Save her face from the knife, dear.”
“No… please…”
"Skin 'em and stuff 'em!” Byron said. He plunged the knife into her belly and started up from there.