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People don’t like to visit. The pelts give off an odor. The buckets full of glass eyes weird folks out. I get it, but a man has to make a living. I never wanted to work in an office. I don’t like manual labor. I never imagined I’d be the guy you bring your dead weasel to, but that’s the way it worked out.
So many heads. Deer, Elk, Moose. You name it, I’ve mounted its head on reclaimed wood. I don’t like it, but it’s peaceful work. Quiet. Until someone comes in with their pet. It happens more than you’d think.
Sometimes you do what you gotta do because money is important. But most times I draw the line. I try to be nice about it. Sometimes I want to scream. But I don’t.
But I can’t imagine it. I’ve had dogs I loved more than I love my mother, but I don’t want them staring at me, glassy-eyed, from the corner of the living room. Why would anyone want that? It makes my blood run cold. And it makes me wonder when it’s going to happen. The thing I fear the most.
“Sir, we’d like you to preserve my mother’s remains…”
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