My personal deer hunting experience doesn't go beyond driving a country road at night. This is about guys who actually do it. Y'know, with rifles, and orange blaze.
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Gerry explained to his new neighbor Jesse how he had kept a 26-inch rainbow trout in good enough condition to lacquer and mount. Then came the story of the 12-point buck, with antlers so large it was mounted almost at knee level. And the tale of another 8-point deer, nicknamed “Ocho.” Gerry’s hunting stories made himself out to be a virile combination of Natty Bumpko and Ted Nugent. Jesse, who had two freezers of venison steaks, was being treated like he didn’t know which end of the rifle was which. But Jesse kept his mouth shut, wanting to be friends. Gerry then pointed to something mounted between the deer heads, covered in purple velvet. He removed the cloth with a flourish, uncovering what appeared to be a mounted human head. “That’s Floyd, the old owner of this house,” Gerry guffawed. “I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse!” Jesse paled: he had known Floyd, and that really was Floyd’s head. Gerry backtracked, and patiently explained that Floyd agreed to sit for a plaster of Paris cast of his head. For Gerry’s wall. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking Floyd didn’t seem to be the good-sport type of person,” Gerry explained. “Well, it’s hard to refuse when you’re dead!” he roared. Jesse half-laughed at the joke, if joke it was. Floyd’s head looked blue against the wallpaper, and Jesse could see his acne scars and broken nose. Floyd had never said good-bye; never even said he was leaving town after 20 years. Was this why? “If you think this is funny,” Gerry bellowed, unaware that Jesse was not laughing at all, “wait until you see all the others!” He pointed to a wall filled with purple cloths, draped over things mounted into the gypsum board.
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