knew nothing of the kind. All that was certain, he knew, was that tomorrow, or the next day, he'd be face-to-face again with some tormented and ugly form of humanity, some horror of the worst kind, another human monster like the dwarf and his equally twisted brother, Dr. Benjamin Ian Hamel.
It was three in the morning when Dean finally shut the taxidermy text. There was no date of publication, it was probably worth a small fortune to some collector somewhere. It had probably been found by the dwarf in that Montana basement years ago, in the wall or below the floor, cherished by him and Hamel as their bible. It was filled with lurid and wrongful notions of anatomy and physiology, with an occasional flight into the metaphysical. The whole thing was an esoteric diatribe, intended only for a select group, a master taxidermist putting down his thoughts—often far afield of taxidermy and leather curing—for a small group of adherents.
It made a mockery of the old saying, “Believe in something, or you'll believe in anything....'
And with that thought Dean, his wife molding her body close to his, went to sleep, forcing his mind to free itself of the horrors of his work and this life.
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