The Perfect Specimen

John burst into his workshop and swept a heap of scattered materials off his workbench onto the floor. Dust puffed up on their impact on the ground, sending little particles swirling into the air.

He flicked on the overhead light. Sinister implements littered throughout the space caught the light and winked: scalpels with fiendishly sharp blades, fine pointed scissors, and pliers with rusted ends from much use.

He bustled around the shop; his movements frantic and jerky. His mind whirled about, marveling at his good fortune. John was the sort of guy who bought a lottery ticket and ended up owing money to the state… he wasn’t much for winning.

What luck! Oh, what luck! God finally smiled upon him, gifting him the ultimate specimen!

Two points of red colored his cheeks and a pinkish flush crept up his neck, disappearing beneath his shaggy beard flecked with streaks of gray. After years of careful cultivation, the beard’s end tickled his paunch. He liked to think he looked like a bad ass biker—maybe a Hell’s Angel—but in truth, he looked more like a middle-aged loser who played World of Warcraft in his elderly parents’ basement. His stomach jiggled with each movement around the shop, a souvenir of many nights spent hunched over his workbench, inhaling Big Macs and gulping down Supersized Cokes.

John wasn’t accustomed to moving so quickly and a bout of lightheadedness struck him—partially from the activity but more so from his frank excitement. He slowed, allowing his pounding heart to resume a pace more to its liking and allowed the stars to recede from his vision.

John, chill out, man. She’ll still be there. No sense in suffering from a massive coronary because you’re so excited!

He paused, glancing around his shop, feeling a familiar sense of pride wash over him. An inquisitive raccoon clutched a crumpled soda can, its forever-expression one of frozen wonder at its treasure. John discovered the poor raccoon on the side of the road, its side completely caved in after a run-in with a car. With meticulous care, he’d repaired the damage, and posed Mr. Raccoon as he imagined him: curious and adorable, gazing at a discarded can. Above the raccoon, thin wires hung from the ceiling, suspending birds in perpetual flight. A red-tailed hawk swooped, its sharp talons outstretched, and he’d hung another bird—a magpie—in its path. One of his prized specimens was a bit of a joke—a jackalope. His cousin had blasted an antelope several years back and gifted the horns to John. John puffed on a joint and worked overtime on that one, painstakingly crafting his mystical jackalope, mounting the antlers atop Briar Rabbit’s skull. Lovingly, he ran his fingers across the jackalope’s fur, enjoying light rasp underneath his calloused fingertips.

He’d learned the craft of taxidermy from his grandfather, a self-professed oddball. John remembered sitting on a battered wooden stool, careful to keep his inquisitive fingers to himself while he watched Gramps hunch over the bench with loupes perched over his glasses. Hobby became profession as his grandfather grew more skilled, and local hunters flocked to him, all wanting mounted heads of their twelve-point bucks to display in their man caves. Sometimes grieving folks came bearing the bodies of their dearly departed pets, and Gramps brought them back to life—sort of. He’d repair any damage and return the pet to their owner, dogs with tongues stuck lolling from their mouths or emerald-eyed cats forever sitting with their tails curled around their paws.

When Gramps died, John stepped in, taking over the business. Sure, he still mounted deer and elk for hunters and while the demand lessened for taxidermized pets—cremation was all the rage these days—he’d devoted most of his efforts to his ‘pet project’, a bit of a misnomer because he didn’t work with pets at all.

Oh no.

His ‘pet project’ consisted of taxidermized creatures, all liberated from roadsides. ‘Roadkill’ might be an apt title if anyone ever featured his work in an art gallery. As a rule, John only selected animals that were already dead and he personally had to happen across the poor creatures. There was something special about the act, scooping the ruined body off the road, bringing it back to his workshop and lovingly restoring a proud animal to its former glory.

He took pride in his work and today… oh boy… today was his lucky day!

Near the entrance of his workshop, he kept a wheelbarrow at the ready for his larger specimens. His grandfather had used the very same one, although back in his day, the wheelbarrow was painted a solid barn red. Now, paint flaked off in sheets, revealing a dull metallic sheen underneath. John thrust his bear paws into leather working gloves and grasped the wheelbarrow’s handles, wheeling it out to the bed of his truck.

This specimen, oh she was a beaut!

Just a little too heavy for him to lug around in his arms for any distance.

He barely believed his luck coming across her. Catching sight of her outstretched leg, he slammed on the brakes—leaving a black skid mark on the pavement—and abandoned his former plan for a grocery run. Her leg—oh, her leg—was perfect! The fine muscles—forever immobile—were perfectly persevered. Almost the epitome of what a model leg ought to look like. John leapt from his pickup, leaving the motor running, and feverishly peered up and down the road, hoping no vehicles were speeding towards him. His luck held; the road was completely empty. It wasn’t that he was doing anything illegal per say, but it was rather awkward explaining exactly why he was loading dead things into his truck. Especially if the person he was explaining himself to wore aviator shades and a police uniform.

Yeah, he could do without that.

John gave his specimen a once over. The left side of her torso had a crumpled appearance, as if all the ribs were splintered inward. Mostly likely struck by a careless car, probably some stupid teen texting or a high college student busy making a video for their social media apps. He spied a streak of crimson near his front tire—still wet and slightly warm— which culminated in a small sanguine puddle underneath the ruined body. A look of shock distorted her features. Small blood-stained teeth peered out of her slightly gaped open mouth and her pupils had dilated so much it was impossible to tell what color her eyes had been in life.

He ran his hands along her skull and his spirits soared. Not one crack! Her head was perfectly preserved! Not that he couldn’t fix a fucked-up head but… it took a considerable amount of work. Taking care where he placed his hands, he heaved her into his truck bed with a thump and covered her with an orange tarp.

Again… he didn’t feel like answering questions he didn’t want to answer.

He heaved his prize from his truck bed into the wheelbarrow, making sure not to crumple her limbs underneath her. Death ensured that the body contorted and froze in unnatural ways which could sully his final product. Guiding the wheelbarrow back into his shop, he whistled to the tune of ‘Dead Skunk’, one of his favorite songs.

Reverently, he plucked her body from the wheelbarrow and laid it gently on his work bench. From head to feet, she took up nearly the whole space and she wasn’t particularly large. He removed his leather gloves and replaced them with medical grade gloves. Double gloving actually, he worked with a lot of nasty chemicals—chiefly formalin—that he didn’t want soaking into his skin. That shit could cause cancer. Waggling his fingers, he selected his tools: an 11-blade scalpel, large shears that could—and would—cut through thick sternum, and a variety of implements that looked like they belonged in a deranged dentist’s office. He cracked his knuckles and pressed play on his antique six-disc stereo, already preloaded with his favorite CDs.

The opening tones of ‘(Don’t Fear) The Reaper’ filled the relative quiet of John’s shop and he got to work.

***

Afternoon bled into evening. John’s stomach started growling around eight PM and two Grubhubbed pizzas showed up at his shop door an hour later, left on the trunk of his pickup per his instructions. He devoured them, barely tasting the greasy pepperoni. He’d filled a small mini-fridge underneath his workbench to the brim with energy drinks—some reported to send their customers to the ER with arrythmias from the obscene amounts of caffeine—and he guzzled them down, intent on working through the night.

Each step, he performed with the skill of an expert dancer, each movement purposeful. Despite massive hands that had the appearance of clumsy catcher’s mitts, he was delicate in his machinations. He drained her blood and replaced it with acrid smelling formalin. With the dexterity of an expert surgeon, he scooped out her organs and cut away all the fat within. He tossed the organs into his wood burning stove… one day he hoped to save enough for a crematorium but that cost money he didn’t have. He repaired the nasty wound in her ribs and unless one looked closely, the former injury was nearly undetectable. With a grimace, he bent her legs into position, wincing when one of the bones made an alarming crack. He considered trying to mold her expression from one of shock to another but decided to keep it as is. It added an odd sense of character. And it was an expression he’d seen on countless animals: the thunderstruck wide eyes and gaping mouth. Eyes whose last sight were blinding headlights, ears that heard blaring horns and screeching brakes before the sweet silence of death.

She’s going to be perfect, his ultimate work!

Other than the light from his overhead bulb, darkness surrounded him as he hunched over his bench, working feverishly. Glittering yellow eyes watched the workshop from the woods beyond, each set belonging to a creature wondering what occurred within. They saw dead creatures enter… and never come out.

And if they wandered too closely to a busy road… they just might find out.

***

Dawn crested over the horizon and he wiped sweat from his forehead and stood back, admiring his creation. He reeked of stale sweat and old onions, the smell emanating from all his pores and the small muscles in his hands were on the verge of a cramp. But still… a sense of pride and happiness surged through him.

Every line was perfection, her body a study in art.

She was… beautiful!

The most gorgeous thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

His own personal David, fit for display at any of those fancy museums that art snobs frequented.

But—

He furrowed his eyebrows and thoughtfully scratched his chin, the hair rasping… she was missing… something.

Then… it struck him like a bolt of lightning—of course! She needed something to make her appear more authentic. He often did this with his specimens, placing some rocks at their feet or perching them atop a branch. He recalled one of his favorites—a prairie dog wearing a tiny cowboy hat with a red bandana looped around its neck, small brown hands lassoing a rattlesnake with its fangs bared.

Not that that was authentic, but it was hilarious.

He hurried back to this pickup and looked around the truck bed. He’d know what she was missing when he saw it. Under the tarp? No. Kicked into a forgotten corner? Nope. A flash of black caught his eye—there it was! Snatching it up, he rushed back into his shop, his chest bursting with pleasure.

He placed the cellphone in her curled fingers. The screen had been shattered to oblivion, probably from the same impact that killed the young woman. Had she been hitching, her thumb cocked up while some imbecile mowed her down? Or was she walking into town, enjoying the sunshine on her upturned face when a drunk smashed into her?

It didn’t matter, not anymore.

She was here now.

His.

Smiling, he ogled her. He’d stripped her bloodied, torn clothing off of her, and crafted her into a thing of beauty. Not that he’d had to work all that hard, she was already gorgeous, even in death. Perky breasts, the small curve of her stomach, the luscious creamy skin of her inner thighs, everything was perfect. Tumbling brunette hair cascaded over her bare shoulders and that alluring expression of shock… it sent a sense of wonder through him, prickling up his arm hair and sending a pleasurable chill down his spine.

She was the perfect woman… quiet, naked, and all his.

The perfect specimen.

His ultimate work.

Gramps would have been so proud.