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one hell of a hunting story to tell for years to come.” He stood up, staggered off the last step and gently lay onto the basement floor. “Jesus, I feel dizzy. Whoa, the room’s spinning around a hundred miles an hour.” He instinctively reached out and grabbed Hermanski’s leg.
    “You’ve made your point. Here,” Hermanski bent over and offered him a bottle from an open case nearby. “I suggest you take a shower before we continue. Okay, George...it's getting old; take the beer.”
    Montagno held on as if spiraling out of control. Suddenly, he let go, flipped over, and sat up. His glazed bloodshot eyes focused on a flickering fluorescent light overhead.
    “Damn, what a wild ride,” he said, “I’ll take that brewski now.” He received the open bottle from Hermanski’s hand and proceeded to chug half of it.
    “Slow down, man; you feeling okay? Your eyes are like two ripe tomatoes,” Lacarter said.
    “I feel fine now. Whoa, was I dizzy; must be a reaction to the allergy pills I’m taking. My doctor said I might get dizzy spells now and then.”
    “You can take a quick shower over there behind the furnace. I’ll get a clean towel; here’s your bag of clothes. Let’s get the buck on the table and get this over with.”
    “I might as well stay like this if we’re going to cut it up now. No use getting another set of clothes dirty.”
    “At least wash your face and get that shit out of your hair.” Hermanski offered another clean towel.
    Montagno went to the sink, lathered soap on this face, head and neck, doused his head with water and patted dry.
    “Gawd damn, I’m breaking out,” he said, looking in a mirror over the sink. Red pimples covered his face.
    “Let’s hope it’s just part of an allergic reaction to the pills and not to the deer blood. You should call your doctor tomorrow. ”
    Hermanski dabbed bloody goo off the stairs and around where the carcass fell using a sponge dipped in soapy water.
    “Yeah, I will.”
    “Hey, Dillon, please go up to the kitchen and bring down a couple of newspapers. I put them in a paper bag by the back door. I don’t have time to read them anymore.”
    Lacarter acknowledged, hopped up the stairs avoiding a few wet spots and returned with an armful of newspapers.
    The three men put on rubber gloves.
    Hermanski and Montagno grabbed hold of the deer’s legs and dragged it over to the table. Lacarter joined them and lifted the flaccid animal onto newspapers he spread evenly on the table.
    Hermanski, wielding a small butcher’s saw, severed the deer’s head at the shoulders, and set it aside on freezer paper spread out on a counter nearby. He then sawed the legs off and detached the tail. Montagno and Lacarter steadied the amputated body while Hermanski proceeded to skin it.
    “Did you see this?” Lacarter said, glancing at a news article on the spread-out newspapers. “A bow hunter from Port Huron got sick while gutting a deer up near West Branch. Says he shot an eight-point buck. He and his buddy were cleaning out the guts when he had an asthma attack, and his buddy carried him out of the woods and drove him to a local hospital. Doctors think it’s either West Nile or Lyme disease and hope this incident serves as a warning to other hunters.”
    “No shit. Is he all right? What’d they do with the deer?” Hermanski asked.
    “They left it in the woods next to a tree with a hunter’s perch attached. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
    “I’ll be dipped. We’re cleaning that guy’s buck, I’ll bet.”
    “Sure as shit,” Montagno said.
    Hermanski pulled the skin away from each half of the carcass, surveying the meat.
    “How should we cut this up? You want me to make steaks and grind the rest for sausage, or just slice it up in big chunks, and everyone can do what they want?”
    “Keep going, I don’t want to go through another mess when I get home. Hey, I just found the rest of the article on the next page. This West Nile stuff must