A Head for Business (Taxidermist)

"Hang on tight!" Lee Timmins yells before sawing into the decapitated skull I'm holding in place.

Of the many Las Vegas jobs that have gotten under my skin, this is the first with real skin for me to get under. Taxidermy, practiced by four valley companies, is the creation of displays from the carcasses of legally hunted animals such as this North American pronghorn.

"What we're doing here is preserving the animal's dignity," said Timmins, who works for A+ Taxidermy in Henderson.

That's one way to look at it. Another is to point out how proud of us Hannibal Lecter would be right now. And hungry.

"Some people, they cut it off here and make a neck roast," Timmins says casually, pointing at the ex-Bambi noggin. He adds: "Personally, I don't care for neck roast."

If you're thinking of reporting me to People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, I understand. Hell, I might turn myself in. I haven't eaten meat since I was 20 years old (even fish). And I would never kill another living creature (other than the fungus gnats infesting my houseplants -- and possibly John Borman, the football captain who once deposited me into a Dumpster behind Oceanside High School in Long Island, N.Y.).

That said, however, running toward -- not away from -- my personal revulsions is one of the main reasons I created this series.

"Bleeer!" the battery-powered Dewalt Sawzall groans as it hacks through the pronghorn's eye sockets to get at the base of its horns.

"Uggh!" I wretch like a schoolgirl as I turn as far away as my own neck roast will stretch. (I never claimed to run toward my personal revulsions like a man.)

Whether I've now got figurative blood on my kitchen-gloved hands, there is no doubt about the literal blood dousing them.

"You've got it on the back of your pants, too," Timmins adds, "because I threw it on you."

Timmins, 68, reminds me of my dad -- had I been adopted by a creepy guy who loves hunting, touching dead animals and pretending to throw blood at the squeamish. (That's a joke, Lee. Please don't stuff me.)

"You've got no idea the things I've been involved in over the years," Timmins says, mysteriously, while pulling off the pronghorn's skullcap. (To police, please take note. I know you read these articles.)

Timmins hails from Detroit, where he was a plumber for 35 years. Bow-hunting has been his hobby since the age of 12.

"I couldn't afford to pay the taxidermist," he said, "so I had to learn to do it myself."

A+ charges customers $395 per mount (head and body included). During hunting season, Timmins says, he mounts five to six carcasses a day. ("Stuffs" is considered derogatory.) Taxidermists earn $15 an hour to start, averaging about $50,000 a year.

"This is where you've got to be careful," Timmins says.

It's now 20 minutes earlier and I'm helping to remove the pronghorn's face with a scalpel -- like the surgeons in that Nicolas Cage/John Travolta movie "Face/Off." It must be cut perfectly, or it won't fit around the foam skull mold Timmins will glue it to later (along with the dried horns, glass eyes and artificial teeth).

Besides horns, skin is the only original part of a mount. Taxidermy translates from Greek as "to move skin." (Derm means skin, and taxi means to move -- except on the Strip, where it means to idle and overcharge).

"The skin goes all the way up in on that face," Timmins corrects one of my incisions.

Taxidermy in Nevada requires a license but no specialized training -- although a greater familiarity with anatomy than mine is suggested. My slices around the horns are a tad deep and in the wrong place.

"You've got to cut around the base," Timmins warns.

I'm a little distracted, too. The smell isn't that bad since the head -- last attached to a living body two days ago near Ely -- is frozen. But the visual makes what popped out of the bottom of that boat in "Jaws" look like Miss America.

"We got a barf bag right here," Timmins says, pulling out a tall kitchen garbage bag. "Don't do it on the floor."

Back in Detroit, Timmins adds, he and his hunter friends had a name for guys like me.

"C.A.," he says, pausing a beat before offering the translation: "candy ass." (I believe that was also among the names John Borman used en route to the Dumpster.)

Not surprisingly, Timmins claims he's not grossed out by anything. He does have a peeve, however: pets. The odd deceased dog and cat is brought into A+ about once a month (by the odd pet-lover).

"If somebody's had a pet for years, no matter what you do, it's not what they remember about that pet," Timmins said. "You can't get what they remember from their pet."

Mounting grandpa is an even more unwelcome request.

"I get calls all the time," said owner Rick Smith, who opened A+ six years ago. "Most of them are pranks, although I have had a couple of serious ones."

Smith said he has been offered as much as $500,000 to convert someone's den into "Bodies: The Exhibition."

"To the best of my knowledge, it's not against the law," Smith said. "But I wouldn't do that."

Timmins is finished sawing off the pronghorn's skullcap. He reaches into the gaping head cavity with his bare hands, plucks out a mucusy red mound and plops it inches away from me. The brain jiggles like Jell-O.

"You've got to do this before you boil the skull," he explains.

I believe this was one of Dr. Bombay's spells from "Bewitched."

"You wanted a dirty job," Timmins says.

Actually, that's the guy from the Discovery Channel. And he gets his own TV show for subjecting himself to this. I've been shortchanged.

"Anything else you want to do?" Timmins asks.

"Leave," I respond and begin to change clothes. (I guess you can call this a dis-mount.)

Timmins turns to the R-J's videographer in disbelief.

"Does this guy do any real work on these jobs?" he asks.

Watch video of Levitan as a taxidermist at www.reviewjournal.com/video/fearandloafing.html. Fear and Loafing runs Mondays in the Living section. Levitan's previous adventures are posted at fearandloafing.com.