Mike Nelson's Death Rat!

by Michael J. Nelson

  “When I met you, you were an out-of-work actor peddling fast food at Medieval Burger.”

  “And look how quickly things have turned around.”

  “Have they?” Ponty asked, but Jack kept going.

  “And Ralph is on our side. Ralph, you’ve been pretty lucky, haven’t you?”

  “Life’s been good to me. What can I say?” Ralph said.

  “See?” said Jack, as though the matter were settled.

  “Okay. Have it your way. But what’s the plan now?”

  “Stay the course. Like Johann in The Hour of the White Monkey.”

  “I’m not familiar with that.”

  “I was in it years ago. It’s a play by Gerhardt Schienke.”

  “A play about white monkeys?”

  “No,” Jack replied, as though it were a strange question. “No monkeys in it.”

  “But there was a guy who stayed the course?”

  “Johann, yes.”

  “Did you get to work with real monkeys?” Ralph asked.

  “Nnnoo. No monkeys in it.”

  “Well, then, why in tarnation is it called The Hour of the White Monkey?” Ponty asked, his patience cracking.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps it’s not the fittest title. Still, I think my point is clear. If we just keep proceeding with the plan with confidence, everything will go just fine. Now, you’d better get going in case band practice breaks up early.”

  Once the area had been thoroughly scoped out, Ralph and Ponty exited through the front door, despite Ponty’s reservations. They chose an alternate route for the return trip, going deeper into the woods. Halfway back to Ponty’s cabin, Ralph’s Ralph Senses began tingling.

  “Sh,” he said. “Hear that?”

  “No.”

  “How can you not hear that?”

  Ponty bristled at the implied insult. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t hear—”

  “Sssshhhh.”

  Ralph communicated to Ponty using hand signals they’d practiced while tracking their elusive and wily turkey quarry. He’d been instructed to circle around to his right, while Ralph went left to flank whatever was up ahead. Ponty, never confident in his ability to move his own body efficiently through space, had, however, recently made great strides in his ability to slink. And now he slunk around as Ralph had instructed until they were fifty yards from the spot where they’d started, ten feet away from each other looking back. Ralph signaled for Ponty to look closely at a tree ahead of them, and there, seated on a low branch, was a manlike object. When it moved, it was clear to Ponty that it was indeed a man. The pair tried as best they could to close in on him noiselessly and, as they did so, realized that it was hardly necessary to be noiseless. The man, who was wearing a new, fairly stiff camouflage jacket (of a type sold regularly at Pamida discount stores), was also wearing ear buds and listening to a small cassette player. From twelve feet away they could clearly hear the sounds of classical music, something European, probably Germanic, emanating from his ears. He was lightly humming along with it, a few times in the minute they observed him stopping to raise a pair of unnaturally large binoculars and scan in the direction of Jack’s cabin.

  Ralph lifted his eyebrows and held up a finger, indicating that he had devised a plan to deal with the situation. He walked up behind the man, grasped him by the back of the jacket, and pulled him backward off the tree, the man collapsing on the ground with a thud. Ralph took a seat on his chest and yanked out his ear buds.

  “Ahhhhh!” the man shrieked, a wild look in his eyes. His face was painted in a camouflage design.

  “What the heck you doin’, bub?” Ralph asked him.

  “I was, was . . . um, watching the ducks.”

  “Ducks? There ain’t no ducks around here.”

  “Ja. I was having no luck at all.”

  “You were spying, is what you were doin’.”

  “I knew it,” Ponty said. “I knew it. I told you.”

  “Spy—ha!” said the man. “But that is ridiculous. What would I be . . . spy?”

  “You always look at the ducks wearing camouflage paint?”

  “Yes, yes. I do, in fact. I took up the habit not two years ago, and it has completely changed the way I—”

  “Shut up. Say. You look familiar. Where do I know you from?”

  “Are you active in the duck-watching community? Perhaps—”

  “I tell ya, shut up. What’s so interesting about that cabin there?”

  “Ask him who sent him,” Ponty said, trying to be steely.

  “Who sent—” Ralph began, and then he stopped to look at Ponty. “Why don’t you just ask him?”

  “Right,” Ponty said, nodding. “Who . . . um, who sent you?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Who, you know, who do you work for?”

  “I work as a buyer for a construction firm.”

  Ponty looked at Ralph apologetically. He had nothing more to ask.

  “You done?” Ralph asked.

  “Yes.”

  “All right, listen,” Ralph began, but he was unable to finish his thought, as right at that moment he was hit from behind by something large and stealthy, knocking him off his perch atop the buyer for a construction firm. Ponty had no time to react, as he was simultaneously hit from the side by something of equal size and stealth.

  Once on the ground, the stealthy object, identifiable now as a man, knelt on the small of Ponty’s back and began to pull his arms behind him. At that moment all Ponty’s training as a high school wrestler came flooding back to him. He realized that there were three things he needed to do: prevent his arms from being pinned behind him, get to his knees, and, if possible, grasp his attacker’s right arm underneath his own and roll. It was his favorite reversal move, and he’d used it many times in practice. He tried it now, but, the conditions being so dissimilar to those at Coulberry High School wrestling practice, the results were somewhat disappointing. Within seconds after attempting the move, Ponty was pinned, his arms trapped behind him, helpless. He could hear the sounds of Ralph struggling with his attackers and, presumably, the man they’d captured.

  Ponty then attempted a move that was not sanctioned by either the Amateur Athletics Union or the NFHS official wrestling rules: He kicked wildly, like a toddler having a tantrum, at his assailant’s back, perhaps one in three of the kicks actually landing.

  “Stop it!” demanded the man on his back.

  “Get off me!” Ponty yelled.

  “Stop kicking me, you wildebeest!”

  “GET! OFF!”

  “Don’t be such a baby.”

  “Shut your mouth, fool,” a different, and oddly familiar, voice to the side of Ponty demanded sharply.

  Ponty kicked again, a few of them landing with a beefy thud. He decided it was time to try his move once more, and when he did, to his complete surprise, it worked. He was now on top of the man who had attacked him, but the man obviously knew his way around a wrestling mat, for he immediately rolled to his stomach and got quickly to hands and knees. Ponty’s instincts took over. He gripped a wrist and broke him to the ground, applied an aggressive half nelson and got him over on his back. Locking his opponent’s head, Ponty stiffened his body and went up on his toes to maximize his weight on the man’s chest. Once he’d subdued him, he applied another unsanctioned and wholly illegal move: He reached underneath the man, helped himself to a handful of his underwear band, and yanked with all his might.

  “Here’s a little wedgie for you,” snarled Ponty. “You like that, huh?” He twisted the man’s jockeys on the word huh for emphasis. The man whimpered but did not directly respond as to whether he liked it or not. Ponty applied more pressure and asked again. “How’s that? That feel good, huh?”

  He had no time to conclude his investigation into the matter, however because at that moment Ralph yelled, “Look out, Ponty!” and Ponty was hit from behind with something hard, something with a solid edge, and he slumped off the top of his captiv
e, nearly passing out. Ponty was barely aware of some more sounds of struggling and then footfalls in retreat—a pair of them he thought, though he could not be sure—uneven, as though the man making them had just had his own undergarments pulled forcefully into the cleft of his buttocks.

  Ponty saw Ralph’s face materialize in front of his own, a bit blurry, but, Ponty noticed through his delirium, it was almost preferable that way.

  “You all right, Ponty?”

  “I’ve got to hurry to make my date,” Ponty said, and then he passed out.

  CHAPTER 18

  In the newly cleared area near the entrance to the Holey Mine, tourists and townsfolk alike sat on blankets having picnics under the scorching sun, or wandered in small groups browsing the trinket and concession stands, or stopping by the official King Leo booth, which was selling T-shirts, his entire oeuvre of CDs—including rare bootlegs—a few choice pieces from his clothing line, and his pheromone-rich fragrance for men or women, called DewMe. Over all the proceedings an excited, carnival-like atmosphere prevailed. Everywhere, that is, but at Gerry Iverson’s makeshift concession stand, where Walter Kuhnet, manager of the local grain cooperative, took strong issue with the percentage of Iverson’s retail markup.

  “Iverson, you fruitcake,” Kuhnet began, “I ain’t gonna pay three-fifty for a bottle of water.”

  “Clear spring water,” Gerry corrected. “And, hey, I’ve got labor costs and I just put in a new drive point.”

  “And what in the holy Hector is comfrey?”

  “Comfrey is pure deliciousness, Walter. And when you drink it like tea, it encourages the secretion of pepsin.”

  “Keep it clean, you hippy freak!” Walter shouted.

  “Walter, take it easy, okay? I’ll tell you what, why don’t you have a tempeh hoagie on me.”

  Walter was somewhat calmed by Gerry’s expansive hoagie offer. “I’ll need water to choke down this longhair food,” he said testily.

  “Okay, okay. Have a spring water, too.”

  “Okay,” said Walter, sounding mollified. “Thanks, Gerry.”

  A tall, salt-and-pepper-handsome-type man was next in line at Gerry’s booth. Despite the unseasonable heat, the man looked quite natty and comfortable in a yellow pima-cotton polo shirt and sensible slacks, which appeared to have a touch of elastic for an easy feel.

  “Hey, fella,” the man said with advanced smarm. “How’s the biz?”

  “Can’t complain. You?” asked Gerry pleasantly.

  Daniel Turnbow was taken aback, as it was clear that Gerry Iverson did not recognize him or his famous hair.

  “Good. Good. Daniel Turnbow . . . ?” he said, trying to get some recognition.

  Gerry shook his head. “Don’t know the fella. He from around here, or is he from up Tokesburg way?”

  “No, no. I’m Daniel Turnbow. KMSR News?”

  “Oh, okay. You work out of Duluth?”

  Gerry could not possibly have insulted Daniel Turnbow more had he called him a big, water-added ham with bad hair and a lisp.

  “N-ho, no, no, no, no. Out of the Twin Cities. Been there for years. Don’t get down that way much?”

  “Been off the grid since ’84,” Gerry said proudly.

  Daniel Turnbow didn’t know what this meant but assumed it was some sort of scary north woods hillbilly speak, so he did not pursue it. “So listen, pal. What’s King Leo cooking up here anyway?”

  “Revival, I’m told.”

  “Revival of what?”

  “Well, I’m not altogether clear on that. The Funkalicious Spirit Mother or something like— Hang on.” He leaned out the front of the booth and yelled at Ralph, who was putting a trash liner into a large garbage can. “Hey, Ralph. What’s King Leo reviving again?”

  “The Funka-Lovely-Creative-Spirit-Being, I believe, Gerry.”

  “Yeah, the Funka-Lovely-Creative-Spirit-Being,” Gerry repeated to Turnbow.

  “Yeah, I got that. What is it, this Funka-Lovely-Creative-Spirit-Being anyway, buddy?”

  “Well, it’s got something to do with the rat. You know about the rat?”

  “Yeah, yeah. The rat. Read the book, sporto. Know all about the rat. But is the rat the Funka-Lovely-Creative-Spirit-Being?”

  “I’m not sure. I always thought it was just a rat. Big rat, though. Seen the skin?”

  “Skin?”

  “The ratskin . . . pelt, hide—whatever they call it when it comes off a giant rat. The town gave it to King Leo in a big ceremony just the other day.”

  “Hey, move it along there, will ya? The revival’s about to start,” said a voice from behind Turnbow.

  “Oh, yeah. I got customers stacking up. Can I get you something?”

  “No, no. Perhaps I can interview you later, mi amigo?”

  “Once I close the booth, sure.”

  “Super.” Turnbow spun around and flashed a look at the impatient man behind him, a shorter, older fellow with a mustache. The man’s head was bandaged substantially in the rear, and the dressing was held in place by one loop of gauze tape encircling his head like a sweatband. “It’s all yours, there, Bobby Riggs,” Turnbow said, and he took a step before stopping himself to give the man another look. “Have we met?”

  Ponty started upon recognizing the man as Daniel Turnbow, who, if he was any kind of newsman at all, would know Ponty either from their brief encounter at Fetters’s office or from his mug shot. Ponty half turned his face away as he answered, “Hm. No.”

  “Did I meet you at the Western Cable Show in Anaheim?”

  “No. But I get that a lot,” said Ponty, pretending to wave at someone in the distance.

  “I don’t know . . . ?” Turnbow said doubtfully, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Not me,” said Ponty with an apologetic shrug.

  “Hm, have it your way,” Turnbow said, and left with some irritation, seemingly over the fact that Ponty refused to be a person he’d met at the Western Cable Show in Anaheim.

  Ponty stepped up to Gerry’s concession. “Gerry, can I have a water?”

  “Whoa. What happened, Ponty?” Gerry asked, grimacing at Ponty’s bandages.

  “Hey, careful. I’m Earl today.”

  “Oh, right. The mustache is the key, isn’t it? Well, what happened, Earl?”

  “I slipped in the tub.”

  “Man! What were you doing in there?”

  “I was—”

  “Hey! No. Never mind. None of my business.”

  “No, look—”

  “Stop! Not another word. Don’t want to know. That’s three-fifty for the water.”

  “What?”

  “I just put in a new drive point.”

  “But I just gave you all that money for the— And what the heck is a drive point? Oh, fine. Here.” He thrust a five at Gerry.

  “I don’t have change yet.”

  “Well, neither do I.”

  “I’ll catch you next time, Earl,” he said. “Okay, who’s next!?”

  Ponty hurried to get a spot near the stage (on the way dumping his water into a trash can, unable to get used to the strong notes of sulfur and a flavor suggesting several parts per million of dissolved fish). On the instruction of King Leo, the stage itself was situated in a semicircle around the boarded-up opening of the mine, in the event that if the Funka-Lovely-Creative-Spirit-Being made another appearance, he’d be in a position to “meld with it, in a cosmic embrace.” Unfortunately, had it been constructed in such a manner as to accommodate this cosmic embrace, the stage would have violated the building code. A railing with a latched gate was built, so that King Leo could be safe but still have access to the Spirit-Being.

  After a series of mike checks, in which Billy Moonbeam nearly drove Ponty mad with the odd and incessant rhythm of it (“Check TEST, check, check, check, HEY, hey, HEY, hey, HEY, CHECK! SIBILANCE! SIBILANCE! Sibilance, CHECK!” over and over and over), King Leo’s band came rushing out and laid down a thick bed of funk. A PA announcer then introduced King Leo, in what turned out t
o be a six-minute introduction that unfortunately led listeners to believe that it was over some fifteen times before it actually was. This was particularly hard on Ponty, what with his fresh head injury and a low threshold of tolerance for King Leo in the first place. Finally the Sovereign Ruler of Groove himself bounded onto the stage with a high-pitched scream.

  Pontius Feeb did not often have flashbacks, and his ordered mind rarely indulged in free association, but now, as King Leo appeared before him wearing rainbow-colored silk pants that flared outward at the ankle a ridiculous amount—fringed with a great deal of frilly lace—a yellow peasant top, and a shockingly red kerchief tied around his head Aunt Jemima style, Ponty found himself remembering an incident that had occurred in 1978, at a small county fair in St. Charles, Illinois. Ponty, who was going to fetch his wallet from the car, was mooned by two clowns in a station wagon filled with clowns. He desperately hoped that the memory of seeing King Leo dressed as a kind of Mardi Gras hooker would not end up to be as indelible as the clown mooning.

  “Yooooooouuuuuuu look like candy, baby/Ooooooooh, I want to unwrap you, baby,” King Leo sang, then grabbed a guitar off its stand and began a long, savage solo that made Ponty’s head wound throb. When it was finished, he shucked off the guitar and threw it across the stage, and most of the frugal people of Holey were distracted by the action, wondering how much an item like that costs and what the repair bills might be.

  It came as a surprise to Ponty that King Leo would lie down and begin grinding his pelvis into the stage so soon into his revival. Ponty had never been to a revival, but he believed unquestionably that the presider did not normally do this to any portion of the stage or equipment at any time during the event. In that respect King Leo was certainly a maverick in the area of revivals. His theatrical grindings continued until they were just beginning to tax the patience of the crowd. Then they ended, the band kicked it down, and King Leo wailed out the rest of the highly suggestive lyrics of his opening song, comparing a woman to a wrapped confection.

  As unusual an opening as it was, it seemed to please the crowd. They cheered him on for some time, and he acknowledged the applause gratefully, while simultaneously toweling off.