Mike Nelson's Death Rat! by Michael J. Nelson Page B

late and didn’t do much. This is going off the rail into the side, Ponty.”
    â€œJack. You said ‘nonfiction.’ What book were you talking about when you said nonfiction?”
    â€œPonty, are you getting a little too into the Earl thing? I’m talking about Death Rat . Our book—your book.” He took his shot, finally missing. Ponty blacked out again. He awoke to see the rubber end of a cue stick several inches from his face. “Your shot there, Earl,” Jack said.
    â€œJack. I need to ask you a very important question now: You didn’t read the book, did you?” Ponty said quietly.
    Jack removed the stick from in front of Ponty’s face. “What? Ponty, I read it. It was really, really good.” Ponty stared at him. “I leafed here and there, might have missed some of the subtler character shading. Perhaps the smaller subplots escaped me. Why?”
    â€œGive me a rough outline of Death Rat , Jack.”
    â€œTrue-life adventure of . . . oh, what’s his name . . . falls into a mine. A gold mine. Minnesota had a gold rush—1865. That’s the gist of it anyway. I’m sure I missed something.” Ponty stared at him. He was trembling. Jack set down his cue. “Look, Ponty,” he said, “don’t be hurt—I’m not much of a reader. When I’m in a play, it’s everything I can do to read the thing.”
    â€œWhat happens when he falls into the mine, Jack?” Ponty asked, his voice quiet and scratchy.
    Jack made vague gestures with his left hand. “He battles the odds. He fights a cruel, indifferent nature and eventually triumphs.”
    â€œYeah, yeah, Jack. It’s something like that. Actually, he’s attacked by a giant, intelligent rat.”
    â€œReally? How big?”
    â€œSix feet.” Ponty now had his head in his hands and was pressing on his skull.
    â€œRats can’t get that big, can they?” Jack asked himself, leaningon his cue stick. “Well, now, capybaras can get to be pretty good-sized, can’t they? But in Minnesota, with its short growing seasons, I wouldn’t think—”
    â€œNo, they can’t get that big, you idiot!” he shrieked. His mustache rustled in rhythm with his labored breathing. The man playing at a table by himself stopped and looked over at them.
    â€œYou all right?” he asked.
    â€œYes, thank you,” said Jack, giving him a friendly wave. “Just practicing for a play, thanks.”
    Ponty charged on. “They can’t get to be giant and intelligent and malevolent like my rat either.”
    â€œYeah, I know. So how do you explain how one got up there in Holey anyway?”
    â€œIt didn’t! It didn’t happen, okay? I made it up.”
    Jack put his hands on his hips. His face blanched.
    â€œ Death Rat is a novel, Jack,” Ponty said quietly. “A silly novel about a giant rat.”
    Jack paced back and forth for a second as Ponty buried his head in his hands and shifted around to relieve the itchiness of his new jeans.
    â€œWe’re ruined,” Ponty said.
    Jack stopped pacing. “You’re sure it’s not true?” he asked.
    â€œYes I’m sure it’s not true, you moron! I wrote it.”
    â€œPlease, I get very uncomfortable when I’m called a moron. I don’t know what it is. You notice the idiot thing didn’t bother me? There’s something about ‘moron.’”
    â€œWhy didn’t you read the book? You told me you read it, you, you . . .” He trailed off.
    Jack pointed at him accusingly. “You know, if anyone herehas cause to blame, it’s me. You don’t write novels, Ponty. You should have told me this was a novel. I should be yelling at you. ”
    â€œOh, oh, oh! We’re ruined,” Ponty said again, softly.
    Jack lowered his pointed finger and relaxed his stance.
    â€œWell, we can’t really be ruined, ’cause