“I love you, Holey!” he bellowed out, as though he were playing a show at Budokan Arena. The crowd of fifty or so let him know in return that they were, all things considered, somewhat fond of him as well. Ponty could manage only a lackluster “Yay.”
“Before we continue with our revival, my friends, I’ve asked my guide, my guru, my leader in the ways of this mystic mine of yours, my friend Jack Ryback, to read an invocation. Jack!” he yelled and gestured offstage. Jack tramped up looking sheepish and stood in front of King Leo’s microphone.
“Thank you, King Leo,” he began tremulously, then pulled a folded sheet of paper from the back pocket of his jeans. He unfolded it and read slowly and somewhat flatly. “‘We gather together as one before the thunderbolt path of pulsating rightness, in the divine hope that—’” He was interrupted by King Leo, whose whispers could be heard over the microphone.
“‘Dee-vine.’”
“What’s that?” Jack stage-whispered back.
“‘Dee-vine,’ not ‘divine.’ It’s a different energy.”
“Is it?”
“Oh, yes, Jack.”
“All right, then.”
“Gotta get the right energy.”
“Understood.” Jack got back to his paper: “‘. . . in the deevine hope that forces, space, time, and matter align in a manner that allows for the transmutation of our beings to a level concomitant to the Funka-Lovely-Creative-Spirit-Being. That the Rodent of Divine’—dee-vine, sorry—‘Power, um . . .” He stopped, seeming even more uncomfortable. “‘. . . the Rodent of Dee-vine Power, um, suckles our beings with—’”
There was an involuntary moan of disgust from the crowd. Ponty let out a fairly loud “What the . . . ?” and even Wigs Jackson said quietly into his headset mike, “Oh, man.”
Jack shrugged almost imperceptibly at the crowd then turned to King Leo with a questioning look, but King Leo was wearing an expression of bliss and didn’t seem to notice that anything was wrong.
“That’s right, Jack. You’re doing a great job.”
Jack coughed softly and looked back down at his paper. “‘. . . the Rodent of Dee-vine Power suckles our beings with—’”
A nearly identical moan of disgust was heard, with Wigs again voicing disapproval, this time by saying, “Ohhhhh, come oooonnnn.”
Jack kept going this time. “‘ . . . with,’” he repeated, “‘the alchemical miracle of body energy.’” When he had finished, he continued to look at the paper for a moment before turning it over in his hands to check the other side. Satisfied that he’d read everything that was required of him, he waved, said, “Okay then,” and left the stage.
“Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack! Jack Ryback. His book, Death Rat, changed my life. And now we’re going to change your life by funking it up, down, over the other side, and backward.”
As clumsy as King Leo’s transition was, the funk that followed was undeniable. Ponty guessed that it would last a while, so he strolled around, looking for a friendly face. After a moment of wandering, he came upon Ralph, who was eating an unidentifiable, but large item from Gerry’s concession.
Ponty inclined himself toward Ralph’s ear. “Hey, Ralph.”
“Hey,” said Ralph, red lentils falling haphazardly out of his snack. There was a pause as Ralph chewed and looked up at the stage. “I’ve never been to one of these. What happens now?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s loud.”
“Yeah.”
Another pause as Ralph chewed and watched King Leo gyrate suggestively.
“I’m not a huge fan of funk,” Ralph averred.
“No?”
“Not a fan at all, in fact.”
“I guess I’m not either,” agreed Ponty.
King Leo was now mock-spanking Tarzan Moe with the headstock of his guitar.
“Do I have to stay for the whole thing?” Ralph asked a bit pathetically.
“I think we’d better stay. Got to mollify King Leo, you know.”
Jack appeared next to them. “Wow, huh?” he said. “You don’t hear something like that every day.”
“You did a nice job,” Ralph offered.
“I was little nervous. I’m not used to reading psychotic ramblings in front of a crowd.” He noticed the amorphous red lump of food in Ralph’s hand. “Ralph, are you eating your own hand? What is that?”
“Um, it’s a red lentil, Swiss chard, and . . . um, fermented soybean wrap. It’s good.”
“I don’t believe you,” Jack said.
The music kept coming, and, aside from an occasional lightly obscene gesture or word, King Leo did nothing further to horrify the crowd. Just as Ralph was getting especially fidgety, the mood on the stage changed. The music shifted, becoming slower, meditative, more mystical. Kaptain Kinetik even used his tinkling, feathery bar chimes, which to that point had been silent.
“I’m scared,” Ponty said.
King Leo was collapsed forward, his head on his knees. Two stagehands appeared carrying the bearskin and draped it over his back as he straightened slowly up. The skin had been smartly modified since its presentation to include straps that allowed it to be attached around King Leo’s arms, and the stagehands now strapped it on and left. One of them returned immediately with a large, excellently crafted rodent head. (It was the head of The Nutcracker’s Mouse King that had been purchased at frightening expense from the Guthrie Theater’s costume shop and delivered, also at tremendous expense, by courier just that day.)
“This is kind of weird,” Ralph said.
Sir Shock-a-Lot appeared dressed in a tattered brown jacket and cowboy hat and carrying a rifle.
“Who’s that supposed to be?” asked Ralph.
“Edward Lynch, I suppose,” said Ponty.
“The guy that supposedly hunted down the rat?”
“Right.”
“Looks like Jed Clampett.”
The pair began an obscenely comic pantomime as Sir Shocka-Lot’s Lynch character stalked King Leo’s Death Rat character around the apron of the stage for a minute or so. Sir Shock-a-Lot finally took aim at King Leo, and at that moment they both pantomimed falling, Sir Shock-a-Lot dropping his gun. King Leo leaped at Sir Shock-a-Lot, and they struggled in a highly stylized and not altogether dignified manner for a minute or two before they both sprang up. Sir Shock-a-Lot then spun off the stage as the music reached a crescendo and King Leo approached his microphone.
“It’s time!” he shouted, and it was a good deal muffled by the heavy foam mouse head. The band struck a chord.
“It’s tiiiime,” he sang with effort, causing the head to jiggle.
“Time for what?” asked Ralph.
“Got to come to us now!” shouted King Leo, and then he began leaping up and down. He continued to leap up and down in the same manner for some time, all the while shouting encouraging phrases to the Spirit-Being, the band making frenzied music as he did.
At reputable theme parks throughout the world, there is a fairly standardized safety procedure in place for those employed as mascots. Because of the tremendous heat buildup in the heavily insulated suits, there are always two people portraying the same character. One will work the park for but a brief ten to fifteen minutes before withdrawing into an air-conditioned environment, and the other will appear and work his ten-to-fifteen-minute shift, and so on. Some mascot suits even employ small, sophisticated cooling fans in an attempt to deal with the overheating problem, but they tend to be of limited use.
King Leo was not aware of the stringent safety practices typically employed when one is wearing a heavy latex foam head, as he’d never been required to wear one. He had just jumped in the air and was about to shout the phrase “Got to come to us now, oh, holy rat,” when, in midair, overcome by heat exhaustion brought on by the warmth of the bearskin and mouse head, he passed out and, when he returned to earth, crumpled down on the stage in a gray-brown heap. The crowd gasped. Two stagehands rushed out and yanked off King Leo’s mouse head. They
fanned him with a handkerchief and took his pulse. Sir Shock-a-Lot ran up, crouched over King Leo, and attempted to give him some water. After a minute they revived him, and the crowd cheered. The got him to his feet and were carrying him off when he stopped them and motioned for them to help him over to the microphone.
“My work is not yet done,” he said weakly to the crowd before gathering his strength to shout, “We’ll see you here tomorrow!”
CHAPTER 19
It was 11:00 P.M., and there was one light on in Den Institut Dansk. Gus Bromstad sat in a chair in front of Stig Stou-Thorup’s desk looking around expectantly at the many Danish faces in the room. About their Danish faces there was a far less imposing cast since last they’d met in Stig’s office.
“Well? What news?” said Bromstad.
“It turns out, Mr. Bromstad, that you are correct. There is something fishy about this Jack Ryback character.”
There was a pause, Bromstad still gazing at Stig expectantly.
“That’s it?” he asked, looking around the room and seeing only downcast faces.
Stig, too, glanced down at some papers in a file on his desk. “Hmm . . . let’s see . . . so far . . . yes.”
“But—if you’ll recall—I told you that.”
“And through good, solid surveillance, we were able to confirm it.”
“But that’s good, solid squat, is what that is. I need proof. I’ve got to bring something to Bart Herzog.”
“Egad! What dealings do you have with that buffoon?”
“He’s going to help me put this pinchbeck behind bars.”
“Yes, but is it worth it, do you think? Herzog is an ape in human clothes.”
“Perhaps. But I need him.”
Stig shuddered. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” He closed the file. “Well. I don’t think there’s anything else to—Oh, yes! I almost forgot to mention, there were some unforeseen problems with our operation in Holey. They were managed in a most expert fashion, but I’d be lying if I said they weren’t unfortunate.”
“Do tell,” said Bromstad.
“Well, Jørgen, you were team leader on that particular stakeout. Why don’t you fill Bromstad in on the details?”
Jørgen shifted in his seat. “Yes,” he began. “Yes. Yes. Well, at six forty-five P.M. on the third day of May, we were posted in the woods observing our target from a safe distance when one of our company was set upon by two men. We were able rescue him, but the possibility exists that we were identified. Not ideal, of course, but there you are.”
“Who did they set upon, exactly?” Bromstad asked in an agitated fashion.
“Whom,” Stig corrected.
Bromstad stared at him from under his hat.
“Not important,” said Stig.
“It was I,” Vagns admitted.
“What were you doing? How come you let that happen? I thought you were supposed to be so professional?”
“It’s no good throwing stones. These men were experts. There was nothing I could do.”
“He’s right,” said Jørgen. “These men clearly knew what they were doing.”
“Who were they?” asked Bromstad.
“One works as a bartender in the town of Holey proper. His name is Ralph Wrobleski. Stig?” Stig handed Jørgen the file from his desk, and Jørgen extracted a photograph that he in turn handed to Bromstad.
“Wow! He’s big,” Bromstad noted.
“Yes. His size is indeed formidable.”
“What’s with his head?”
“All of us noted a certain asymmetry to it. But this fact most assuredly does not detract from his cunning.”
“And who’s the other guy?”
“We do not have a positive ID on him yet. He goes by the name of Earl Topperson.”
“Topperson? What kind of name is Topperson?”
“Anglo, I suppose? Afrikaans? I don’t know,” admitted Stig. “This Topperson, too, claims to be a Holey resident, though we find no record of him at the courthouse.” He handed several pictures to Bromstad.
“Not very photogenic, is he?” said Bromstad.
Jørgen ignored him. “We are running his plates, but there’s some sort of a problem. We think his car may be stolen.”
Bromstad winced at another photo. “That hair,” he said.
“It is the unkempt hair of a criminal, yes. You will probably note that there is a certain cruelness to his eyes as well.”
“Not a flattering mustache, is it?”
“The only other solid information we have on him is that he was a wrestler, probably at the college level. Ülo, why don’t you fill him in on that?”
“Yes. While I was attempting to subdue him during our fracas in the woods, he administered several moves on me that I recognized as conventional wrestling moves. He applied some other less conventional moves as well. He’s a very dangerous man.”
“What other moves?” Bromstad asked, closing the file.
“Well, he kicked my back. And . . . it’s . . . once he had overpowered me, he . . .” Ülo was becoming emotional.
“Go ahead. You have nothing to be ashamed of,” encouraged Stig.
“He used my underpants as a weapon against me.”
“What? What does that even mean?”
Ülo was having a hard time continuing.
“Please, go on, Ülo. Tell what he did with your underpants. It is a detail that could prove to be of some import.”
“He . . . he,” Ülo began haltingly.
“What? Did he take them off and strangle you with them? How can a man hurt you with underwear? Tell me?” Bromstad demanded.
“Well, grabbing the . . . the band, he pulled them with great force upward. As you might guess, they became wedged between my . . . my buttocks. My genitalia were also injured in the attack.”
To the surprise of all the Danish men in the room, Bromstad did not laugh or mock, but rather a strange look came over his face.
“A wedgie, huh?” he said quietly, readjusting his hat thoughtfully.
“There is a name for this barbaric practice?” asked Stig.
“Yes. It’s called a wedgie or, rarely, a snuggie. Horrible thing, a wedgie.”
“Yes. Horrible,” agreed Ülo.
“Pain, yes. But it’s the shame that stays with you,” said Bromstad authoritatively.
“It has not left me,” said Ülo, shaking his head.
“There is a feeling of disbelief. And helplessness.”
“Precisely!”
“In that way it’s not unlike a double jock lock. Ever had one?”
“This is the first attack of its kind against my . . .”
“Right. Well, a double jock lock consists of bending both legs back and holding them in place by looping the straps of one’s own jock over the feet. Any struggling only results in . . . more . . . pain. . . .” Bromstad trailed off.
“I am glad I was not wearing a jock, or he most certainly would have used this lock against me.”
With shocking suddenness Bromstad dug into the file again and began frantically leafing through the photos. As he examined them, a noticeable dudgeon seemed to build within him, until he was not only handling the pictures roughly but also doing something rather unexpected. He had begun to punch the photographs rather methodically, automatically disqualifying any notions that he might be doing it by mistake.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, my friend. I’ve got”—and here he punched a photo—“you. You think you’re so”—and again he delivered a punch—“tough, huh? You are going”—and yet another punch “down! Down.”
The Danes, who until that moment had never seen another human being punch photographs, did not know what to do.
“Those—those are our only copies. Please. What are you doing? Gus?” said Stig. “We have the negatives, yes. But we’d like to keep those for our files.”
Bromstad ignored him and continued punching them. Then, apparently dissatisfied with the lack of resistance from an item with relatively l
ittle mass, he began whacking the photos with the flat of his left hand. Punching them in this manner, he was able to get a decent-sounding smack out of them. When he’d punched five or six of the photos a couple times each, he then held one of them several inches from his face and, gritting his teeth asked of the photo, “You want to play, huh? Think you can hurt Gus Bromstad? Think you can steal my fame? My people? Huh, you freak!”
“Gus? Perhaps if you explain—” Stig said gingerly.
“Oh, ho, ho, ho. You’re clever, my odd-looking little friend. You’re very smart, aren’t you? You’re just as bold as a badger, aren’t you?” The photo said nothing. Bromstad began punching it again, and, after a few of those, he ground his fist into it while emitting a kind of growling noise. After a bit of that, he began to form words again. “Got yourself a big stud to front for you, did you, you . . . troll? Climbed out from under your bridge and tried to take what’s mine, didn’t you?”
Bromstad had still not settled his score with the photo. He stood up, growled at it some more, threw it in the air, attempting to punch it on the way down, and, missing it, dove after it. He ended up on the floor near Stig’s desk, rolling around with the photo, making animal noises.
Stig decided it was time to take action.
“Vagns, get some aquavit!”
Vagns dashed out of Stig’s office and returned a moment later with a bottle and shot glass. He poured a dose of the liqueur, bent down, and tentatively held it near the growling Bromstad.
“Mr. Bromstad, please. You will hemorrhage. Please calm yourself. Take some of this.”
Bromstad made a quick, spasmodic move and knocked the aquavit from Vagns’s hand. The Danes started in shock, and Stig thrust himself out his chair.
“Bromstad, please!” he shouted.
This had the effect of causing Bromstad to stop his rolling, and Vagns was able to retrieve the shot glass and administer some liqueur. Bromstad sat back down in his chair, his face and ears red, smacking his lips and breathing heavily.
“Thank you. I . . . I . . . Lost it . . . there.”
Stig, too, sat back down, the crisis of having a hysterical, foaming author rolling on his floor abated for the time being.
Mike Nelson's Death Rat! Page 23
