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

stopping occasionally to fan himself with his own prose.
    Ponty had always had confidence that he was a good, if not great, writer—even before his nomination for the Dwee Award. And as he toiled, he found himself recalling an incident that began to grow in significance: When he was a sophomore in high school, he’d penned a rather purple short story in the style of Poe for his creative-writing class, and Mr. Blanding had called him aside to offer special, pointed praise.
    â€œMarvelous, Pontius. Just marvelous,” he’d said.
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    â€œâ€˜From The Murderer’s Gibbet,’” Mr. Blanding said with admiration.
    â€œYes,” said Ponty.
    â€œâ€˜And the final desperate thrum of some distant, dying night, the weak but incessant beat of its faint, clashing overtones sounding in the hollows of my heart, signaled the end, not of the darkness, but of my hope’” he quoted in his reedy tenor. “Quite evocative.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œAnd the bit about the thrush trapped in the quadrangle, screaming—very good.”
    â€œOh, thank you, sir.”
    â€œThe narrator’s vision of fighting with his mother’s ‘ragcovered, rattling skeleton.’ Quite good.”
    â€œUh-huh. Thanks.”
    â€œEverything all right at home?”
    Mr. Blanding need not have worried. Ponty knew then how to tailor his writing to Mr. Blanding’s tastes, yet somehow, as he’d grown and found his interests in history and honed the discipline his chosen field required, he’d forgotten that he once knew very well how to give the public what they wanted. He was now rediscovering the skill.
    Spurred on by some encouraging early chapters, his dwindling supply of cash, and the life-threatening heat, Ponty began to make accelerated progress on the book. His lack of money was of special concern, for he felt certain that when fall came, his roommates would be looking for someone else who shared more of their interests. Someone nicknamed “Moose” or “Hud.” Someone who knew the rules to drinking games and had never written a book on Senator Carter Glass.
    After three weeks of labor, he took dinner with his roommates, and they grilled him on his progress.
    â€œThat book of yours?” asked Scotty. “How’s it coming?”
    â€œWell, I think it’s coming along quite well,” Ponty said mysteriously.
    â€œWhat’s it about?” asked Sags.
    â€œI’m afraid I’ll have to keep that a secret,” Ponty said, pointing at Sags with a fish stick.
    â€œIs it about hutias?” Phil asked. He had on yet another T-shirt with a puzzling slogan: AIN’T NO CRIME IN THAT , it said above a silhouette of what appeared to be a conventional Old West cowboy. He was committing no crime that Ponty could see, which in his mind made the slogan unnecessary.
    â€œNo. No, it’s a short history of . . . of the covered wagon,” he offered weakly.
    â€œWhat’s a hutia?” Beater asked.
    â€œIt’s a Cuban rat,” said Phil. “Ponty there seemed pretty engrossed by ’em one day when I saw him.”
    â€œWhy you readin’ about Cuban rats?” asked Scotty.
    â€œI wasn’t reading about Cuban rats,” Ponty said defensively. “I was reading about capybaras.”
    â€œOh, that’s right,” said Phil, through a mouthful of potatoes.
    â€œWhat’s a capybara?” asked Sags.
    â€œIt’s a . . . well, it’s a large South American rat,” Ponty conceded.
    â€œYour book’s about rats?” accused Beater.
    â€œWell, no,” said Ponty, “it’s about intolerance and man’s arrogant disbelief of . . .” Ponty was about to add “anything that intrudes on his natural reality,” but he could not. In his nervousness he had been careless with the mastication of his fish stick and had allowed an oversize bit of