Mike Nelson's Death Rat! by Nelson Michael J

Author:Nelson, Michael J. [Nelson, Michael J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Humour
ISBN: 9780060934729
Amazon: 0060934727
Goodreads: 41784
Publisher: Harper Entertainment
Published: 2003-04-01T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

I’ll tell you what. I don’t see that Danish ham is anything to write home about,” Bromstad said, baiting his three traveling companions. “Watery. No flavor. Not a spice to be seen anywhere in it, or on it, even near it.” No one responded, so Bromstad was encouraged. “And those open-faced sandwiches you Danish like—what are they called, sauerbraten or or s’mores, or what is it?”

Vagns caved in. “Smørrebrød,” he said thickly.

“Smørrebrød. That’s it. It seems to me the need for an open-faced sandwich was obviated by the development of the second slice of bread placed on top in the traditional sandwich, holding everything together, and—let’s face it—preventing you from having to stick your hand into all that ham and dill sauce and what-have-you. Have regular sandwiches made it to Denmark yet?” There was no response. “Well, doesn’t matter. And those Danish pastries: sure they’re good, but I don’t know that we have to keep referring to them as ‘Danish.’ Unless I’m wrong, it’s just a buttery dough with some sort of wet filling, right? There’s no reason a person of any nationality—say, a Lithuanian or . . . or a Pole—couldn’t make it. I don’t know, you guys are Danish—you tell me if I’m wrong.” There was silence, so Bromstad looked out the window. The Volvo was following the Funkabus expertly, a discreet twenty car lengths behind. Bromstad sighed. “I’m particularly mystified by herring. Raw fish soaked in sugary vinegar? Tiny balls of . . . what, exactly? Floating in that cloudy brine. Is it bits of fish dust making it cloudy? Or is there—”

“Stop it!” screamed Jørgen. “Shut your mouth right now! I will not have herring maligned! You may taunt us all you want, and your prattling does not bother me. But you leave the herring out of it.” The overtones of his vociferous rant bounced around the interior of the Volvo for a second, and then all was silent. Bromstad, who, probably because of his staggering narcissism, was not easily cowable, was now nearly completely cowed.

“Herring is good,” said Ülo, coming out in strong support of Jørgen.

“Ja,” said Vagns, backing them up.

“Whatever you say,” said Bromstad quietly.

“Ridiculous,” averred Jørgen. “We shouldn’t even be helping this . . . American.”

“Ja,” said Vagns.

“It is part of my job that now and again I am forced to suffer fools, but I don’t have to do it gladly,” said Jørgen. “I don’t have to tolerate such personal attacks.”

“And not from an author,” said Ülo with disgust.

Bromstad had not had anyone refer to him as a fool—and one who needed to be suffered, at that—for some thirteen years. At least within earshot. With some effort, he forced his dander up.

“Now, hold on,” he said, but couldn’t for the life of him think of how to follow it up. “You . . .” he ended weakly.

How had he fallen so precipitously in such a short time? he wondered. Not long ago, on even his least energetic days, he could make ten people cry, not even counting those in the service industry.

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