Hot Revenge Box Set 4
Chapter 52
Klempner
What's the obsession with potatoes?
I called her Potato Face when she was a kid.
What does she look like now?
Jenny was no looker at that age…
… But she matured. Bloomed.
Juliana... Never the same twice.
I scratch at my beard. I’ve never liked facial hair in hot climates, but I don’t have a choice right now. Even so, the flourishing colony of lice that has stowed aboard adds an extra edge of irritation.
Lice…
Where the fuck did they come from?
Can rat lice live on humans?
Having a fucking good go at it…
I catch one, squeezing the revolting thing between my fingernails. It bursts with a Pop!
Only another 999 to go…
*****
The boredom’s the worst. Endless hours. Endless days and nights. I’ve no idea how long.
The only breaks in the monotony are Juliana’s visits: just long enough to sit, eat something at me, toss a potato at me.
No, not Juliana: Solana.
Why's she so obsessed with the name?
How many names have I used over the years? Worn like a suit of clothes to be discarded when the weather changes and something different is needed.
I’ve never been defined by my name.
But she sees it differently…
Something skritches and I jerk a look sidelong
It’s a rat…
Just a rat…
faced down gunmen, soldiers,
It’s just a rat…
more scratching. And a nose pokes
say if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between us, we
*****
know what
from her lunchbox,
where, in a kidnap or hostage situation,
you're getting attached
attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called
“So?”
your
The napkin produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the small round cake, dropping back into the napkin and
do you
in her chewing, mouth hanging a
do you keep coming? If all you wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my chin up to
feed you. I assume you do want me to feed you? We can always change
you could leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so far as
“Am I your only friend, Sola?
swings her head, giggling. “So, you're my
daughter you had slated as a sex-slave when she was a kid? That middle-aged hooker? You've not changed, Larry. I can see right through you.
back in her seat, arches her brows. “I
mild. “Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again, look into her face. “Have
“Solana…” she hisses.
says no more. Instead, she stands, the lunchbox tumbling from her lap. The contents spill and scatter over the rancid concrete, some of it dropping just this side of
on her heel, she
supernatural premonition to know what's coming. Launching myself at the fallen food, ignoring the jab of pain in my ankle as the chain snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded meal from the filthy concrete, scrabbling to grab broken fragments of meat in one hand, a cake with the
of the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on the wealth in my
from the corner.
not eaten anything like this
For how long?
My sense of time is out of the
had
a mouthful of empanada, then another, I ram
Too soon. Half-chewed pulp goes down the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but coughing and
my scavenged meal, I barf it
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