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…
down
It’s just a rat…
scratching. And a nose pokes
long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
come equipped with fists and feet. Between us,
*****
do you know
Interest flickers over her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from a napkin. “What
a kidnap or hostage
saying you're getting
head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called Lima syndrome, where the captor comes
“So?”
your only
You think you’re my friend?” The napkin produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the small round cake, dropping back into the
do you keep coming
chewing, mouth hanging a little open.
to watch me rot, you have your camera
you do want me to feed you? We can always change that
could leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so far as I can reckon, you're here every
speaking, simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered everyone else
“So, you're my friend
middle-aged hooker? You've not changed, Larry. I can see right through you. The same heartless bastard that shipped me out to dig up potatoes for the rest of
her seat, arches her brows. “I
claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my
“Solana…” she hisses.
mouth working, she 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
her heel, she stalks
the chain snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded meal from
of the camera. It hardly
almost untouched, only a single bite taken from the corner. And I have half of
not eaten anything like this
For how long?
Months? My sense of time is
I had
a mouthful of empanada, then another, I ram the
down the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but coughing and choking and
I barf it
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