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 gunmen,

It’s just a rat…

the dark openings, more scratching. And a nose

say if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

case, the abyss comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and

*****

you know what Stockholm syndrome

her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox,

for a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an attachment to the

you're

tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's

“So?”

I your only

brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the small round cake, dropping back into

you keep

mouth

you wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I

you. I assume you do want me to feed you? We

you 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

“Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered everyone else that might get close to

her head, giggling. “So, you're my

a sex-slave when she was a kid? That 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

arms, sits back in her seat, arches her brows. “I

have changed. Who ever really

“Solana…” she hisses.

spill and scatter over the rancid concrete, some of it dropping just this side of that painted line, now less than white. Even under the

her heel, she

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

camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on

only a single bite taken from

anything like this

For how long?

My sense of

had a

then another,

Half-chewed pulp goes down the wrong way and suddenly

I barf it up, where it plops in

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