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 pokes
an abyss, the
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
abyss comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between us, we settle an uneasy
*****
you know what
her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from a napkin. “What is
a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms
saying you're getting
no. Don't misread me...” Her head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse
“So?”
your only
skirts her lips. “Friend? 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 napkin and she dabs it up with a fingertip then into her
do you keep
her chewing, mouth hanging a little
me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk
you do want me to feed you?
potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once
your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've
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.
her seat, arches her brows.
my eyes, I keep my voice 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 you
“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 that painted line,
her heel, she
as the chain snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded meal from the filthy concrete, scrabbling
to the green blink of the camera. It
taken from the corner. And I have half of a
eaten anything like this
For how long?
Weeks? Months? My sense
had a
empanada, then another, I ram the food into
the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but coughing and
gagging on my scavenged meal, I barf it up,
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