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, soldiers,
It’s just a rat…
more scratching. And a nose pokes
long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between us,
*****
know what Stockholm syndrome
over her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her
psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms
sniggers. “You saying you're getting
pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But
“So?”
your only friend,
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
do you
chewing, mouth
me rot, you
you do want me to feed you? We can always change that
reason, 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
swallows, not speaking, simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it?
giggling. “So, you're my friend are
out there who thinks you're worth it? The 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. The same heartless bastard that shipped me out to dig up potatoes for the rest of my life. Along
back in her seat, arches her
changed.
“Solana…” she hisses.
The contents 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 heavy make-up, her colour
her heel,
chain snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded meal from the filthy concrete, scrabbling to
the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on the wealth
from the corner. And I have half of a
anything like this
For how long?
sense of time is
had a
empanada, then another, I ram the food into
much. Too soon. Half-chewed pulp goes down the wrong way and
it up, where it
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