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

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, we settle an

*****

you know what Stockholm

lunchbox, unwrapping one of

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

sniggers. “You saying you're getting

me...” Her 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

think you’re my friend?” The napkin produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off

you keep

her chewing, mouth hanging a

you keep coming? If all you wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my chin up to

do want me

potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so

and swallows, not speaking, simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it?

her head, giggling. “So, you're my

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 with all the others

her seat, arches her

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

“Solana…” she hisses.

over the rancid concrete, some of it dropping just this side of that painted line, now less

heel, she stalks

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

the green blink of the camera. It

delicacy is almost untouched, only a single bite taken from the corner. And I

anything like this

For how long?

Weeks? Months? My sense of

had

then another, I ram the food into

pulp goes down the wrong way and suddenly

gagging on my scavenged meal, I barf it up,

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