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…
faced down
It’s just a rat…
the dark openings, more scratching. And a nose
you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
case, the abyss comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped
*****
know what Stockholm
Interest flickers over her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox,
psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an
saying you're getting attached
her attention. “… But there's a reverse
“So?”
I your only friend,
napkin produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the small round cake, dropping back into the napkin
do you keep
her chewing, mouth hanging a
all you wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I
feed you. I assume you do want me to feed you? We can always change that
do. But if that were the only reason, you could leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month.
your only friend, Sola? Is that it?
head, giggling. “So, you're my
Larry? You believe you're worth saving? That there's anyone 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
her seat, arches her brows. “I am making
eyes, I keep my voice mild. “Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever
“Solana…” she hisses.
contents spill and scatter over the rancid concrete, some of it dropping just this side of
her heel, she
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 other before, with a click, the light winks out and I'm left in
the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on the wealth in
delicacy is almost untouched, only a single bite taken from the corner. And I have
not eaten anything like this
For how long?
idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time
had a
a mouthful of empanada, then another, I
wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but coughing and choking and
my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where it plops in a saliva-coated
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