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…
more scratching. And a
if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
whiskers. I come equipped with
*****
do you know what Stockholm
over her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping
a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner
saying you're getting attached
head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called
“So?”
your
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
do you keep
chewing, mouth hanging a little open.
keep coming? If all you wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my chin up to the blinking
do want me to feed you? We can always
and come once a week.
chews and swallows, not speaking, simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend,
giggling. “So, you're my friend
she was a kid? That middle-aged hooker? You've not changed, Larry. I
crosses her arms, sits back in her seat, arches
“Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my
“Solana…” she hisses.
contents spill and scatter over the rancid concrete, some of it dropping just this side
on her heel, she
at 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 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
blind, my eyes adjust to the green blink of the camera. It hardly
only a single bite taken from the corner. And I have
not eaten anything like this for…
For how long?
no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time
had
of empanada, then another, I ram the
way and
I barf it up, where it plops in a saliva-coated mess onto
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