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 gunmen,
It’s just a rat…
openings, more scratching. And a nose
gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
come
*****
you know what Stockholm syndrome
lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from
for a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner
you're getting attached to
have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called Lima syndrome,
“So?”
your only
flake of chocolate cracks off the small round cake, dropping back into the napkin and she dabs it up with a fingertip
do you keep
her chewing, mouth
was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my
you do want me
bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so far as I can reckon, you're here every day
chews and swallows, not speaking, simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend,
swings her head, giggling. “So, you're my friend are
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 can see right through you. The same heartless bastard that shipped
arms, sits back in her seat, arches her brows. “I am making you
“Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise
“Solana…” she hisses.
from her lap. The contents spill and scatter over the rancid concrete, some of it dropping just this side of that
heel, she stalks
at the fallen food, ignoring the jab of pain in my ankle as the chain snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded
the green blink of the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on
only a single bite taken from the corner.
anything
For how long?
I’ve no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of
I had
mouthful of empanada, then another, I ram the food into
the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer
swallow, gagging on my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where it plops in a saliva-coated mess onto the
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