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…
scratching.
an abyss, the abyss will
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
the abyss comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between
*****
you know what Stockholm syndrome
lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual
in a kidnap or
you're getting attached
pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's a
“So?”
I your only friend,
brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the small round cake, dropping back
do you
chewing, mouth hanging a
all you wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk
to feed you. I assume you do want me to feed you? We can always
could leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so far as I can
speaking, simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it?
her head, giggling. “So, you're my friend are
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.
seat, arches her brows. “I am making you
I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again,
“Solana…” she hisses.
working, she says no more. Instead, she stands, the lunchbox tumbling from her lap. 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 has changed. White-faced, white-lipped, scarlet spots
on her heel,
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
blind, my eyes adjust to the green blink of the camera.
delicacy is almost untouched, only a single bite taken from the corner. And I have half of
eaten anything like this for…
For how long?
My sense of time is out of
had
mouthful of empanada, then another, I ram the food
pulp goes down the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer
on my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where it
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