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…

down gunmen,

It’s just a rat…

dark openings, more scratching. And a

enough into an

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with

*****

you know what Stockholm syndrome

lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from a napkin. “What

a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage

saying you're getting attached to

pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called

“So?”

your

you’re my friend?” The napkin produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the small round cake, dropping back into the napkin and she dabs it

do you

mouth

If all you wanted was to watch me rot, you

you do want me to

if that were the only reason, you could leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a

simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've

“So, you're my

kid? That middle-aged hooker? You've not changed, Larry. I

arms, sits back in her seat, arches her brows.

I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again, look

“Solana…” she hisses.

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

heel,

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

green blink of the camera. It

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

anything like

For how long?

Weeks? Months? My sense of time

had a

of empanada, then another, I ram the food

pulp goes down the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but coughing and

to swallow, gagging on my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where it plops in a

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