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…
dark openings, more scratching.
an abyss, the abyss will
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
I come equipped with fists and feet. Between us, we settle an uneasy
*****
know what Stockholm
flickers over her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from
condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an
saying you're getting
attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called Lima syndrome, where
“So?”
your
cracks off the small round cake, dropping back into the napkin
why do you
her chewing, mouth hanging a little open.
If all you wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera
to feed you. I assume you do want me to feed you? We
the only reason, you could leave me a 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
speaking, simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that
head, giggling. “So, you're my friend
kid? That middle-aged hooker? You've not changed, Larry. I can see right through you. The same heartless bastard that shipped me out to dig up potatoes for the rest of my life. Along
crosses her arms, sits back in her seat, arches her brows. “I am
claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again, look into her
“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 heel,
premonition to know what's coming. Launching myself at the fallen food, ignoring the jab of pain in my ankle as the chain snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded
blind, my eyes adjust to the green blink of the camera. It
only a single bite taken from the corner. And I have half of a
anything like
For how long?
My sense of time is out
had a
empanada, then another, I ram the food
way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but coughing
I barf it up, where it plops in a saliva-coated
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