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, soldiers,
It’s just a rat…
the dark openings, more scratching. And
enough into an
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between
*****
do you know
She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from a
condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an attachment
“You saying you're getting attached
But there's a reverse
“So?”
your only
you’re my friend?” The napkin produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off
why do you keep
pauses in her chewing, mouth
was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my chin up to the
you. I assume you do want me to feed
bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so
“Am I your only friend,
giggling. “So, you're my friend are
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 me out to dig up potatoes for the rest of my life. Along with all the others
in her seat, arches her brows.
not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again, look into her face. “Have you changed
“Solana…” she hisses.
mouth 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
her heel, she
chain snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded meal
eyes adjust to the green blink of the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on the
almost untouched, only a single bite taken from the corner. And I have half of
not eaten anything like this
For how long?
Months? My sense of time is
had a
in a mouthful of empanada, then another, I ram the
Too soon. Half-chewed pulp goes down the wrong way and suddenly I’m
barf it up, where it plops
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