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…

scratching. And a

if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

abyss comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet.

*****

know what Stockholm syndrome

her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from a

psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the

you're getting attached

I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's

“So?”

I your only

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 up with a fingertip then into

do you

in her chewing, mouth

wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my chin up to

do want me to feed you? We can always change that

do. But if that were the only reason, you could leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once

continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered everyone

“So, you're my

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

crosses her arms, sits back in her seat, arches her brows. “I am

have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze

“Solana…” she hisses.

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

on her heel, she stalks

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

blind, my eyes adjust to the green blink of the camera. It hardly

meat-and-veg-stuffed delicacy is almost untouched, only a single bite taken from the corner. And I have half of a fruit

not eaten anything like this

For how long?

idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time is out of the

had

in a mouthful of empanada, then another,

way and suddenly I’m no longer eating,

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

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