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, soldiers,
It’s just a rat…
scratching. And a nose
long enough into an abyss, the abyss
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between us, we settle
*****
you know what Stockholm syndrome
her lunchbox, unwrapping one
a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an attachment
you're getting attached to
have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called Lima syndrome, where the captor comes to empathise with the
“So?”
your only
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
why do you
mouth hanging a little
If all you wanted was to watch me rot, you
I assume you do want me to feed you? We can
leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so far
continue. “Am I your only friend,
“So, you're my friend
sex-slave when she was a kid? That middle-aged hooker? You've not changed, Larry.
crosses her arms, sits back in her seat, arches her
my voice mild. “Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again, look into her face. “Have you
“Solana…” she hisses.
the rancid concrete, some of it
on her heel,
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 meal from the filthy concrete, scrabbling to grab broken fragments of meat in one hand, a cake with the other
to the green blink of the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on
from the corner. And I have half of
eaten anything
For how long?
idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time is out
I had a
a mouthful of empanada, then another,
down the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer eating,
I barf it up, where it plops in a
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