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…
more scratching. And
enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between us, we settle an
*****
you know what Stockholm
lunchbox, unwrapping one of
the label for a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an attachment to
sniggers. “You saying you're getting
me...” Her head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called Lima syndrome, where the captor comes
“So?”
your
think you’re my friend?” The napkin produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off
you keep
her chewing, mouth hanging a
you keep coming? If all you wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my chin up to
do want me
potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so
and swallows, not speaking, simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it?
her head, giggling. “So, you're my
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 that shipped me out to dig up potatoes for the rest of my life. Along with all the others
her seat, arches her
I keep 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
“Solana…” she hisses.
over the rancid concrete, some of it dropping just this side of that painted line, now less
heel, she stalks
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
the green blink of the camera. It
delicacy is almost untouched, only a single bite taken from the corner. And I
anything like this
For how long?
Weeks? Months? My sense of
had
then another, I ram the food into
pulp goes down the wrong way and suddenly
gagging on my scavenged meal, I barf it up,
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