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,

It’s just a rat…

scratching. And

long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between

*****

know

something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from a napkin. “What

psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an attachment

you're getting attached to

head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition.

“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

do you keep coming

chewing, mouth

you wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.”

you do want me to feed

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 it? You've murdered everyone

“So, you're my

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

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

voice mild. “Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my

“Solana…” she hisses.

over the rancid concrete, some of it dropping just this side of that painted line, now less than

her heel, she stalks

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 meal from the filthy concrete, scrabbling to grab

the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on the wealth in

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

anything

For how long?

I’ve no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time is

I had a

then another, I ram the food into my

down the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but

meal, I barf it up,

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