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
It’s just a rat…
openings, more scratching.
long enough into an abyss,
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
and whiskers. I come equipped with
*****
know what Stockholm syndrome
takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from
the label for a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage
you're getting
but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called Lima syndrome, where
“So?”
I your only
her lips. “Friend? You think you’re my friend?” The napkin produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the small round cake, dropping
you keep
mouth hanging
to watch me rot, you have
assume you do want me to feed you? We
leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once
speaking, simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered everyone else that might
giggling. “So, you're
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
in her seat, arches
changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again, look into her face. “Have
“Solana…” she hisses.
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 colour has changed. White-faced, white-lipped, scarlet
heel,
takes no supernatural premonition 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 broken
blind, my eyes adjust to the green blink of the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on the wealth in
is almost untouched, only a single bite taken from the corner. And
anything like
For how long?
I’ve no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time is out
had
in a mouthful of empanada, then another,
and suddenly
I barf it up, where
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