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 a nose pokes
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
*****
do you know what Stockholm syndrome
flickers over her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties
condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an
sniggers. “You saying you're getting
Don't misread me...” Her head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called Lima syndrome, where
“So?”
I your
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 back into the napkin and she dabs it up
do you keep coming
mouth
wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera
I assume you do want me to feed you? We can
only reason, you could leave 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
“Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that
her head, giggling. “So, you're my friend
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.
her seat, arches
have changed. Who ever really changes?”
“Solana…” she hisses.
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.
her heel, she
of pain in my ankle as the chain snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded meal from the filthy concrete, scrabbling to
to the green blink of 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 a fruit
anything like
For how long?
I’ve no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time
I had a
mouthful of empanada, then another,
Half-chewed pulp goes down the wrong way and suddenly I’m
scavenged meal, I barf it up, where it plops in a saliva-coated
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