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,
It’s just a rat…
openings, more scratching. And a nose
you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
the abyss comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between us,
*****
know what Stockholm syndrome
from her lunchbox, unwrapping
a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the
you're getting attached
no. 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 the captor comes
“So?”
your only
napkin produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the small round cake, dropping back
why do you keep
mouth hanging a
watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my
you. I assume you do want me to
But if that were the 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,
only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've
swings her head, giggling. “So, you're my friend are
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 you did the same to. You’ve not changed. And I’m going to make
her seat, arches
“Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?”
“Solana…” she hisses.
rancid concrete, some of it dropping just this side of that painted line, now less than white. Even
her heel, she stalks
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 before, with a click, the light winks
to the green blink of the camera. It hardly matters.
from
eaten anything like
For how long?
Months? My sense of
I had
in a mouthful of empanada, then another, I ram
soon. Half-chewed pulp goes down the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but coughing and choking and
my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where it plops
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