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
It’s just a rat…
scratching.
enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back at
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between us, we
*****
know what Stockholm syndrome
takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping
in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an attachment to
you're getting
no. Don't misread me...” Her head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse
“So?”
I your only
of chocolate cracks off the small round cake, dropping back
why do you keep coming
her chewing, mouth hanging a little open.
to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my chin up
you. I assume you do want me to feed you? We can always change that you
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, you're
simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered everyone
giggling. “So,
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
in her seat, arches
claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again, look into her
“Solana…” she hisses.
Instead, 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
on her heel,
snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded meal from the
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.
eaten anything like this for…
For how long?
Weeks? Months? My sense of
I had a
empanada, then another,
and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but coughing and choking
swallow, gagging on my scavenged meal, I barf it
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