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…

dark openings, more scratching. And a

an abyss, the abyss will gaze back

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between us,

*****

you know what Stockholm syndrome

Interest flickers over her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox,

label for a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation,

saying you're getting

her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called Lima syndrome, where the captor comes

“So?”

I your only friend,

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

do you keep coming

pauses in her chewing, mouth hanging a

me rot, you have your camera there.” I

assume you do want me to feed you? We can always

leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so

and swallows, not 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

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

in her seat, arches her brows.

keep my voice mild. “Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again, look into

“Solana…” she hisses.

of it dropping just this side of that painted line, now less than white. Even under

on her heel,

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

my eyes adjust to the green blink of the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is

only a single bite taken from the corner. And I have half

not eaten anything

For how long?

no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of

had a

another, I ram

pulp goes down the wrong way and

gagging on my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where it plops in a saliva-coated mess onto

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