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
you gaze long enough into an
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
the abyss comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and
*****
you know what Stockholm syndrome
from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from a napkin.
condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the
saying you're
no. Don't misread me...” Her head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse
“So?”
your
think you’re my friend?” The napkin produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the small round
you
chewing, mouth
keep coming? If all you wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.”
I assume you do want me to feed you? We can always
do. 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
swallows, not speaking, simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered everyone else that
“So, you're my friend
she was a kid? That middle-aged hooker? You've not changed,
her arms, sits back in her seat, arches her brows.
say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again, look into her face. “Have
“Solana…” she hisses.
more. 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 than white. Even under the heavy make-up, her colour has changed. White-faced, white-lipped,
her heel, she
snatch up the discarded meal from the filthy concrete, scrabbling to grab broken fragments of meat in
of the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on the wealth
is almost untouched, only a single bite taken from the corner. And I have half of a
eaten anything like this
For how long?
My sense of time is out of the
I had
then another, I ram the food
Half-chewed pulp goes down the wrong way and
my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where
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