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
It’s just a rat…
scratching. And a nose pokes
an
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between
*****
know what Stockholm
Interest flickers over her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from
where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms
you're getting
her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called Lima syndrome, where the captor comes
“So?”
I your
think you’re my friend?” The napkin produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the small
do you
mouth hanging a little
coming? If all you wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my chin up to
me to feed you? We can
and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so far as I can reckon,
regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered
her head, giggling. “So, you're my
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
seat, arches her brows. “I
keep my voice mild. “Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise
“Solana…” she hisses.
scatter over the rancid concrete, some of it dropping just this side of that painted
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,
the green blink of the camera. It hardly matters.
bite taken from
anything like
For how long?
I’ve no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time is
had
a mouthful of empanada, then another, I
down the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but coughing and choking
swallow, gagging on my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where it plops in a
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