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 gunmen,
It’s just a rat…
scratching.
you gaze long enough into an abyss, the
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
case, the abyss comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between
*****
you know
from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from
psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an attachment
saying you're getting attached to
misread me...” Her head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's
“So?”
I your only friend,
cracks off the small round cake, dropping back
do you keep
pauses in her chewing, mouth hanging
me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my chin up to the
have to feed you. I assume you do want me to feed you? We can always change that
only reason, you could leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so far
me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered everyone
head, 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
seat, arches her
eyes, I keep my voice mild. “Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed.
“Solana…” she hisses.
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
on her heel, she stalks
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
blink of the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on the wealth
untouched, only a single bite taken from the
eaten anything like this for…
For how long?
Months? My sense of time is out
I had a
empanada, then another, I ram the food
Too soon. Half-chewed pulp goes down the wrong way and suddenly I’m no
on my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where it plops in a saliva-coated mess onto the
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