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…
openings, more scratching. And a nose
gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between us, we settle an
*****
do you know what Stockholm syndrome
something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of
the label for a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the
“You saying you're getting
me...” Her head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But
“So?”
I your
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
why do you keep
her chewing, mouth hanging a little
keep coming? If all you wanted was to watch me rot,
have to feed you. I assume you do want me to
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
your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered everyone else
giggling. “So, you're my friend
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
her seat, arches her
I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again, look into her
“Solana…” she hisses.
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,
her heel, she stalks
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,
to the green blink of the camera.
only a single bite taken from the corner. And I have half of a
anything like this
For how long?
My sense of
I had a
empanada, then another, I ram the food
Too soon. Half-chewed pulp goes down the wrong way and
swallow, gagging on my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where it plops
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