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…

openings, more scratching.

long enough into an abyss,

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

and whiskers. I come equipped with

*****

know what Stockholm syndrome

takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from

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

you're getting

but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called Lima syndrome, where

“So?”

I your only

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

you keep

mouth hanging

to watch me rot, you have

assume you do want me to feed you? We

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

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

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 rest of my

in her seat, arches

changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again, look into her face. “Have

“Solana…” she hisses.

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, scarlet

heel,

takes no supernatural premonition to know 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

blind, my eyes adjust to the green blink of the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on the wealth in

is almost untouched, only a single bite taken from the corner. And

anything like

For how long?

I’ve no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time is out

had

in a mouthful of empanada, then another,

and suddenly

I barf it up, where

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