Hot Revenge Box Set 4

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...
You’ve faced down gunmen, soldiers, murderers...
It’s just a rat...
From the dark openings, more scratching. And a nose pokes out.
They say if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back at you.
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard...
In my case, the abyss comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between us, we settle an
uneasy armistice.
*****
“Juliana, do you know what Stockholm syndrome is?”
“No.” Interest flickers over her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from a
napkin. “What is it?”
“It's the label for a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an attachment to the
captor.”

She sniggers. “You saying you're getting attached to me?”
“Oh, no. Don't misread me...” Her head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “... But there's a reverse
condition. It's called Lima syndrome, where the captor comes to empathise with the prisoner.”
“So?”
“Am I your only friend, Juliana?”
Amusement skirts 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 back into the napkin and she dabs it up with a fingertip then into her mouth.
“So, why do you keep coming here?”
She pauses in her chewing, mouth hanging a little open. “What?”
“Why do you keep coming? If all you wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my chin up to the blinking
light
“I have to feed you. I assume you do want me to feed you? We can always change that you know.”
“Yes, I 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 far as I can reckon, you're here every day or so.”
She chews and swallows, not speaking, simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've
murdered everyone else that might get close to you?”
She swings her head, giggling. “So, you're my friend are you?”
Levelling a finger at me, “You think someone's going to come and save you, Larry? You believe you're worth saving? That there's
anyone out there who 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 rest of my life. Along with all the others you did the same to. You’ve not changed. And I’m going to make you
pay.”
She crosses her arms, sits back in her seat, arches her brows. “I am making you pay.”

Lowering my eyes, I keep my voice mild. “Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I
raise my gaze again, look into her face. “Have you changed Juliana?”
“Solana...” she hisses.
Her mouth working, she says no 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, scarlet spots at her cheeks.
Turning on her heel, she stalks out.
It 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 fragments of
meat in one hand, a cake with the other before, with a click, the light winks out and I'm left in darkness.
Momentarily blind, my eyes adjust to the green blink of the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on the wealth in my hands.
The meat-and-veg-stuffed delicacy is almost untouched, only a single bite taken from the corner. And I have half of a fruit pastry.
I’ve not eaten anything like this for... for...
For how long?
... I’ve no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time is out of the window...
If I had a window...
Stuffing in a mouthful of empanada, then another, I ram the food into my mouth.
Too much. Too soon. Half-chewed pulp goes down the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but coughing and choking
and retching.
Unable to swallow, gagging on my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where it plops in a saliva-coated mess onto the floor.
Recovering myself, I wipe streaming eyes.
Calm down...

Slow down...
What’s left of the empanada is fragrant, fresh-baked; indeed still slightly warm from the oven. My teeth sink in and the pastry
breaks into crisp flakes before releasing its contents. The meat is succulent, spiced with... with...
...I chew slowly, savouring the heavenly dainty...
... with garlic, cilantro, and just a hint of chilli.
The vegetables: tiny morsels, tender, juicy and fresh, tangy, and tasting of everything that’s green and alive.
As I chew, a dribble of saliva runs down my chin. Despite my lack of an audience, I’m embarrassed at myself, swiping it away
with the back of my hand.
I used to buy these small pasties from any street corner for a few coppers; eating them on the move without a second’s thought.
Quick food for when I was busy; when I was thinking about something; simple fuel for the body.
Now, it melts into my mouth.
I still have the broken crumbs of a fruit pastry, perhaps a quarter of the original, dotted deep pink with raspberries, topped with a
glistening syrup. Cradling the precious fragments in my filthy palm, I squat down against my wall and inhale.
Vanilla...
Raspberry...
Cream...
I take a bite...
The flavour is exquisite.
The pastry is flaky, soft inside, crisp outside and filled with a sweet vanilla cream that slips over my tongue like liquid velvet. The
berries are perfectly ripe: sweet and piquant, with that fragrance that only comes from summer fruit.
I eat slowly, extending my ‘meal’ for as long as I can.

When I’ve finished, I’m not fool enough to wipe greasy fingers on my clothes. I don’t want the rats deciding that I smell
appetising. So, I lick the last sticky-sweet fragments from filthy palms and fingers. Then, retrieving the coughed-up remains that
dropped to the floor, I eat those too. Despite being ‘second-hand’, they still taste ambrosial.
As the last fragment slips down my throat, I sit, staring into the gloom, sucking my lips clean.
My face is wet again.
Irritated at myself, I swipe at the saliva on my chin...
... then realise that the moisture isn’t saliva.
The green eye blinks above me.
For God’s sake... don’t let her see...
Retreating to my wall, rolling down, I tuck my face into my knees, locking my arms around myself as though for sleep. Then
shuddering, my chest heaving, in my living tomb, I hide my tears from the camera.
*****