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Electric Barracuda: A Novel
Electric Barracuda: A Novel
Electric Barracuda: A Novel
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Electric Barracuda: A Novel

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

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“Dorsey differs from writers such as Carl Hiassen, James Hall, and Elmore Leonard…These guys fire bullets. Dorsey makes sure his gun is filled with hollow-point.”
Sarasota Herald Tribune

Readers who can’t get enough of lovable serial killer Serge A. Storms can rejoice. He’s back in Electric Barracuda—the latest outrageous romp through the Sunshine State by Tim Dorsey, master of the zany crime thriller. This time Serge is a fugitive running from the police, and murder and mayhem have never been more over-the-top hilarious. Tim Dorsey’s Electric Barracuda is not to be missed. The Miami Herald put it best: “Nobody, but nobody, writes like this guy.”

LanguageEnglish
PublisherHarperCollins
Release dateJan 25, 2011
ISBN9780062041593
Author

Tim Dorsey

Tim Dorsey was a reporter and editor for the Tampa Tribune from 1987 to 1999, and is the author of twenty-five other novels: Mermaid Confidential, Tropic of Stupid, Naked Came the Florida Man, No Sunscreen for the Dead, Pope of Palm Beach, Clownfish Blues, Coconut Cowboy, Shark Skin Suite, Tiger Shrimp Tango, The Riptide Ultra-Glide, When Elves Attack, Pineapple Grenade, Electric Barracuda, Gator A-Go-Go, Nuclear Jellyfish, Atomic Lobster, Hurricane Punch, The Big Bamboo, Torpedo Juice, Cadillac Beach, The Stingray Shuffle, Triggerfish Twist, Orange Crush, Hammerhead Ranch Motel, and Florida Roadkill. He lives in Florida.

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Reviews for Electric Barracuda

Rating: 3.9368420042105265 out of 5 stars
4/5

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Amazingly hilarious and thrilling. It was a fabulous mystery and comedy.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This was a great chase novel. The action never let up and the characters were quirky and well drawn. The whole chase is set in Florida and comprises an internet blog of a fugitive travelogue. Traveling through backwaters and small towns the fugitives race all over Florida evading local law enforcement, a red head in a turquoise T-Bird, a mystery man in a yellow Cadillac, a corrupt attorney in a black Beemer and a Crown Vic driving gumshoe with a vocabulary straight out of a Humphrey Bogart movie.

    This is not a great literary masterpiece. It is quintessentially American embracing the idea of the road trip. There is violence but it is darkly humorous and clever as opposed to savage and bloody. The two main characters Serge and Coleman are a classically comedic pair.

    Pick this one up if you need a lift in mood and want to be entertained. It's a 1 to 2 day read for the quick reader.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This is Tim Dorsey's 13th book starring the ever practical yet psycho Florida fugitive, Serge Storms. This time Serge takes on us on a fun and frolicking "fugitive tour" of Florida. He keeps a blog and of course he has his faithful, yet stoned sidekick Coleman by his side every step of the way. Serge is, as usual, being hunted by Federal agents, a bounty hunter, a whole caravan of characters, and his ex-wife in a Turquoise colored T-bird. We take a trip throughout the sunshine state to see the back streets and "under belly" of Florida including The Everglades, Orlando, Venice, Myakka River, Tampa, and so on. Besides the "fugitive tour", Serge has a mission this time to help his Grandfather's old gang on the Loop Road to recover funds stolen by a shady lawyer. Will Serge complete his mission? Will the trackers catch up to him this time? Will Agent Mahoney, his nemesis, track him down? Go get this fun, laugh out loud, comedy and found out for yourself. I can't help but wonder who would play Serge and Coleman in a movie? Or Agent Mahoney? I think it would a great movie!Tim Dorsey is an ex-writer for the Tampa Tribune. Electric Barracuda was published in 2011 by William Morrow.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Tim Dorsey can do no wrong. He is a genius with a pen. Serge & Coleman are as wild & crazy as ever & I can NOT wait for the next installment. Thank you Mr. Dorsey!
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    If you are a fan of Serge you will undoubtedly like this book. If you do not like Serge and Coleman, what are you doing reading this far into the series? The book has twists and turns and a major plot/story development as the future of Serge may never be the same.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Imagine a mash-up of MTV's iconic Beavis and Butthead meets gumshoe noir on a crazy trip through the set of Miami Vice (the Everglade years). This is one badass, non-stop thrill ride that will have you zigzagging all over the state of Florida. Who else can master dark comedy, crime thriller and state history better than Tim Dorsey? Electric Barracuda is a shining example of classic absurdist fiction. It focuses on the experiences of characters and their seemingly meaningless actions and events. By making use of dark humor, abasement of reason and bizarre philosophy, Dorsey opens a peep hole into American culture. The characters are amusing, fully-developed, inventive and most of all, the events are a fast-paced blast that will have the reader laughing until they weep (and then questioning whether the author was sober at any stage of the writing process). Of course, in this case, it's a good thing. An untamed ride ensues mingling past and present, which are in continual conflict. This instigates an appeal to the nature vs. nurture theory (I'll let readers chew on that for a while). To say this is just a satire is too simplistic and would be a crime against literature and possibly a felony against humanity. Did I go too far? True of most absurdist fiction, Electric Barracuda is deeply thematic and creatively communicative. The moral is not explicit and allows the reader to reflect and come to their own conclusion. The world is a dirty, gritty place and doing something wrong for the right reasons is so very forgivable and enduring. Tim Dorsey has earned his way onto my fan shelf. I'll be reading more twisted tales by this author soon.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Everyone is blogging these days, including Serge, the lovable serial killer of Tim Dorsey's novel, Electric Barracuda. Serge has an idea - a tourist romp through Florida as a fugitive. a In the process of "researching" for his website, he finds himself along with his sidekick, Coleman, truly on the run as Mahoney and some other bumbling detectives try to catch him. A fun and hilarious book which, it turns out, is part of a long running series. Who knew? Well, many people did except for me. This is the first book I have read- number 13 in the Serge A. Storms series- and I am surprised I hadn't heard of them before now. Having not read the previous books I was not as familiar with the characters as I should be. The story revolves around Serge and Coleman and knowing them would help immensely in understanding them, their relationship and appeal, as well as the detectives chasing them. Having said that, I still really enjoyed this tour of Florida through the characters' criminal eyes and I look forward to getting my hands on books 1-12. Here is the list of books for everyone else interested in reading this fun series:Florida RoadkillHammerhead Ranch Motel Orange Crush Triggerfish TwistThe Stingray ShuffleCadillac BeachTorpedo JuiceThe Big BambooHurricane PunchAtomic LobsterNuclear JellyfishGator A-Go-Go Electric Barracuda
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The adventure that follows is just plain fun, fast paced, and a times very funny. Like all Dorsey novels great for weekend read or quick trip to Florida.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy ride!Electric Barracuda is an homage to the classic crime caper with slapstick humor, great escapes, and a cast of crazy characters. In number thirteen of the series, Dorsey has produced another novel that will make you laugh-out-loud at the most inappropriate times. Who roots for the serial killer? You will.Serge Storms the over-the-top, Florida history obsessed, vigilante justice dispensing murderer, and his chemically enhanced sidekick, Coleman, are on a whirlwind tour of Florida to test out Serge's latest entrepreneurial adventure, The Fugitive Tour. While conducting assessments of escape routes, hide outs, and disguises, Serge and Coleman unwittingly become the target of a man hunt. The past has a way of catching up, and though all the dead guys they’ve left behind deserved it, the police don't seem to see the humor in death by irony. With their criminal history snapping at their heels Serge and Coleman manage to stay one step ahead of the law and an odd entourage of characters including a bounty hunter, a shady lawyer, and a beautiful mystery woman. The plot thickens.If you've dreamt up ways to cleverly dispose of bodies, have longed to be politically incorrect, and want to leave reality very far behind then dive into the Everglades with Serge and Coleman. It will be a crazy ride and anything remotely socially acceptable won’t be coming along. Escape......
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Electric Barracuda is the latest in Tim Dorsey's series about Serge, a slightly crazy, sometimes-compulsive eccentric who also is a serial killer of people make the world better with their demise. It is set in a Florida that, in the tradition of several other writers, including Carl Hiassen and Elmore Leonard, is filled with crazies, alligators and swamps -- and, of course, the Everglades. In one sense, the book is wonderful -- virtually a primer on the non-South Beach, non-Disney Florida. His descriptions of Everglades City and Chokoloskee are nearly perfect, as I can attest, having been there only 45 days ago, although as usual he overplays the bizarre. However, the book is not up to Dorsey's usual standards. His dialogue, which always is clipped, and his exposition, which always is minimal, reach a new level of clipped-ness and minimality. Sometimes it's a little hard to follow what is going on. On the whole, the book is a worthwhile read if you like Dorsey's style, and some of the pages are laugh-out-loud funny. But don't read this expecting it to be Dorsely's best.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Florida’s preeminent psycho trickster is up to more hilarious hijinks in Electric Barracuda, his thirteenth excursion across the Sunshine State. Not only is a full posse of federal agents trailing Serge and Coleman up and down Florida, but they’re saddled with a new partner, surprisingly dropped on them by the ever-malicious Molly. Not to mention Doberman, an idiotic motorcycle-mounted bounty hunter accompanied by busty chicks and a bus screeching Kiss tunes, and the venal lawyer Brad Meltzer (Tim Dorsey must have lost a bet to his fellow author), who’s trying to cheat the very clients – Serge’s grandfather and his pals – who trusted him with their Prohibition-era secret. And, of course, the ever-present Agent Mahoney, whose presence delivers a shocker Dorsey obviously saved for the magic number 13.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I have never read a Tim Dorsey novel but being a Carl Hiaasen fan, he was recommended to me. I must say that I was not disappointed.Dorsey has a similar style and wit to Hiaasen, but his delivery is much dryer, almost British in a way. Because his style is so different, I had trouble getting into the characters in the beginning.That being said, once I figured out the two main characters' personalities were sarcastic most of the time, I began to get sucked in.And while I lacked the character history of this obviously mid-series novel, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Dorsey did a great job of introducing them to me without subjecting me to "repeat material." He did what you're supposed to do, work in the backstory little by little.Dorsey has given me another star to shoot for in my own writing.While I won't give this book five stars, I'll say this: I bought another Tim Dorsey novel to read. That should sum up my review perfectly.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The “Electric Barracuda” is classic Serge: a wild, crazy ride through the Florida Everglades and surrounds. Having recently returned from a camping/kayaking trip in the some of the places Serge visited, I particularly took pleasure in his travels. Ten Thousand Islands, The Rod and Gun Club, Smallwood’s Store and Chokoloskee are quite familiar to me.Serge is comparable to Hiaasen’s Skink character. Woe betide anyone who assaults the environment, children, defenseless animals, his friends or family, or his cherished historical sites. That person should be very, very afraid, for Serge will definitely extract revenge, creatively yet often fatally. Yes, Serge is guilty of multiple murders. In his view, they are not really murders but just retribution for unforgivable crimes.My experience with “Electric Barracuda” had many laugh out loud moments. In my opinion, any book that evokes this response is successful. Serge’s adventures are appalling, outrageous and hilarious. Join him on this astonishing tour of the Florida seldom seen.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    For the uninitiated Serge A. Storms is a cross between Dexter and Dirk Gently (Douglas Addams' holistic detective). Sure he's a serial killer - but he only kills the bad guys (and only in the most inventive ways). He is both hyper aware of his surroundings (he can tell you the tiniest historical details of every roadside attraction and gift shop) and sublimely unaware (all those cops surrounding our motel room must be after some really bad (other) guy).The Mikey scenes bugged and the ending seemed contrived, but it was still a rollicking good read.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The latest Serge saga is one of the funnier ones in the series. Tim Dorsey keeps the action going, and adds a few extra twists, including an ending revelation that left me looking forward to the next book. There were a couple of scenes that could have used a rewriting (or deletion), but overall, a great way to spend a rainy afternoon.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This review is of the Publisher-provided galley proof and may or may not reflect the final product as distributed.Serge Storms is back in Tom Dorsey's latest Florida-based novel and that may (or may not) be a good thing dependent on you point of view! I've read all of Dorsey's offerings to date and I must admit I'm still unsure as to my overall opinion. His latest offering - "Electric Barracuda" has done little to settle my indecision. My overall rating of 2.5 stars is reflective of my enjoyment - and frustration - with the novel.First the good... "Electric Barracuda" fills the bill for a fun, no-frills read. Unpretentious and light, it's a great read for sitting by the pool or on one of the sun-filled Florida beaches. The pacing is quick and Dorsey's dialog is tight, quick-witted, and humorous as usual. The action is also Dorsey's usual slapstick variety and rarely fails to amuse. That being said, far and away my favorite portions of the book were Dorsey's forays into Florida history and those little known places and people that made that history. I've visited many of the places on Storms' "Fugitive Tour" and now have many more to add to my must-visit list thanks to this book! So, in effect, 4 stars for setting, dialog, pacing, and series continuity.Now, the not so good...There have been several areas of Dorsey's novels I haven't enjoyed as much and "Electric Barracuda" was no different. First, While the novels are definitely light-hearted comedic reads featuring slapstick action and over the top characterizations, many of the situations just require too much suspension of belief and acceptance of the inane for my tastes. In particular, several of the near-misses and last minute escapes Serge experiences throughout the story were so outrageous they actually detracted from the story. Second, Dorsey writes great dialogue, keenly defines action, and vividly describes settings and people. However, the prose drags and struggles in his too frequent shifts into the pseudo stream-of-consciousness ramblings of Storms' and Coleman's ramblings. These forays feel out of place when read in the novel and distract from the overall enjoyment of the read. Lastly, as with previous books in the series, Dorsey devotes significant amount of time and effort in developing multiple, interwoven plots lines. Each unto itself work very well and are independently enjoyable. However - fair warning for the reader - don't get too invested in any given plotline. As with previous Storms novels, these (often more interesting) subplots are usually 'wrapped up' with a few concise sentences toward the end of the book regardless of the amount of time and effort invested throughout the entire book. So...something far less than 4 stars for continuity of prose, pushing the slapstick envelop a bit too far, and investing the reader in dynamic subplots without an adequate conclusion.All in all, I'll probably give Dorsey and Serge Storms another chance with the next book in the series but that may be my last.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    What happens when a serial killer kills only the bad guys? Not that serial killer, the other one: Serge Storms. I never heard of him before this book, but I am probably hooked now and cannot wait for the next chapter in the series. Serge Storms is the son and grandson of mobsters: part of a Chicago, Cuban, Italian mixture of Florida-based diversity in crime. He has decided to take up blogging (new website, because the cops shut down the last one), and lead his followers of friends, criminals, and cops on the Fugitive Tour of Florida. He intends to explain how to stay continually one step above the law while visiting Florida's most interesting places (the ones that tourists never see). He is aided by his faithful, but perpetually stoned sidekick, Coleman, and chased by the agents of the FDLE (Florida Department of Law Enforcement), a smart cop, a dumb cop and a crazy copy. The author intersperses the manic chase of the present day with the history of Florida, great descriptions of geography, and the hidden history of Al Capone. And Serge really is a serial killer, killing bad guys in cruel and imaginative ways, but don't let that stop you from enjoying this merry chase. Also, this was an Advance Reader Copy, so final published text may be slightly different than that reviewed. Out on January 25, 2011 (edited - book has March 2011, but Amazon has Jan.25, 2011 as release date).
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    The Electric Barracuda is a rip roaring ride! You'll be riding along in the Barracuda with quirky serial killer Serge Storms & his stoner friend Coleman. They're on the uproarious run through Florida from law enforcement, a mystery man & the Doberman, who reminds you of a very clumsy Dog the Bounty Hunter.Not only will you go on the run with them through the Everglades while laughing out loud, you'll learn a little history of Florida as well! Like Al Capone's hideout.Though you would think you couldn't come to like a serial killer I certainly did! Not only because of his quirky antics, but he's not your typical serial killer! He runs across most unlikable people who, ironically, are out to harm others.This was a fast paced, laugh out loud, entertaining read. This is the first book I've ever read of Dorsey's & I can't wait to pick up the previous books in this series! Speaking of which...I found you don't have to have read the previous books to easily follow along with Dorsey's latest! I highly recommend this book & it has easily made it onto my list of favorite quick/entertaining reads!
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Electric Barracuda was my introduction to Serge Storms, and overall it was a positive experience. I loved the humor of the book, but after a while, the conversations became almost predictable. I don't live in Florida, but I imagine that Floridians would find a little more to connect with which may keep the interest piqued all the way through. It was decent, but the sophomoric parts are a little tiring and the story just didn't hook me. 3 stars for some witty humor.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Another hilarious romp thru the Florida landscape as only Serge Storms could present it. The story starts at a lightning pace and only gets faster and stranger as you follow Serge on another impropable adventure. My advice is strap yourself in its's going to be a wild ride.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Fast paced ride through the fugitive of Florida while serial killer Serge A. Storms blogs about his vacation. He has a surprise new edition to the tour. A long lost relative makes an appearance.This is my first dive into the hilarious, schizophrenic, manic adventures with Serge. He's so charming and entertaining you almost forget he's a killer...almost. But, he kills off just the undesirables. His sidekick Coleman is a complete buffoon and you wonder what idiotic thing he'll do next. This novel is fast paced, so hold on to your seat for the ride!
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I find myself conflicted as to how to review this book. Parts of it I loved--they were funny, action-oriented, and tightly written. But others dragged or seemed forced. Especially those with Mikey. Seriously, I know it's a comedy, but the "how do we deal with a kid" bits were too over the top for my taste.Serge Storms is on the run...sort of. Like Dexter, Serge never kills anyone who doesn't need killing and his methods are both unusual and often brutally hilarious. Serge and his stoner companion, Coleman, cut a swath across Florida as Serge creates his new business--the fugitive tour. Because all the best parts of Florida are places only seen when you're on the run, of course. Little does Serge know, he's not imagining the massive manhunt trailing him. It's led not only by the FBI, but also by "Doberman," an inept TV-reality-show bounty hunter.I loved, loved, loved the old gang, and all the bits of the "fugitive tour," and Serge's website, and overall I'd absolutely say this book is worth reading, just maybe not in hardcover.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Serge Storms, rampant Floridaphile and insanely inventive serial killer of those-who-only-really-deserve-it, returns with his new idea to share his love of offbeat, overlooked, and forgotten Florida: The Fugitive Tour.While Serge and Coleman are themselves taking the tour of little-known Florida hot spots – to ensure authenticity – they’re being hunted by a task force, including Serge’s old nemesis –Agent Mahoney.With this thirteenth Serge novel, the series hasn’t lost any steam or inventiveness.There’s plenty of Florida history and trivia, close calls, old friends that help Serge along the way, an inept made-for-television bounty hunter called “The Doberman,” naked redheads, and a few of Serge’s usual unique murders. There are also a few surprises that promise to change the complexion of future Serge novels.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Serge Storms, hyperactive serial killer and Florida-phile, and his stoner friend Coleman return for another adventure. In Electric Barracuda Serge decides to pay homage to car chase movies, embarking on a fugitive tour of Florida. He and Coleman stay one step ahead of a gaggle of pursuers, including law enforcement officers, a Mystery Man, and The Doberman, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Dog the Bounty Hunter. It is particularly remarkable that they repeatedly elude capture, given that all of his pursuers are getting updates on his whereabouts from his website, where he details his activities and his plans. A second parallel storyline involves Al Capone's Everglades hideout and a search for his hidden treasure. Serge leads us all on a tour of the backwaters and obscure museums of southern Florida, giving us all a history lesson in very entertaining fashion. And along the way Serge finds inventive ways to kill a few people who deserve it. Electric Barracuda is great fun, as are all the novels in the series. I enjoyed Lowe and White, the new police officers introduced, and there are a couple of very interesting surprises near the end. Electric Barracuda made me want to go back and read the series all over again, and so I would have to say it is a very successful addition to the series.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Welcome to a tour of Florida with narration on history and geography by Serge A. Storms. Yes...Serge has found the Internet and has created a blog. He is writing about the best way too tour the sunshine state...as a fugitive. See the real Florida not designed for the tourist. Of course Serge wants everything to be authentic so he and his sidekick Coleman pretend they are on the run from the law and test out his tour before he blogs about the experience.His 'Fugitive Tour' is more real than Serge thinks as law enforcement is on his trail seeking to apprehend him every step of the way. Coleman as usual is always thinking about what he can next put into his mouth for his personal entertainment. And anyone who crosses their path who does not meet up with Serge's ethical standard meets and innovative untimely end. To share too much more would be a spoiler but know the books title will become obvious and we will see a few old characters pop back in and some old story lines touched upon. If you have not read a Serge novel before I would not start with this one. Though it is a short page turning read that you will finish in no time.

Book preview

Electric Barracuda - Tim Dorsey

Prologue

Present

Orlando.

Tourism on steroids. Florida’s mutant chromosome with mouse ears.

One of the newer attractions is an air-conditioned dome over a sprawling, man-made replica of the state’s natural landscape.

They bulldozed nature to build it.

Outside the dome, a dragnet tightened.

An endless string of harsh, red brake lights stretched to the horizon. Evening traffic snarled on Interstate 4 through theme park country. An unmarked Crown Vic with police antennae whipped into the breakdown lane and sped past crawling minivans and station wagons. Its passenger-side tires slipped off the shoulder, kicking up a cloud.

A cell phone rang.

Agent White here.

We got him! said Agent Lowe. We finally got him!

Serge?

That’s the man.

Don’t mess with me.

I can’t believe it either. After all this time.

I’m more amazed he hadn’t been nailed earlier. How many years? How many murders?

Dozens.

Years or murders?

Take your pick.

I still don’t see how it’s possible he could remain so active for so long, with nearly every agency in the state after him.

It’s Florida. He blended in—and had a lot of luck. But now it’s finally run out.

Who broke the case?

Agent Mahoney.

Mahoney? That nut job?

Apparently he got better. How far away are you?

Twenty minutes. I’ll be there in ten.

My name’s Serge.

The LSD just kicked in.

I can tell because my legs are walking away. Come back here! Legs don’t listen for crap.

This isn’t my first trip. And I don’t even do drugs.

My name’s Serge.

Last time I accidentally got dosed by Lenny. This time Coleman.

And what am I doing in handcuffs? Have I been arrested? Dear God, they’re taking me to jail! . . . Or maybe it’s just this drug—fight the hallucination.

My name’s Serge.

Damn you, Coleman! That boob must have gotten it in the onion dip again. And I can’t resist potato chips. Ruffles. Wise. Lay’s. Cheetos, Fritos, Doritos. Aren’t snacks fucked up? . . . Snack, snack, snack, snack . . . What an unnegotiably aggressive sound. The Roman Empire invented snacks, right after the aqueducts. Irrigation flowed, food plentiful, people munching between meals in the city-states. They ate these little, sun-dried meaty things, highly distasteful and falling out of favor until olive oil. I just made all that up. The key to life is making shit up. Everyone does it or society would unravel, like, Gee, your hair looks great! Or: God told me you’re wrong . . . Here come my legs—I’ll try to grab them. Rats, too fast. Why do we even need snacks? More important, why do we need anything else? Do they make Bugles anymore? Bugles were really fucked up. When I was six, I’d bite the tips off and play Taps, like I’m doing now, except I just have my fingers in front of my mouth with a tiny invisible bugle . . .

. . . People are staring. Act normal.

That’s how I know it’s LSD. People tend to stare. They also stare at me the rest of the time, and I’ve become humbly accustomed to the limelight. But currently they’re staring from a picture in the newspaper on my lap. Some kind of country fair holding prize pig races to celebrate the local yam harvest. Now they’re running around, yelling and pointing at me. They’ve got a bunch of torches and pitchforks! They’re charging! Right off the page, right at my face! Here comes the first pitchfork in my eyes! Hold freak-out! Quick, close the newspaper! . . . Speaking of politics, what’s happening to America? All vital signs spell collapse: unemployment, environment, national security, energy dependence, world respect, violent riots escalating into town hall meetings—our entire population completely polarized, half the country ready to kill the other half. And over what? For a week it was the Dixie Chicks. Things sure have changed. FDR tried to calm us: Nothing to fear but fear itself. Now politicians encourage the jitters. Panic is the new patriotism. Today’s Threat Level: Duck! But you don’t even want to think of fear on an acid trip. Fear, fear, fear, FEAR! My body is decaying! I can feel it! I can hear it! I can smell it! And it smells like . . . liver treats. Who would have thought? I need gum. It’s in that pocket and . . . Wait, what’s this plastic tube? An empty prescription bottle? And it has my name on it.

My name is Serge.

The medication on the label is some serious stuff. That’s weird. But what does this Byzantine puzzle mean? The Byzantines liked snacks, to go with their puzzles . . . It’s slowly starting to come back— . . . Of course! Lenny didn’t drug me back then—and Coleman didn’t this time. I’m just out of pills. My brain must have finally rid itself of their mind-blunting effects. This rampaging, all-over-the-road psychotic nightmare is just my normal thought-party. Excellent.

I’m looking out a window. We’re moving fast. Florida nightscape whizzing by. Lights blink at an intersection. A screaming comes across the sky. It’s some kind of loud horn. We’re going to crash! Flames soon lapping my flesh! . . . Another illusion. Resist. Close your eyes, think positive thoughts . . . A song. It’s pretty, I’m smiling and singing along in my head: What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding? Exactly: I’m totally re-dedicating my life to getting along with everyone. But who wrote that marvelous tune? Elvis Costello? I hate that fuck . . .

Ouch.

What’s this hurting my wrist? A handcuff again? Sure looks real. Wait, it is real. But where did it come from? Maybe this guy sitting next to me knows . . . Excuse me, sir . . . Holy cripes, it’s Agent Mahoney! Now I get it—I’ve finally been captured. And that horn is a train whistle. Mahoney’s taking me somewhere on a choo-choo, probably the Big House, just like in The Fugitive. I know: I’ll use this unfortunate downtime to pretend I’m in that TV show. Serge A. Storms . . . A man wrongly convicted (wink) . . . We’re coming around a bend. I see lights ahead. Another crossing gate. But what’s that idiot in the pickup truck doing on the tracks? The horn’s blaring nonstop, steel grinding, sparks showering. We are going to crash! Hang on! . . .

. . . How long have I been unconscious? Whoa, my head, my wrist . . . The handcuffs broke! I’m free! The train’s on its side, so I’ll just climb out the shattered window that’s up on the ceiling . . . Therrrrrre we go. Trot along the top of the car, leap off the side, tumble down this ditch—ow, ooo, ow, ooo, ow—nothing to it, and that’s basically how you escape. Now I just walk to the nearest truck stop, hitch an eighteen-wheeler to Texarkana, reinvent myself as an audience-favorite horseshoe champion who’s a committed pacifist yet expert in jujitsu and ragtime piano and is finally pushed too far when the bank forecloses on a sixth-generation dairy farm and hires goons from the traveling midway to menace a soft-spoken widow who is the only person in town unaware of her own smoldering sexuality . . . Oops, spoke too soon. There’s a flashlight in the distance. A voice. Someone’s coming! Quick! To the bottom of the ditch! Cover yourself with branches and trash!

Serge!

A flashlight swept the bottom of a ditch.

Serge, where are you? Yell if you can hear me.

A head poked up from a pile of ripped-open garbage bags. Coleman?

The flashlight beam hit a face. Serge, what are you doing at the bottom of that ditch with rotten food all over your head?

Isn’t that what I usually ask you?

Everything okay?

Couldn’t be better. Serge hopped up and brushed himself off. I just escaped.

Escaped?

It was touch and go, but I slipped Mahoney’s grasp again.

Mahoney?

Serge pointed. The big train derailment— . . . where’d the wreck go?

Coleman turned around and looked at the dark side of a building. Nothing but our motel.

Serge squinted at his sidekick. What’s going on?

Beats me. Coleman clicked off the flashlight. "We were back in our room watching an old rerun of The Fugitive, and during the train crash in the opening credits, you ran out the door yelling, ‘I’m free! I’m free.’ "

Serge slowly smiled and nodded with understanding. I must have gone into a fugue state.

What’s that?

Hard to explain. Serge climbed the muddy embankment. But remember that time you were really ripped on peyote and passed out in that motel bed where the sheets were tucked in super tight, and somehow you got turned around in your sleep so your head was trapped at the foot of the bed, and you woke up trying to fight your way out, screaming that bugs had encased you in a cocoon, and you were turning into a giant winged insect?

That wasn’t a cocoon?

Your variation on the fugue state.

I get it now.

Serge began walking back to the motel. "Think The Fugitive is still on?"

Yeah, you’ve just been gone a few minutes.

Let’s watch the rest. Maybe they’ll catch the one-armed man.

They went back inside their room as a convoy of unmarked cars cut their headlights and quietly rolled into the parking lot of the budget motel.

Coleman glanced toward a banging sound from the closet. What about the guy you’re keeping tied up in there?

Oh, said Serge, looking up from the TV. Almost forgot about him.

A Crown Vic with blackwall tires arrived at the motel. Agent White rushed over to Agent Lowe.

Where’s Serge?

Get down! Lowe whispered. He might see you.

White stared curiously at his colleague, crouched behind a car, dressed completely in black, pulling a black hood over his head.

What the hell’s going on? asked White. I thought you said on the phone you had Serge.

We do. Lowe pointed over the trunk of the car. He’s in that last room.

White’s head sagged. When you say you have someone, that means in custody. Back of a squad car. Maybe even handcuffed.

Not all the time.

Yes, all the time.

He’s just as good as in custody. Lowe fitted night-vision goggles over his eyes. We’ve got him pinned. See? He gestured to his left at the black-clothed SWAT team squatting next to him. Now, will you get down before he sees you?

White stayed standing with hands on hips, watching his partner apply black face paint. You’re still hung up about not making the SWAT team?

Lowe’s goggles remained fixed on the motel room. "I’ll make it the next round of tests. I was this close."

But you still can’t do a chin-up. And you collapsed again during the mile run. They had to use a stretcher.

I’ve been working out. Huge progress on chin-ups.

How many?

I bought a chin-up bar.

Something nagged at White. The parking lot . . . He looked around. . . . The entire block. Why is it so dark?

Had the power company cut all outside lights. Lowe removed the goggles and pulled a black ski mask down over his painted face. For our ninja strike. He turned to the nearest SWAT member and gave him a spirited thumbs-up. Ready to rumble?

Just stay out of our way, limp-dick, and don’t fuck this up.

Lowe smiled at White. That’s how SWAT brothers talk.

Out of the darkness, a human form materialized on the far side of the parking lot, casually walking toward them.

Jesus! Lowe whispered. He’s going to ruin everything.

The form took shape, wearing a tweed jacket and rumpled fedora. A toothpick wiggled in his teeth. His necktie had a pattern of vintage Las Vegas casino signs. He walked around behind the car.

White nodded in recognition. Mahoney.

Mahoney tossed the toothpick over his shoulder. It’s my collar. I peeled the banana.

No argument, said White. But how’d you find him?

Serge has been slipping for years. Mahoney dramatically fit a fresh toothpick in his mouth and stared back at the last motel room, where the outline of a lampshade glowed behind a moth-worn curtain. Screwed the pooch and registered under his own moniker.

So why don’t we take him? said White. What are we waiting out here for?

Mahoney glanced down at Lowe. Ask the Green Hornet.

A series of ripping sounds. Lowe tested various empty Velcro pockets on his tactical jacket designed to hold tactical equipment he wasn’t authorized to carry. We’re waiting for the lamp to go out so he’ll be more off guard during our lightning breach with flash-bang grenades. He produced a waterproof, spiral-bound book from a zippered pocket. It’s in the manual.

White rolled his eyes.

They waited.

The lamp stayed on.

Next to a lamp sat a snowy TV set. Serge slapped the side. A black-and-white episode of The Fugitive came into focus. This is the one where he’s shot by police and takes refuge in an orphanage at a Navajo reservation outside Puma . . .

Muted screams from next to the bed.

Do you mind? said Serge. I’m trying to watch this.

The desperation grew louder.

Serge sighed. Everyone wants attention. He got up and walked over. Okay, you ruined my show. Now what’s the issue?

The bound and gagged hostage looked up from his chair with pleading eyes.

Coleman killed a Schlitz and crumpled the can. So who is this guy anyway?

"Ever see the TV show To Catch a Predator?"

Yeah.

I caught one.

Where?

At the playground. He was lurking in his car with porn.

What were you doing at the playground?

Just driving by this time. I used to love playgrounds, but jeez, I haven’t played in one in at least, what? Three months?

Why not?

If you’re an adult without a kid, it draws looks, even if I’m just going for the Guinness record on the monkey bars. And parents hustle their tots away every single time I stand on top of the jungle gym, beating my chest and roaring like a silver-back gorilla, even though I’m only trying to show them how it’s done.

They don’t appreciate it?

You’d think I was a red-ass baboon.

What about the teeter-totter?

"One is the loneliest number."

Coleman stubbed out a roach. Too bad.

It’s all right, said Serge. We’re living in new times. Parents are understandably nervous these days. I’ve decided to stay away from the swing sets and not to add to their anxiety over, well, guys like this.

How’d you catch him?

Child’s play. He was too engrossed, and I flanked the car on foot—at his driver’s window before he knew it. First he thought I was an undercover cop and tried to hide the porn, but I said I was just a concerned citizen and wanted to have a little chat, emphasizing community fabric and maybe direct him to some treatment programs. You know, real polite and reasonable like I usually am.

You’re always caring.

But sometimes it turns ugly anyway. He’s a pretty big dude, as you can see. Jumped out his car and knocked me down. No biggie, I’ve been knocked down before. I get up and explain he hasn’t committed a crime yet—there’s still time to get help, but he just knocks me down again.

And that’s when you captured him?

No, I thought of what my psychiatrist said and stayed calm, because this wasn’t about me; it was for the children. I kept getting up, over and over, doing my best to win the heart and mind, but he’d just slam me to the ground again. After a while, I’m brushing dirt out of my hair and thinking: This really isn’t a conversation.

And that’s when you jumped him?

Almost there. When he saw he couldn’t rattle me, he went for my hot button, pointing back at all the giggling, running kids and . . .—Serge momentarily closed his eyes— ". . . I can’t bear to repeat what he said, but certain threats were made. He yelled that because of me, he was now definitely going to do all these horrible things, just out of spite."

That isn’t nice.

Intimidate me all you want, but when you bring kids into it, a sequence of Serge’s pre-determined neighborhood-defense protocols are triggered. The only part I regret is that the families had to see it and fled again.

Because you were fighting?

No, because I stuffed him in my trunk. Even if someone clearly deserves to be locked in my trunk, the general public still gives off this vibe they’re a little uncomfortable.

Serge unzipped a small duffel bag on the nightstand. The hostage tried screaming under the duct tape across his face.

Coleman found something on the floor, smelled it and put it in his mouth. What are you going to do with him?

Serge turned to the hostage. Would you like to know, too?

The Fugitive played on in the background.

Terrified eyes grew wider.

. . . So, stranger, what brings you to these parts? . . .

Serge dumped the duffel’s contents on the bed. You know those frowned-upon CIA interrogation techniques, like waterboarding? Except I don’t have a board. But I have plenty of water! They say people start talking almost immediately . . . He quickly ripped the tape off his captive’s mouth.

The man yelled briefly at the sting, then babbled nonstop. I swear I won’t do anything I said! I was just messing with your mind! You have to believe me! I’ll change!

Serge smiled. I know you will.

The tape went back, and Serge returned to work.

Yuck, said Coleman, removing the item from his mouth and throwing it in the wastebasket.

Serge ripped cellophane off a spooled package. What was that?

I think a mothball.

When did you suspect?

When I saw it on the floor.

Serge unrolled the package. And you still put it in your mouth?

Coleman shrugged. I could be missing out.

Serge clicked open a box cutter.

Coleman leaned closer. What’s that?

Observe. Serge held up a strip of airy gauze, oozing with mucoid slime. He stepped forward and placed the cool, moist ribbon on the captive’s forehead. Very thin, soothing, quite flimsy. A child could tear it apart. No possible way to harm anyone, right? So how can I possibly teach you a lesson with this?

How can you? asked Coleman.

Know my passion for all things Home Depot?

Well established.

Serge began unwinding the roll of wet gauze. I recently learned something interesting about plumbing repair. Now grab those scissors to cut off his shirt while I fill my squirt pistol . . .

. . . Outside the room, heavy traffic wasted gas as the car sprinted between red lights at every block. They were in Kissimmee, just below Orlando. Highway 192 to be exact, otherwise known as Irlo Bronson, the budget tourist strip on the east side of Interstate 4 from Disney World, where families who couldn’t plunk down three hundred a night at the Grand Floridian commuted to the Magic Kingdom from ten miles of economy motels, where cabaret signs flashed $39.95 and Free Hbo. In between: mini-golf, go-carts, swimsuit outlets, and all-you-can-eat buffet barns filled with people shaped like upside-down lightbulbs. As the road continued east—and the drive back to Disney lengthened—prices cascaded downhill where the highway took a gooseneck jog south toward Old Town. Bottom-barrel room rates drew an increasing clientele that wasn’t tourists, or at least not the species seeking chamber-of-commerce-approved fun: a high-mileage, tumbleweed crowd anchoring the short tail of the left-expectancy bell curve. Serge’s World. With their growing, undesirable number, motel deeds changed hands, and the highway began seeing stark buildings that were the recognizable shells of recognizable hospitality chains, which now had unrecognizable names on temporary banners. Parking lots filled with rusty shopping carts, and shirtless guests sat outside rooms on milk crates, drinking malt liquor with purposeful gazes that suggested this was still too much achievement.

Nearby:

No trace of the historic Big Bamboo Lounge, leveled and paved for retail space.

Near that:

A SWAT team monitored a lamp in a window. The parking lot was empty except for a sleek black car at the other end. With all the streetlights off, nobody had noticed it before, but someone was sitting in the driver’s seat.

"How long has he been there?" asked White.

Who?

The agent pointed. Beemer.

Not sure, said Lowe. Car was already there when we arrived. I think.

Some surveillance work.

Lowe raised his night goggles toward the vehicle. Looks like he’s got some kind of camera with a long lens. Who can he be?

Mahoney replaced his toothpick with a wooden matchstick. Smart money’s a gumshoe.

What?

Dick, peeper, shamus, sleuth, whore hound, private eye.

The man in the Beemer set his camera on the passenger seat and got out of the car. Tall, trim, brown leather jacket. He took a step toward the last motel room . . .

Whoa. Lowe lost his squat-balance and banged against a fender.

The Beemer’s driver noticed the SWAT team for the first time, then pretended not to. He leaned against his car, lighting a cigarette in a theatrical display of no intentions. Headlights hit his face.

A Cadillac Eldorado pulled into a parking slot five spaces down.

White shook his head. "Now who the hell’s that?"

Mahoney dabbed humidity off his forehead with a strip-club cocktail napkin. The Mystery Man.

Mystery Man? said White.

There’s always a Mystery Man.

What’s he do?

Reveals himself later.

Another car pulled into the lot, this one with headlights already off. It parked halfway between the other vehicles and the SWAT team. A woman behind the wheel of a turquoise T-Bird.

Lowe, said White. What did you do, call a convention?

Without turning her head, the T-Bird woman looked sideways toward the Mystery Man, whose eyes darted between the woman and the private eye, who watched them both and glanced at the SWAT team, which rotated surveillance among all three cars and the lamp in the window . . .

Serge sat at the motel room’s desk. Combed hair still wet from a shower. Lightweight tropical shirt with pineapples. Loaded .45 next to the lamp. Coffee mug. The desk had an ashtray under one of its legs to stop a wobble.

Clattering keyboard.

Coleman pulled up a chair. Typing on your new laptop?

"Well, not mine. But same difference."

What are you writing?

A rap song.

Why are you writing a rap song?

For my new website. Tap, tap, tap. If I want my specialty Florida tours to go global, I’ll need the hip-hop vote.

What kind of new website?

Remember the old one I launched after visiting that Lynyrd Skynyrd bar in Jacksonville?

Yeah, you had to start your own because the other sites didn’t like your reports telling tourists which hookers to trust . . .

. . . And how to take evasive, controlled-spin maneuvers during bump-and-jump carjackings.

The people need to know, said Coleman, pointing a joint for emphasis.

Serge tapped keys rapidly. That’s why I’m taking it to the next level.

But, Serge, how is that even possible?

I’m adding theme vacations.

Like theme parks.

Except without the parks.

I don’t understand.

"Florida is a theme park, said Serge. And the theme is weirdness."

So that’s what’s going on out there.

My first theme vacation: the ‘tourist fugitive.’ You come down here and pretend to be on the lam.

Where’d you get the idea?

"Schwarzenegger’s movie Total Recall. Serge uploaded a digital photo. Science-fiction thriller in the next century, where Arnold takes a vacation to Mars, and the travel agency gives him the option of just a regular trip or a theme. And the theme he chooses is secret agent."

Painful moans and panting from behind. Coleman turned around. I think he’s unhappy.

I love chemical reactions. More typing. Especially counter-intuitive ones. Now pay attention.

Coleman faced the screen again.

Florida is Fugitive Central, said Serge. A single crackdown in 2008 called Operation Orange Crush netted two thousand five hundred outlaws, which conservatively extrapolates to at least a hundred thousand more left at large. That’s one for every three neighborhood blocks, and I like to drive around, trying to guess which one and question them.

What do they say?

Most just run off, which means I’m guessing right.

Why do so many fugitives come here? asked Coleman.

We’ve got everything a murderous desperado could want: great weather, cool drinks, a million trailer parks, plus pharmacies and bank branches on every corner. Those qualities also attract retirees, often to the same place, in a naturally occurring sitcom.

The desk wobbled; Serge’s foot scooted the ashtray back under the leg.

What are those pictures?

Serge scrolled down the laptop screen. A mug shot rogues’ gallery of Florida fugitives. Ma Barker, Bundy, Cunanan, Wuornos and so many lesser maniacs they don’t even make the fine print.

Why not?

Florida’s the perfect camouflage, said Serge. "Up in Middle America, even one of our low-profile whack jobs would stick out like Pamela Anderson bronco-riding a UFO. A minimum of fifty calls to the cops. But down here we’re so over-saturated with hard-core street freaks that everyone energetically ignores them. We don’t want to notice and report each strangeness flare-up, or we’d totally cease to be able to run errands."

I saw a guy this morning eating ants, said Coleman. Big red ones, just squashing them with his thumb on the sidewalk.

Serge coded up a Web link. The public will never stop thanking me for this vacation.

Coleman pointed. What’s that?

Aerial view of the eastern Kissimmee strip. My first fugitive stop.

But why would regular people want to pretend to be on the run in the first place?

Because it’s the best way to experience the finest parts of our state, which is the underbelly. They’ll naturally resist at first, but once people are forced to taste our underbelly, they won’t be able to get enough.

Underbelly’s good?

The waiting lines are shorter, said Serge. Second, it forces you off the tourist-brochure grid and into the woodwork, where all the best shit is. Third, hiding out is a blast—think of all the chuckles we’ve had in seedy motel rooms.

Coleman looked back at the moaning hostage. I see what you mean.

Wish he’d pipe down.

"I don’t

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