Nuclear Jellyfish (Serge Storms Series #11)

by Tim Dorsey

Overview

Just when you thought it was safe to go online, Serge A. Storms has returned! The lovable collector of trivia, souvenirs, and murder methods is upset that his beloved state isn't getting its proper recognition, so he signs on with the big Internet travel services. Soon Serge sets up his own wildcat of Florida site, hyper-blogging his way down the coast with his perpetually hammered sidekick, Coleman.

Unfortunately, Serge's Web presence catches the attention of his neme-sis, Agent Mahoney, and the chase is on. When professional robbery crews begin targeting trade show exhibitors, bodies begin piling up. Serge has had enough! He's forced into the only logical course of action—go shopping at Home Depot.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780061432675
Publisher:	HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date:	12/29/2009
Series:	Serge Storms Series , #11
Edition description:	Reprint
Pages:	307
Sales rank:	58,088
Product dimensions:	5.31(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.72(d)

About the Author

Tim Dorsey was a reporter and editor for the Tampa Tribune from 1987 to 1999, and is the author of seventeen other novels: 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 Tampa, Florida.

Read an Excerpt

Nuclear Jellyfish

A Novel

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By Tim Dorsey
HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2009

Tim Dorsey
All right reserved.


ISBN: 9780061432668

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Chapter One

Jacksonville

Midnight.

Two young men walked along the bank of the St. Johns River, sporting shaved heads, sleeveless T-shirts and bituminous eyes that proudly announced: minimum wage 4 life. They gripped baseball bats halfway up the barrels.

"I hate fuckin' bums."

"So where are they?"

"Supposed to be a bunch of them right around here."

"Just like fuckin' bums."

There had been a light rain, and warm mist rose from the road. Work boots slapped across glistening tar and splashed through moonlit puddles. They approached the underpass of the Fuller Warren Bridge.

"Where the hell are those damn bums?"

"Hold up."

"What is it?"

"Over there."

"Where?"

"Shhhhh. Get your camcorder ready . . ."

A two-tone 1971 AMC Javelin with split upholstery sat in darkness and trash beneath a downtown bridge over the St. Johns River.

"Theories abound concerning the phenomenon of the nation's trash elite inexorably percolating down to Florida like industrial toxins reaching our aquifers . . ."

A beer can popped. "You're doing it again."

Serge wrote furiously in his notebook. "Doing what?"

"Talking to yourself."

"No I wasn't." Morewriting. ". . . This travel writer places his money on time-release scumbag DNA . . ."

Coleman burped. "You always talk to yourself and then say you're not."

"I am? Really? That's embarrassing." He leaned over his notebook. ". . . The scumbag genetic factor is like hereditary blood disease or male-pattern baldness. At progressive age milestones, a series of rusty, chain-link twists in the double helix trigger a sequence of social tumors: Buy a pit bull, buy an all-terrain vehicle, get a DUI, sponsor a series of blue-ribbon slapping matches with your wife in the middle of the street, discharge a gun indoors, fail to appear in court, discharge fireworks indoors, get a DUI, forget where you put your Oxycontin, crash your all-terrain vehicle into your pit bull, spend money to replace missing front teeth on large-mouth-bass mailbox, get stretchered away by ambulance for reasons you don't remember, appear on COPS for a DUI, run out the back door when warrants are served and, in a trademark spasm of late-stage dirtballism, move to Florida . . ."

Serge finished the transcription and turned to a fresh page. There was a period of silence in the two-tone Javelin (orange and green) sitting under the Fuller Warren Bridge. Then, a crunching of wax paper. A soggy tuna sandwich appeared. A travel mug of cold coffee came off the dashboard.

"Serge," said Coleman. "What did you mean before, 'We're on stakeout'? We're not police."

"Common mistake everyone makes, like the Constitution's reserve clause for states' rights. Just because cops do it, doesn't mean we can't." Serge took a sip from the mug. "This is our new job."

Coleman finished unwrapping the sandwich. "I thought our new job was visiting hotels to fill out checklists for that travel website."

"And on every hotel listing, there's a section called 'local things to do.' "

"I'm not sure the websites want to send their customers under bridges at night in dicey parts of town."

"That's my offbeat niche: I give the ¬people what they want before they know they want it."

"But your new boss specifically said no more offbeat reports."

"Everyone does what their bosses ask, and that's precisely why you need to distinguish yourself from the herd." Serge killed the coffee. "I stun them into paralyzed respect with my withering insubordination. First impressions are important."

"They usually call security."

"Because I made an impression."

Coleman checked one of his pants pockets, then another. He pulled out his hand and raised the twisted corner of a Baggie to his eyes. "Where'd it all go? Did mice chew through here? Oh well . . ." He bent over.

"Thought you'd outgrown that."

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone now knows coke is fucked up. You had an excuse for a while, because our hypocritical government lost all credibility by lumping pot in with crack to court the weed-bigot vote. Meanwhile, congressmen crammed all orifices with huge wads of cash from tobacco and liquor lobbies. But who would have guessed they were actually right about that stupid white shit?"

Coleman raised his head and sniffled. "I just do a little bump now and then so I can stay up and keep drinking beer."

"For a second I thought you weren't being productive."

Coleman's head suddenly snapped to the side. He pointed out Serge's window. "What was that?"

Serge turned. "What?"

"Something moved under the bridge."

Serge returned to his notebook. "Nothing's there. You're hallucinating again."

Coleman squinted a few more seconds, then shrugged. He stuck his tongue inside the empty bag and reached under the seat for another Schlitz. "We need to make some money."

"That's what I'm doing now." Serge flipped a notebook page, stopped and tapped his chin with a pen. "I need travel-writing tunes." He reached for his iPod, synched it with an RF transmitter to the Javelin's radio and cranked the volume.

" . . . Fly high, oh, Freebird, yeah! . . ."

Coleman rewrapped his tuna sandwich. "You've been listening to Skynyrd all day."

"We're in Jacksonville. I'm required to listen to Skynyrd."

"Why? Skynyrd's from Alabama."

Serge began punching the steering wheel like a speed bag. "Everyone thinks they're from Alabama! They're Floridians! Apocryphal motherfuckers . . ."

"Okay, okay, they're from Florida." Coleman set a wax ball on the dashboard. "I don't know this stuff like you."

Serge pointed at the ball. "You're messing up my horizon."

"The sandwich is soggy."

"Soggy's better."

"Fuck that shit."

"Your little chestnuts complete my life."

"So Skynyrd's really from Florida?"

"Too many of our state's native accomplishments are credited elsewhere. First Skynyrd and Alabama, then everyone thinks the Allman Brothers are from Georgia."

"They're not?"

"South Daytona Beach." Serge flipped down the sun visor and gazed up at a photo attached with rubber bands.

"You sure keep looking at that picture a lot."

"I think I'm in love for the first time in my life."

Continues...

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Excerpted from Nuclear Jellyfish by Tim Dorsey Copyright © 2009 by Tim Dorsey. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Editorial Reviews

…pure gonzo humor. Serge being Serge (meaning certifiable), sex, violence and hilarity ensue as he pinballs along the Florida highways, pursuing his dream of authenticating every bit of the state’s anecdotal history.
—The New York Times

Marilyn Stasio

Fasten your seatbelts: Serge A. Storms, Florida's manic tour and history guide as well as its most inventive and prolific serial killer, cruises at warp(ed) speed through bestseller Dorsey's 11th thriller (after Atomic Lobster). Serge's primary target is a tattooed thug called Jellyfish (behind his back) or Eel (to his face), whose gang rips off diamond couriers. But along the frantic way, Serge and his pal, the always-buzzed Coleman, remove a variety of societal pests, including skinheads beating a homeless man, auto repair shysters preying on tourists and bargain motels that don't deliver on their bargains. Serge's instruments of vengeance include garden hoses, pigs, aerosol sprays and lots of duct tape. Dorsey's inspired insanity certainly won't appeal to everyone, but Serge's antics give vicarious satisfaction to those who too often see misdeeds go unpunished. In short, Serge continues to pummel convention and evildoers with exuberant abandon and wit. 9-city author tour. (Feb.)

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Publishers Weekly

The 11th installment of the Serge A. Storms saga finds Serge, manic serial killer and dedicated Florida history buff, driving the interstates and back roads of his home state seeking out little-known historic sites and meticulously blogging about his ramblings. Life is an adventure for Serge and his sidekick, Coleman, who stalk a diamond thief and his thugs. No longer the random thrill murderer of Florida Roadkill, Serge has morphed into a conscientious vigilante who stalks his prey when appropriate and plans precise executions in keeping with the victim's misdeeds. That he miscalculates and almost blows this one seriously shakes his confidence, especially since his nemesis, Agent Mahoney, is instrumental in the final resolution. Dorsey has penned another fun-filled killing spree in the same vein as his ten previous novels. His readers will certainly demand this title, and fans of that other lovable serial killer, Jeff Lindsay's Dexter, may also enjoy. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 10/15/08.]
—Thomas L. Kilpatrick

Library Journal

Lovable sociopath Serge Storms (Atomic Lobster, 2007, etc.) goes high tech, spreading information over the Internet about Florida's gas, food and lodgings. After putting in some pro bono work dispatching a pair of skinheads for roughing up a guy living in a cardboard box underneath one of Jacksonville's seven bridges, Serge decides he needs a paying gig. So he folds his pal Coleman into his 1971 Javelin and heads for a local Internet Job Fair. Pretty soon, he's both a street checker for a GPS system and a motel evaluator for a discount-travel website. These new professions allow him to keep on doing what he loves best: driving all over Florida and checking out obscure tourist attractions, including the West Tavern, where Lynyrd Skynyrd got the inspiration for "Three Steps," and the Holiday Inn across from Silver Springs, where John Travolta goes for his Denny's fix. He crosses paths with a posse of peripatetic coin dealers, some of whom smuggle diamonds on the side, and a band of thugs who plot to steal the diamonds. And he picks up Story Long, a hitchhiking stripper who shares Serge's love of sex followed by Viewmaster shots. Naturally, he takes time now and then to knock off some of the bad guys, especially after they beat up Howard, a Florida memorabilia fan whose collection is rivaled only by Serge's. Less zany than usual, Serge's 11th, part travelogue, part bloodbath, is both as monotonous and as uncertain as that combination would suggest.

Kirkus Reviews