### From Publishers WeeklyIn his seventh screwball mystery, Dorsey (_Cadillac Beach_; *Orange Crush* ) serves up his usual cocktail of tropical mayhem and humor, though the mix is a little slushy this time around. Serge Storms, the nutty serial killer from Dorsey's previous novels, has gotten it into his head to search for Mrs. Right. His quest takes him to the underbelly of the Florida Keys, where he finds unlikely true love the minute he spots mousy librarian Molly. But even marriage can't tame Dorsey's hyperactive antihero, whose extracurricular activities of murder and cult organizing eventually lead to a clash with an Enron-like CEO eager to rebuild the community, and with a mysterious drug lord who is intent on destroying it. Muddying the waters are Coleman, an annoying junkie with the mentality of a fourth grader; Gus DeLand, a deputy whose ex-girlfriend's revelations about his sex life have the whole town laughing; and Anna Sebring, a woman out to avenge her brother's death. A few ingenious plot points entertain, but never credibly intersect; the hectic action fails to add up to a smooth-flowing story. The colorful Keys get Dorsey's trademark treatment, but even irrepressible zaniness isn't enough to keep this leaky vessel afloat.Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.### Review“Grade: A. Bust a gut laughing. . . It doesn’t get any better.” (Denver Rocky Mountain News )“Brutally funny” (Pittsburgh Tribune )“Explosively funny” (Miami Herald )“A raucous good time of a ride” (Tampa Tribune )“Dorsey has another winner on his hands with Torpedo Juice.” (Florida Today )“Wildly entertaining” (Charleston Post & Courier )
Synopsis:
Serge A. Storm returns — and so does Tim Dorsey — for another hilarious tour of the wacky underside of the Sunshine State. And this time our lovable but maniacal hero is on a mission: Stay off police radar and reinvent himself.
Naturally Serge makes a beeline to the Reinvention Capital of the United States, the Florida Keys, where nobody is who they seem to be and the freaks are the least of your worries.
Unfortunately, some other less likable lunatics have latched on to the same idea, and the sheriff’s fax machine keeps jamming because of all the APBs coming in like a storm front about to break… Lurking beneath paradise are many questions: Who is the mystery driver of the metallic green Trans Am? The brown Plymouth Duster with Ohio plates? What about the white Mercedes with tinted windows?
Who can keep it all straight?
At least when he’s not conch blowing, Seven-Mile Bridge running, underwater romancing, operating an all-inclusive twelve-step program, or trying to convince his accidental posse that he’s not the messiah.
But the questions only lead to more questions: Why is everyone afraid to set foot on No Name Key? Why are they more afraid of the smuggler left over from the old days, when all the phone booths are covered with drug dealers’ numbers? What was Serge thinking when he got married? What was she thinking? Who rises from the dead to wreak havoc on the newlyweds’ bliss? Will the Skunk Ape win the scavenger hunt? Who will survive the Key West beach bash from hell? And why is everyone hammered all the time?
Maybe it’s something in the Torpedo Juice ...
TORPEDO JUICE
TIM DORSEY
The seventh book in the Serge Storms series
Copyright © 2005 by Tim Dorsey
This is funny.
Prologue
THEY FOUND THE body crucified upside down on the side of the bat tower.
HOWDY. I’M YOUR NARRATOR.
In literary classes, I’m what’s referred to as the “omniscient narrator.” Yeah, right. Truth is, I’ve been drinking. We were supposed to start this book several hours ago, except the weather’s been cruddy. All the big stars are back in their trailers eating catered food. But does the narrator get a trailer? What do you think?
I’ve been waiting it out in the No Name Pub. That’s on Big Pine Key, two hours south of Miami. Actually not all the stars are snooty. Coleman’s been here awhile. Whoops, I wasn’t supposed to say anything…. Screw it. You’ll find out soon enough. Yes, Coleman’s back. Remember the big supporting player a few books ago? He went and pulled a McLean Stevenson and left the series when he thought he had this big movie career. Then Hollywood put that notion out like a cheap cigar, and he came back around begging for work. But his character had already been killed off. What were they going to do? I’ll tell you what they did. They hatched some crazy gimmick to resurrect him, a stupid idea if you ask me, but nobody ever does. That’s typical. I’ve been loyal through seven books, dropping polite hints about a little on-screen time. Nothing big, just a few lines. But no, I’m “far too valuable in my current role.” Then the prodigal boob comes home and they fall all over themselves writing him back in…. I shouldn’t blame Coleman. It’s not his fault. It’s “The Suits.”… So Coleman’s here with me, and this is the thing about Coleman: You can’t just be sociable and party a little bit with him. It’s either avoid him like the plague or you end up in the eye of a complete fiasco. Like now. He’s still trying to get me to take these pills. Even
