Wednesday, 30 October 2024 08:45 pm
Book Review: Electric Barracuda: A Novel
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deckardcanineI had never heard of Tim Dorsey until I saw several of his books in a comic book store. The clerk clarified that they were his own, not for sale. Then he lent me one without me asking. I gratefully made a point to finish within the month.
Circa 2011, Serge Storms has been sporadically updating a website detailing what he calls the Fugitive Tour, advising readers to pretend they're on the lam so they can see the more remote and, in his view, better parts of Florida. There's a reason it's sporadic: He's not pretending. The FBI, among others, is after him for a series of murders. His only long-term companion is stoner Coleman, who rarely serves as more than someone to talk to. And maybe laugh at, internally.
Serge fancies himself a fan-favorite vigilante, taking on only the worse criminals he meets (which must happen more often in hideaway areas). But he always chooses creative methods, usually with hideous results, at least in the few cases we know. He's been at this for about a decade, because when he's not at least two steps ahead of his pursuers, sheer luck kicks in.
Serge is a piece of work, all right. Frequently brilliant and well-informed, he sometimes gets more lit than Coleman, or else he's sorely lacking in common sense. One moment, he's telling Coleman not to urinate on graves; the next, he's talking about digging up and burning a corpse to fake his death. Almost everywhere he goes, he either makes a general nuisance of himself or is welcomed with open arms by old friends. Or else an ex starts out mad at him but quickly wants to bang him again.
When the perspective is not that of Serge or Coleman, it's usually one of the pursuers. Agent White, in charge, is the straight man. Agent Lowe is a schlemiel who dreams of joining a SWAT team. Agent Mahoney has the most intimate knowledge of Serge and thus helps close in, but his habit of talking like a caricature of a '40s pulp detective makes him nigh inscrutable and frustrating. Then there's "the Doberman," an accident-prone showman who might be parodying Dog the Bounty Hunter.
We also get flashbacks to the Al Capone era, quite tangential to current events. Arguably the best thing about the book is its educational value; I didn't learn this much about Florida from Dave Barry's Big Trouble. That said, BT was a lot funnier to my mind, partly by being a trice more tasteful.
Things kinda move at a good clip, thanks in part to short chapters, but there isn't much sense of plot progression as the FBI keeps showing up too late. I won't call it predictable, and a few twists in the third act make things more interesting. Still, I found myself hoping Serge's spree would come to an end one way or another, not just because he deserved it but because it would mean a lasting change for once.
The title is not explained until page 192, when Serge receives an electric blue Plymouth Barracuda as a favor. It's not even an electric car. I feel vaguely cheated.
When I returned the book today, the owner wasn't present. Maybe just as well so I wouldn't have to tell him I found it merely OK and probably won't check out another Dorsey effort. I threw in a nice bookmark, because he'd misplaced one.
My next read is Throne of the Crescent Moon by Saladin Ahmed. Finally getting back into outright fantasy. And author diversity.
Circa 2011, Serge Storms has been sporadically updating a website detailing what he calls the Fugitive Tour, advising readers to pretend they're on the lam so they can see the more remote and, in his view, better parts of Florida. There's a reason it's sporadic: He's not pretending. The FBI, among others, is after him for a series of murders. His only long-term companion is stoner Coleman, who rarely serves as more than someone to talk to. And maybe laugh at, internally.
Serge fancies himself a fan-favorite vigilante, taking on only the worse criminals he meets (which must happen more often in hideaway areas). But he always chooses creative methods, usually with hideous results, at least in the few cases we know. He's been at this for about a decade, because when he's not at least two steps ahead of his pursuers, sheer luck kicks in.
Serge is a piece of work, all right. Frequently brilliant and well-informed, he sometimes gets more lit than Coleman, or else he's sorely lacking in common sense. One moment, he's telling Coleman not to urinate on graves; the next, he's talking about digging up and burning a corpse to fake his death. Almost everywhere he goes, he either makes a general nuisance of himself or is welcomed with open arms by old friends. Or else an ex starts out mad at him but quickly wants to bang him again.
When the perspective is not that of Serge or Coleman, it's usually one of the pursuers. Agent White, in charge, is the straight man. Agent Lowe is a schlemiel who dreams of joining a SWAT team. Agent Mahoney has the most intimate knowledge of Serge and thus helps close in, but his habit of talking like a caricature of a '40s pulp detective makes him nigh inscrutable and frustrating. Then there's "the Doberman," an accident-prone showman who might be parodying Dog the Bounty Hunter.
We also get flashbacks to the Al Capone era, quite tangential to current events. Arguably the best thing about the book is its educational value; I didn't learn this much about Florida from Dave Barry's Big Trouble. That said, BT was a lot funnier to my mind, partly by being a trice more tasteful.
Things kinda move at a good clip, thanks in part to short chapters, but there isn't much sense of plot progression as the FBI keeps showing up too late. I won't call it predictable, and a few twists in the third act make things more interesting. Still, I found myself hoping Serge's spree would come to an end one way or another, not just because he deserved it but because it would mean a lasting change for once.
The title is not explained until page 192, when Serge receives an electric blue Plymouth Barracuda as a favor. It's not even an electric car. I feel vaguely cheated.
When I returned the book today, the owner wasn't present. Maybe just as well so I wouldn't have to tell him I found it merely OK and probably won't check out another Dorsey effort. I threw in a nice bookmark, because he'd misplaced one.
My next read is Throne of the Crescent Moon by Saladin Ahmed. Finally getting back into outright fantasy. And author diversity.
no subject
That you can say this of the book that introduced "gazongas" to my personal lexicon tells me everything I need to know.