My book club picked this book and assured us that even though it was number 9 in a series, you didn't have to read the other 8 to get it. I'm not sure if that's partially responsible for the huge disconnect I had with this book, but it's possible. What I felt like is that maybe everyone's grown to love these characters over other books and already had some kind of connection that I missed completely, because I couldn't get into these caricatures of humanity or believe in/enjoy anything they did. I wondered for a while if the unbelievability was intentional to increase the hilarity, but since that would have required the book to be funny, I didn't see that working either. Mostly I just saw overly constructed characters firing and missing at humor like a drunk redneck taking potshots at a road sign.
Serge Storms was obviously supposed to be the heart of the humor in this book, and his associate Coleman was his always-inebriated sidekick. Now, Serge felt obnoxious to me while he was forced to be read as charismatic to everyone in the book. Authority figures fold in his presence assuming he's supposed to be in places he's not allowed to be, allowing him to get away with nonsense and dumb pranks. Coincidences allow him to reap rewards, have run-ins with annoying people who cause minor inconvenience to Serge and pay with their lives in "hilarious" murders. Women are not important in the story except for when they practically wet themselves to be allowed to have sex with Serge--three different times various women throw themselves at Serge and frequently narrate (out loud) how many orgasms they're having as Serge ravishes them without seeming particularly interested in what he's doing. You see, he's so amazing that he's pumping these women and driving them to the best climaxes of their lives, but it takes very little of his attention and he can do stuff like drive a car hilariously, talk to his associates while banging, and even share his random thoughts on Florida history.
The Florida history thing. He was constantly dropping buckets of exposition about Floridian trivia, OUT LOUD, and lovable old Coleman pipes up to say "Serge, you're doing it again!" Why does he do his? Well, because he's craaaaazy! Ho ho! Real example from the book (YES, THIS IS DIALOGUE):
"A few miles above Venice, the Tamiami Trail takes a pair of jogs as it wings past Marina Jack's and the bridge to Bird Key, home of lifestyle pace-car and AC/DC front man Brian Johnson. The road continues north toward the international airport as part of something designated 'Florida Scenic Highway,' a route singularly characterized by a dense concentration of endangered mom-and-pop motels clinging from the fifties. Many had already been demolished, while others were converted to a variety of mixed-density operations selling live bait and sex toys. The most tenacious kept the neon buzzing: the Seabreeze, the Sundial, the Cadillac, the Galaxy, the Siesta, the Flamingo Colony. . . ."
"Serge," said Coleman, "you're doing it again."
". . . In the middle of this stretch is a small, easily missed concrete building set back from the road in a nest of palms and island vegetation. Above the front door, in Tahitian lettering: BAHI HUT. What do you say we take a peek inside?"
"Serge, we're already inside. You're talking to yourself at the bar."
". . . The lounge's interior was aggressively dark and Polynesian. Wicker, bamboo, tiki gods, wooden surfboards. The kind of place criminals might hatch schemes in early episodes of Hawaii Five-O. I advised Coleman to try the hut's signature drink. He ordered two. . . ."
This kind of thing happened a LOT in the book--while driving, while sitting around, while setting up plot points. People would narrate what they were doing, and other people would prompt them or explain what they're doing and ask dumb questions about why they're doing it so we'd know it was happening ("Why's that guy shaking?" instead of telling us someone is shaking), and the dialogue was often so absurd that it was all contrived to lead to some half-baked punch line. Every character's speech revolved around letting Serge say something offensive or clever, literally set up like a knock-knock joke. This enables him to offend the priest constantly (even though priests in confessionals don't announce how offended they are or express outrage as a way to keep people saying even more offensive things), or to stir up a crowd through absurd manipulation, or ask out-of-context questions to push the dialogue along so Serge can throw a snarky zinger. Which would have MAYBE been more tolerable if the climax wasn't some half-baked Dad Joke that's so overplayed I've been seeing its cousins on Internet forums since 1995.
And here's another weird thing about the way everything about the book felt staged. First, when a character is introduced, the narration will give you a photograph of them, basically--tell you what they look like, tell you what kind of person they are, frame them in the context of the story for you. And THEN . . . you get to see that actually revealed in the story as examples of it play out for you to establish character. And THEN . . . later in the story the character will EXPLAIN THEMSELVES TO OTHERS to establish character AGAIN. This happened with Coleman. With Serge. With McSwirley. With Mahoney. For example, McSwirley is introduced by the narration with expository whinging featuring him in a psychiatrist's office telling the doctor about how he's been on the cop beat for three years and can't stand talking to survivors and it's destroying him, but BECAUSE he feels so much pain over survivors' tragedies, he can often get exclusives and be welcomed by survivors, leading to his ability to sensitively render their stories in the paper and make his boss not want to take him off the cop beat. Then you actually get to see McSwirley arriving to a crime scene, crying and puking on things, being huddled around by survivors who basically want to comfort HIM, and playing out exactly what McSwirley described in the doctor's office. And later, he explains everything about his situation to Serge and cries a lot while doing it. Like . . . we get it, all right? How about just letting us see ONE of these things in action and have it be funny when it keeps recurring, without explaining it to us?
This book is basically an excuse to show Serge driving around in hurricanes, murdering people because they're terrible but doing similar things himself when it suits him, bantering with Coleman about his mid-life crisis, watching Coleman be incompetent because he's drunk or high and doing zaaaaanny things like spray-painting his legs with furniture polish to keep evil elves away, and following Mahoney doing his noir schtick that leaves everyone baffled and McSwirley being so hilariously mild-mannered that he can't even get angry at people who deliberately set out to ruin him and harass him. Everyone's a construction for the joke. Everyone's a comedy routine. Everyone does off-the-wall things so we can stage another joke, with alternating lines of dialogue being rendered in italics because it goes on so long devoid of real voice that it's otherwise hard to tell who's talking. Every woman is a random sex-bot who is so blown away by sex with Serge that they are humped into exhaustion and subsequent hibernation, which allows our heroes to abandon them without a problem or do something grisly they're left to find--they're all shallow and exist to be manipulated, and even though Serge is a madman, it's clear his "how to deal with women--let them think they've won and just don't argue" advice feels a little less deliberately sexist in a book where literally every woman behaves irrationally and cares only about petty things. Broads are so silly and vapid!
In general I was just frustrated by how empty of content the book was. Occasionally there'd be an absurdity that would make me laugh or a phrase/idea that made me think it was a bit clever, but everything around it would have bent like skinny trees in hurricane winds to accommodate this scene happening. Ho ho, the Party Parrot randomly shows up in the background of all the news stories. Ho ho, the news room is a sensationalistic tourist attraction that has tours coming through every fifteen minutes. Ho ho, Coleman is drunk again and fell off his stool after Serge gave us a page and a half of exposition about the signature drink. Ho ho, a clipboard makes people think you're the boss and they'll let you uproot and steal the ATM from the convenience store. Ho ho, noir detective insists on wearing his fedora and calling people by code names like "Mongoose." Ho ho, a truck driver arrives in a remote location during a hurricane and needs something from our heroes just in time to become their decoy.
Being a Floridian and living exactly where this book is set, it was kind of interesting to see places I know and see some of the hurricane stuff framed in the story, though I was surprised at how thoroughly he made the Tampa Bay area sound like a dump. That's not entirely untrue, though, I guess. Florida certainly is a special breed of weirdville populated by weirdos and full of absurdity. It makes me wonder why this felt so strained if there really is so much actual weirdness in this state to draw on. Based on this, I definitely would say Carl Hiaasen does a much better job capturing the Weird of Florida without spending the entire book creating excuses for his characters to recite stories about it.