More mayhem, madness, and mystery ensue in Tim Dorsey's seventh entry in “Florida’s hottest helter-skelter, hallucinogenic freak show” ( Publishers Weekly ). Though he may not always show it, lovable serial killer Serge Storms has a romantic side. Sure, life as a fugitive on the Overseas Highway has been fun. But it’s been lonely too, especially now that he’s hit the beautiful Florida Keys. Serge wants a bride. And nothing will come between him and his soul mate ... when he finally hunts her down. On the road to finding Ms. Right, Serge will hook up with an astonishing array of scoundrels, schemers, and hoodlums, including an old accomplice he thought was long dead; a gaggle of irregular regulars at the No Name pub, a remote bar in the Keys’ back country; a drug kingpin with a penchant for solitude and brutality; and a notorious real estate swindler who sets Serge’s heart aflutter. And while the course of true love is never smooth, things soon go wildly out of control with a lovesick Serge hilariously leading the way. “Dorseys work is dirty, fluffy fun. . . . a contender in a genre shared with the likes of wacko Florida chroniclers Carl Hiaasen and Dave Barry. Their younger colleague, in fact, may have the edge when it comes to the rapid pace of the action, and the over-the-top escapades of the characters.” - Sarasota Herald-Tribune “Fiercely energetic, outrageously funny. . . . Imagine Hunter S. Thompson sharing a byline with Groucho Marx.” - Tampa Tribune “Dorsey has another winner on his hands with Torpedo Juice.” - Florida Today “Brutally funny” - Pittsburgh Tribune “Wildly entertaining” - Charleston Post & Courier “Grade: A. Bust a gut laughing. . . It doesn’t get any better.” - Denver Rocky Mountain News “Explosively funny” - Miami Herald “A raucous good time of a ride” - Tampa Tribune The drinks are on Sunshine State historian/spree killer Serge A. Storms, who's decided it's high time he got married. So he's motoring down to the Florida Keys -- the ultimate end of the line -- in search of Ms. Right . . . and finding his doped-up basket case bud Coleman along the way. But for Serge, "getting hitched" doesn't necessarily mean "settling down" -- not when South Florida is crawling with slimeballs, swindlers, unrepentant jerks, and annoying bystanders whose ranks need some serious thinning. 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. Torpedo Juice By Tim Dorsey HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. Copyright © 2006 Tim Dorsey All right reserved. ISBN: 0060585617 Chapter One It was another typically beautiful morning in the middle of the Florida Keys. People were drunk and people were screaming. Patrons from the roadside bars heard the commotion and carried drinks outside to watch the routine mess on U.S. 1, the Nation's Highway, 2,209 miles from Fort Kent, Maine, on the Canadian border, to the tip of Key West. The road was snarled to the horizon in both directions. Standard procedure: midmorning congestion, then the chain reaction of rear-enders from inattention. Now a parking lot. Drivers honked, shouted obscenities, turned off their engines and popped beers. A Mercury overheated and the hood went up. Ninety-nine degrees. Two sheriff's deputies stood at the window of their airconditioned substation on Cudjoe Key. Veterans Gus DeLand and Walter St. Cloud. Drinking coffee. It was the beginning of the shift, the part where they were supposed to review the latest bulletins on all the serial killers and mass murderers heading their way. Gus looked out the window with his hands on his hips. "We've got to do something about that road." "I've never seen a crucifixion before," said Walter, holding a ceramic cup covered with swimsuit models. "Check out this new mug. I got it in Vegas. When you pour a hot beverage in it, like coffee, the bathing suits disappear. I don't know how it works." The fax activated. Gus headed toward it. He came back reading the all-points bulletin. " . . . Brown Plymouth Duster, brown Plymouth Duster, brown Plymouth . . . " "What are you doing?" asked Walter, holding a coffee mug ateye level. "Mnemonic device. Possible serial killer heading this way. . . . brown Plymouth Duster, brown . . . " The fax started again. Gus came back with another piece of paper. " . . . Metallic green Trans Am, metallic green Trans Am, metallic green . . . " "I brought one back for you, too."