Ensconced in a lovely tropical villa on idyllic Triggerfish Lane, Jim Davenport anticipates the good life to come. But this isn't living -- it's Florida, and the neighborhood is not quite what it seems. It's got overly aggressive Little League parents, drug-free Rastafarians, homicidal hookers, unnatural sex and casual violence. Oh, yes, and there's a psychopathic serial killer-cum-Sunshine-State folklorist named Serge A. Storms living directly across the street. So it's only a matter of time before Jim up and actually kills somebody...
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I must have missed something
This seemed like a bad joke, but then I am not familiar with this style of book. I expected it to be a mystery by the description, and I honestly don't know what it is. There is absolutely nothing that would have improved the experience. First time in years I've considered ditching a book halfway (actually much sooner) through.
It has made me very wary of descriptions, as I do not consider this a serious mystery.
It wasn't the narrator's fault--the story is so badly written and so incoherent.
Irritation. I feel like I was sold a bad joke. Had I paid full price for the book, I would have probably complained as the description did nothing to warn me.
Descriptions should be more accurate, and I wish reviewers would not assume that those considering books have read other work by the same author. Obviously I wouldn't have bought this one if I'd ever had the misfortune of reading another of this type, but I came into it cold and would have liked to know it was nonsensical (and not in a good way).
revenge with a whoopie cushion.