Just when you thought it was safe to go online . . . Serge has returned!

That loveable collector of trivia, souvenirs, and murder methods is back with a new A‑Tour of Florida. And this time he's out to set the record straight!

Serge is upset that his beloved state isn't getting its proper recognition, so he signs on with the big Internet travel services. But his new employers aren't exactly sure they want to send their customers to Serge's favorite haunts—nor do they want to provide tips on how to keep from getting killed on vacation.

Serge couldn't disagree more, and he sets up his own wildcat site, hyper‑blogging his way down the coast with his perpetually hammered sidekick, Coleman.

Unfortunately Serge's Web presence catches the attention of his nemesis, Agent Mahoney, and the chase is on.

Meanwhile, professional robbery crews have begun targeting trade show exhibitors, who may or may not be what they seem. Bodies begin piling up, which is less than usual for the locale—except this time it involves rare postcards. Serge has had enough! He's forced into the only logical course of action—go shopping at the Home Depot.

And this only raises more questions:

Who is tutoring strippers through the community college?

What sparked the grudge match between coin and stamp enthusiasts?

How'd the astronaut in diapers get involved?

Why does Serge have to stop at the NASCAR superstore?

Where did all these diamonds come from? And does Lynyrd Skynyrd hold the key to everything?

It all starts with a tragic tattoo parlor mishap and soon nobody is safe, especially the person on the Robert De Niro stool, because, after all, Serge has to sit there or what's the point of life?

But wait! You say you want more? Serge says, You got it!

Guns, drugs, bloody crime scenes, historically relevant sex, library quiet time, glow‑in‑the dark deformities, hotel drink coupons, a naked woman in a shark cage, and John Travolta.

It's time to sign on with Serge and see where the twisting, sun‑splashed trail leads in . . . Nuclear Jellyfish!

Tim Dorsey was a reporter and editor for the Tampa Tribune from 1987 to 1999, and is the author of twenty-one novels: 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 Tampa, FL.

Nuclear Jellyfish

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Chapter One

Jacksonville

Midnight.

Two young men walked along the bank of the St. Johns River, sporting shaved heads, sleeveless T-shirts and bituminous eyes that proudly announced: minimum wage 4 life. They gripped baseball bats halfway up the barrels.

"I hate fuckin' bums."

"So where are they?"

"Supposed to be a bunch of them right around here."

"Just like fuckin' bums."

There had been a light rain, and warm mist rose from the road. Work boots slapped across glistening tar and splashed through moonlit puddles. They approached the underpass of the Fuller Warren Bridge.

"Where the hell are those damn bums?"

"Hold up."

"What is it?"

"Over there."

"Where?"

"Shhhhh. Get your camcorder ready . . ."

A two-tone 1971 AMC Javelin with split upholstery sat in darkness and trash beneath a downtown bridge over the St. Johns River.

"Theories abound concerning the phenomenon of the nation's trash elite inexorably percolating down to Florida like industrial toxins reaching our aquifers . . ."

A beer can popped. "You're doing it again."

Serge wrote furiously in his notebook. "Doing what?"

"Talking to yourself."

"No I wasn't." More writing. ". . . This travel writer places his money on time-release scumbag DNA . . ."

Coleman burped. "You always talk to yourself and then say you're not."

"I am? Really? That's embarrassing." He leaned over his notebook. ". . . The scumbag genetic factor is like hereditary blood disease or male-pattern baldness. At progressive age milestones, a series of rusty, chain-link twists in the double helix trigger a sequence of social tumors: Buy a pit bull, buy an all-terrain vehicle, get a DUI, sponsor a series of blue-ribbon slapping matches with your wife in the middle of the street, discharge a gun indoors, fail to appear in court, discharge fireworks indoors, get a DUI, forget where you put your Oxycontin, crash your all-terrain vehicle into your pit bull, spend money to replace missing front teeth on large-mouth-bass mailbox, get stretchered away by ambulance for reasons you don't remember, appear on COPS for a DUI, run out the back door when warrants are served and, in a trademark spasm of late-stage dirtballism, move to Florida . . ."

Serge finished the transcription and turned to a fresh page. There was a period of silence in the two-tone Javelin (orange and green) sitting under the Fuller Warren Bridge. Then, a crunching of wax paper. A soggy tuna sandwich appeared. A travel mug of cold coffee came off the dashboard.

"Serge," said Coleman. "What did you mean before, ?We're on stakeout'? We're not police."

"Common mistake everyone makes, like the Constitution's reserve clause for states' rights. Just because cops do it, doesn't mean we can't." Serge took a sip from the mug. "This is our new job."

Coleman finished unwrapping the sandwich. "I thought our new job was visiting hotels to fill out checklists for that travel website."

"And on every hotel listing, there's a section called ?local things to do.' "

"I'm not sure the websites want to send their customers under bridges at night in dicey parts of town."

"That's my offbeat niche: I give the ¬people what they want before they know they want it."

"But your new boss specifically said no more offbeat reports."

"Everyone does what their bosses ask, and that's precisely why you need to distinguish yourself from the herd." Serge killed the coffee. "I stun them into paralyzed respect with my withering insubordination. First impressions are important."

"They usually call security."

"Because I made an impression."

Coleman checked one of his pants pockets, then another. He pulled out his hand and raised the twisted corner of a Baggie to his eyes. "Where'd it all go? Did mice chew through here? Oh well . . ." He bent over.

"Thought you'd outgrown that."

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone now knows coke is fucked up. You had an excuse for a while, because our hypocritical government lost all credibility by lumping pot in with crack to court the weed-bigot vote. Meanwhile, congressmen crammed all orifices with huge wads of cash from tobacco and liquor lobbies. But who would have guessed they were actually right about that stupid white shit?"

Coleman raised his head and sniffled. "I just do a little bump now and then so I can stay up and keep drinking beer."

"For a second I thought you weren't being productive."

Coleman's head suddenly snapped to the side. He pointed out Serge's window. "What was that?"

Serge turned. "What?"

"Something moved under the bridge."

Serge returned to his notebook. "Nothing's there. You're hallucinating again."

Coleman squinted a few more seconds, then shrugged. He stuck his tongue inside the empty bag and reached under the seat for another Schlitz. "We need to make some money."

"That's what I'm doing now." Serge flipped a notebook page, stopped and tapped his chin with a pen. "I need travel-writing tunes." He reached for his iPod, synched it with an RF transmitter to the Javelin's radio and cranked the volume.

" . . . Fly high, oh, Freebird, yeah! . . ."

Coleman rewrapped his tuna sandwich. "You've been listening to Skynyrd all day."

"We're in Jacksonville. I'm required to listen to Skynyrd."

"Why? Skynyrd's from Alabama."

Serge began punching the steering wheel like a speed bag. "Everyone thinks they're from Alabama! They're Floridians! Apocryphal motherfuckers . . ."

"Okay, okay, they're from Florida." Coleman set a wax ball on the dashboard. "I don't know this stuff like you."

Serge pointed at the ball. "You're messing up my horizon."

"The sandwich is soggy."

"Soggy's better."

"Fuck that shit."

"Your little chestnuts complete my life."

"So Skynyrd's really from Florida?"

"Too many of our state's native accomplishments are credited elsewhere. First Skynyrd and Alabama, then everyone thinks the Allman Brothers are from Georgia."

"They're not?"

"South Daytona Beach." Serge flipped down the sun visor and gazed up at a photo attached with rubber bands.

"You sure keep looking at that picture a lot."

"I think I'm in love for the first time in my life."