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Independently wealthy eco-terrorist Twilly Spree teaches a flagrant litterbug a lesson--and leaves the offender's precious Range Rover swarming with hungry dung beetles. When he discovers the litterer is one of the most powerful political fixers in Florida, the real Hiaasen-style fun begins.
Clinton Tyree thought, who am I kidding here. He heard the chair scoot closer to the door. Then came a metallic click, like a Zippo lighter or a pocketknife being opened. Then he thought he heard a murmur. "Doyle?" Still not a word. "The reason I came – look, I just wanted to tell you that you never have to leave this place if you don't want. It's all been taken care of. Don't be frightened ever again, because you're safe here, OK? For as long as you want. I give you my word." There was
flipped on the lights and began searching. The kitchen was spacious, newly refurbished in a desert-Southwest motif with earth-tone cabinets and all-stainless appliances. This is what guys like Palmer Stoat do for their new young wives, Twilly thought; kitchens and jewelry are pretty much the upper reach of their imaginations. He found the dog's medicines on the counter next to the coffee machine: two small prescription bottles and a tube of ointment, all antibiotics, which Twilly put in his
Already he was thinking about the intriguing call girl he'd met the other night at Swain's, the one who fucked only Republicans. Certainly shewould have no liberal qualms about aphrodisiacs harvested from endangered species. Nor would Roberta, the free-spirited, prodigiously implanted blonde who was Stoat's occasional travel companion. For the promise of a new and improved orgasm, Roberta would've killed the rhinoceros with her own bare hands. But to his wife, Palmer Stoat declared: "I'll toss
against Palmer Stoat's bare back; he tried to cross his flabby thighs but the bath towel was wrapped too snugly. The bearded one-eyed man walked around the desk and stood directly behind the leather chair. The only way Stoat could see the man was to cock his head straight back. From that upside-down vantage, the captain's visage appeared amiable enough. "So you're a lobbyist," he said to Stoat. "That's right." Stoat began to explain his unsung role in the machinations of representative
in the duck blind, when Stoat was still trying to make a legitimate retriever out of him – the frenzied flutter of bird wings, the pop-pop-popof shotguns, the ring of men's voices. Lodged in McGuinn's memory bank was every path he'd ever run, every tomcat he'd ever treed, every leg he'd tried to hump. But whether he truly missed his master's companionship, who could say. Labradors tended to live exclusively, gleefully, obliviously in the moment. And at the moment McGuinn was happy. He had always