I bought it at a library sale.

It was a hardback copy. $4. The price was right. So was the author. I couldn’t resist.

I’d purchased the literary equivalent of deja vu.

Tim Dorsey’s work is all pretty much the same. He’s like the architect of a subdivision filled with cookie cutter cottages that are identical in design but perhaps slightly different in color. You could easily walk into your neighbor’s home and not even know it. Until his wife screams when you jump in the bed.

Dorsey has developed a formula. A working formula.

Hurricane Punch is Dorsey’s…well, you know, I’m not sure where this book falls in the Dorsey lineage. I’ve read them out of order. I’m not sure Dorsey knows. After all, he killed off one of his main characters in his earlier works only to bring him back to life. No grammatical error, no foul.

Once again, Serge Storms is the star of the show. He is Florida’s favorite homicidal historian. Accompanied by his best friend Coleman, Serge treats his favorite state as his personal scavenger hunt, exploring every nook and oddity. Coleman’s primary course of transportation is beer, barbiturates, and bongs. The two are pursued by Detective Mahoney, who is half pulp, half voices-inside-the-head.

Hurricane Punch reveals Dorsey’s history in the newspaper business. He introduces a wacked out crime beat reporter who possesses a rather sad talent for scoring interviews with victims. Really sad. He cries. He is the primary scribe assigned to a series of crimes that take place in the eye of hurricane season. Serge is both curious and responsible. Coleman is passed out.

There is a plot twist, but that’s really not the point. The point is to follow Serge’s twisted antics. He is both creative and demented. That’s the way he’s been since Tim Dorsey first hit the keyboard, and that’s the way he’ll be until Dorsey sees fit to dump his potent protagonist  in the Everglades.

Yes, Dorsey’s books offer little variety, but they’re like that fourth handful of Doritos. It’s not as satisfying as that first taste, you know you’re just getting crumbs all over your lap, and the trans fats are going to kill you.

But you just can’t stop.