Electric Barracuda Read Online Free

karaoke version. The music started.
    “What’s that?” asked Coleman.
    “Flo-Rida.”
    “Who?”
    “Our homegrown favorite-son rap hero. Even has a map of the state tattooed like a beast on his back.”
    The tempo picked up. Serge cranked the volume. He grinned at the gagged hostage. “I think you’ll love this, but give me the honest truth. Don’t be swayed by the ropes and duct tape.”
    Coleman finished reading the lyrics. “I think I’m ready.”
    Serge cleared his throat. “From the top . . .”
    The music blared, and the pair began lunging toward the captive with gang-style hand gestures.
I’m Captain Florida, the state history pimp
Gatherin’ more data than a DEA blimp
West Palm, Tampa Bay, Miami-Dade
Cruisin’ the coasts till Johnny Vegas gets laid
Developer ho’s, and the politician bitches
Smackin’ ’em down, while I’m takin’ lots of pictures
Hurricanes, sinkholes, natural disaster
’Scuse me while I kick back, with my View-Master
(S:) I’m Captain Florida, obscure facts are all legit
(C:) I’m Coleman, the sidekick, with a big bong hit
(S:) I’m Captain Florida, staying literate
(C:) Coleman sees a book and says, “Fuck that shit”
Ain’t never been caught, slippin’ nooses down the Keys
Got more buoyancy than Elián González
Knockin’ off the parasites, and takin’ all their moola
Recruiting my apostles for the Church of Don Shula
I’m an old-school gangster with a psycho ex-wife Molly
Packin’ Glocks, a shotgun and my 7-Eleven coffee
Trippin’ the theme parks, the malls, the time-shares
Bustin’ my rhymes through all the red-tide scares
(S:) I’m the surge in the storms, don’t believe the hype
(C:) I’m his stoned number two, where’d I put my hash pipe?
(S:) Florida, no appointments and a tank of gas
(C:) Tequila, no employment and a bag of grass
Think you’ve seen it all? I beg to differ
Mosquitoes like bats and a peg-leg stripper
The scammers, the schemers, the real estate liars
Birthday-party clowns in a meth-lab fire
But dig us, don’t diss us, pay a visit, don’t be late
And statistics always lie, so ignore the murder rate
Beaches, palm trees and golfing is our curse
Our residents won’t bite, but a few will shoot first
Everglades, orange groves, alligators, Buffett
Scarface, Hemingway, an Andrew Jackson to suck it
Solarcaine, Rogaine, eight balls of cocaine
See the hall of fame for the criminally insane
Artifacts, folklore, roadside attractions
Crackers, Haitians, Cuban-exile factions
The early-bird specials, drivin’ like molasses
Condo-meeting fistfights in cataract glasses
(S:) I’m the native tourist, with the rants that can’t be beat
(C:) Serge, I think I put my shoes on the wrong feet
(S:) A stack of old postcards in another dingy room
(C:) A cold Bud forty and a magic mushroom
Can’t stop, turnpike, keep ridin’ like the wind
Gotta make a detour for a souvenir pin
But if you like to litter, you’re just liable to get hurt
Do ya like the MAC-10 under my tropical shirt?
I just keep meeting jerks, I’m a human land-filler
But it’s totally unfair, this term “serial killer”
The police never rest, always breakin’ in my pad
But sunshine is my bling, and I’m hangin’ like a chad
(S:) Serge has got to roll and drop the mike on this rap . . .
(C:) Coleman’s climbin’ in the tub, to take a little nap . . .
(S:) . . . Disappearin’ in the swamp—and goin’ tangent, tangent, tangent . . .
(C:) He’s goin’ tangent, tangent . . .
(Fade-out)
(S:) I’m goin’ tangent, tangent . . .
(C:) Fuck goin’ platinum, he’s goin’ tangent, tangent . . .
(S:) . . . Wikipedia all up and down your ass . . .
(C:) Wikity-Wikity-Wikity . . .
    I n a dark motel parking lot, a T-Bird’s convertible roof began to retract. The SWAT team’s surveillance rotation stopped, all night goggles on the sports car.
    “Good Jesus,” said one of the commandos. “I’m in love.”
    The rag-top finished tucking itself behind the