" Skink drank another beer and yowled at the sky. Decades of hermitage had kept him barely on keel but his turbulent aversions never waned. He’d fled the governor’s mansion with his values intact but his idealism extinguished, his patience smashed to dust. Politics had scrambled his soul much worse than the war, and he left behind in Tallahassee not only his name but the discredited strategy of forbearance and compromise. The cherished wild places of his youth vanished under cinder blocks and asphalt, and so, too, had the rest of the state been transformed—hijacked by greedy suckworms disguised as upright citizens. From swampy lairs Skink would strike back wherever an opportunity arose, and the message was never ambiguous. Even schmucks like Jackie Sebago got the point. "

― Carl Hiaasen , Star Island (Skink, #6)