As a devoted Stephen King reader since childhood – a fandom that spans decades – I’ve always eagerly devoured every book I could get my hands on. However, the Mr. Mercedes trilogy proved to be an unprecedented struggle. For the first time in over twenty years of reading King’s work, I had to genuinely force myself to finish a book. Even his lesser works have always possessed that irresistible pull, that need to know what happens next. But with Mr. Mercedes, that crucial element was absent. My persistence stemmed solely from a completionist desire to tick it off my King library list, not from any engagement with the narrative itself. Frankly, the book seemed to actively discourage readership. My disappointment is profound, and I’m compelled to articulate the numerous issues that plagued my reading experience, even if my critique devolves into a somewhat incoherent rant. Stephen King remains one of my favorite authors, but that doesn’t grant him immunity from criticism when a book simply falls short. If something is subpar, it deserves to be called out.
Perhaps the most significant letdown, and a critical aspect of any book for me, was the characters. Stephen King’s hallmark has always been his exceptional ability to breathe life into characters, fostering instant connection and empathy. I’ve often lauded his talent for crafting compelling characters with remarkable efficiency, achieving in mere lines what many authors struggle to accomplish in entire novels.
But in Mr. Mercedes? This signature strength was noticeably absent.
It felt as if King had populated the book with cardboard cutouts, figures devoid of depth or authenticity. Not a single character approached his usual standards. They were flat, cliché, mere chess pieces moved strategically to advance the plot from point A to B to C, serving little purpose beyond narrative progression.
Right from the opening dialogue, the exchanges felt forced, unnatural, and stilted. Consider Augie and Janice, the first characters introduced, meeting while camping out for a job fair. The premise itself suggests both are unemployed and seeking work, yet Augie inexplicably feels the need to explain “downsized” to Janice – defining it as “the twenty-first-century way of saying I got canned.” This explanation is jarringly unnecessary. Even if Janice is young, the term “downsized” is hardly novel and easily understood from context. This exemplifies a pervasive issue throughout the book: excessive, redundant explanations of the obvious, lacking any subtlety. The narrative approach is akin to being hit over the head with a blunt instrument, reminiscent of a Bond villain laboriously explaining their entire plan, leaving no room for ambiguity or nuanced conversation.
But I digress. Then we encounter Janice, who is… I’m unsure how the reader is meant to perceive her. Perhaps we’re supposed to sympathize with her plight – young, naive, unemployed, with a baby and limited prospects. However, her pronouncements about feeling the need to apologize to the world and history for having a child out of wedlock come across as ludicrous. It seems designed to make her instantly likeable, to emphasize her vulnerability and make the reader anticipate potential tragedy.
These initial characters feel like sacrificial lambs, deployed to manipulate our emotions and set the stage for the inevitable confrontation with the sadistic killer.
Every character in this book seemed to speak with the same voice, as if cut from the same template. They are differentiated only by superficial details. Janey’s cutout gets a blonde wig and a “Hi! My name is Janey” tag; Jerome’s cutout gets a name tag and is identified as Black (lest we forget), wearing a tie to signify intelligence; Bill’s cutout is weighted down (he’s overweight!) and adorned with a fedora and badge; Mr. Mercedes himself sports angry eyebrows, a forced smile, a remote control, car keys, and an iPad; and Holly’s cutout is marked with a Lexapro bottle instead of a name tag, a disheveled gray wig, and a shapeless dress, perpetually smoking. (The name tags seem necessary because the characters are so interchangeable.) Similarly, within the narrative, characters constantly reiterate their preferred names, attempting to forge a superficial familiarity that never materializes into genuine connection. But beyond their superficial traits, their dialogue is interchangeable. One could swap their lines at random without significantly altering the overall impression.
The characters share an incessant oversharing habit. A simple yes/no question elicits a torrent of unsolicited information. “Do you have a safe?” becomes “No, but I can rent one. I bank at Bank of America down the street.”
“How often do you see your mother?” prompts a detailed account of restaurant choices, DVD selections, and fluctuations in her mother’s lucidity, complete with aunt and uncle mentions.
“Do you have a car?” leads to a rambling description of a 2004 burgundy Camry, movie outings, local businesses, and a non-sequitur about cheese and kumquats.
This kind of dialogue permeates the entire book, numbing the mind and prompting the suspicion that Stephen King outsourced the writing to someone else entirely. The sheer thought that the Stephen King could be responsible for this is baffling.
So, we are presented with flat, cliché figures, devoid of filters, incapable of ceasing their incessant, irritating monologues. Adding to the irritation is the pervasive fat-shaming. Hodges is described as being about 30 lbs overweight, yet both he and the narrative treat this as a grotesque, shameful condition, diminishing his worth. He acts as if this extra weight is a crippling burden. His disbelief that a woman would find him attractive is somewhat understandable, given her apparent lack of interest. (More on that shortly.) This fat-shaming, while a recurring subtle issue in King’s work – notably in Thinner, where the protagonist is a “whopping” 50 lbs overweight – feels particularly grating in this context. The constant emphasis on Hodges’ weight makes it seem miraculous that he can even function in society. Being overweight is not a moral failing, and these judgmental comments are simply fat-shaming, regardless of intent. It’s irritating and unnecessary.
This fat-shaming segues nicely into the problematic sex scene with Janey, who expresses concern that Hodges’ weight might crush her during sex (on top!). More significantly, she essentially dictates a sex act where Hodges is entirely passive. No touching, minimal talking (except her pronouncements), and no movement. The scene borders on absurd, as if she’d prefer him to simply detach and leave the room so she can achieve satisfaction without his “pesky man needs” interfering.
The scene is anything but steamy.
Some might interpret this as a portrayal of a “strong, independent woman who knows what she wants.” However, her “demands” are unsettlingly controlling. It’s akin to non-consensual sexual activity, given Hodges’ lack of agency. Yet, Hodges is so desperate for any intimacy that he’s compliant, thus normalizing the problematic dynamic.
Furthermore, Janey’s supposed strength and independence are quickly revealed to be performative. She constantly relies on Hodges for emotional support and guidance, even in dealing with her own family, whom Bill barely knows. She repeatedly claims she won’t be intimidated, yet consistently compromises or yields.
And the morning-after question, “How’s your cholesterol?” is utterly inappropriate. It’s intrusive and judgmental, particularly as Hodges is making her breakfast. Her subsequent commentary about bacon and preference for “whole wheat toast and air” reinforces her fat-shaming and unpleasant personality. It’s not concern; it’s being a nosy, critical person intent on making him feel bad. Hodges’ attraction to her is perplexing, beyond the transactional aspect of physical intimacy. She is judgmental, unkind, and mocks him, albeit in a supposedly “teasing” manner. This newly wealthy woman, recently divorced from an abusive addict, acts as if she’s condescending to a former cop who is “cute” when he uses slang. Their dynamic is toxic and their attraction inexplicable.
Then there’s Jerome, who seems compelled to remind everyone of his race by lapsing into jarringly stereotypical and offensive speech patterns. It’s deeply uncomfortable and makes one want to cringe every time he does it.
Holly initially lacks any distinct personality but eventually becomes a carbon copy of the others. It’s as if character individuality is assimilated by a collective, homogenous voice. And she constantly, incessantly, announces her Lexapro usage. The repetitive, childish outbursts – “Call him! Call him! Call him!” “Do it! Do it! Do it!” – are grating and unbelievable. While mental health issues are complex, this portrayal feels cartoonish and reductive.
Brady… Meh. Is he scary? Perhaps, in a generic, anyone-could-be-evil sense. But fundamentally, he’s a stereotypical spoiled, angsty teenager trapped in a rebellious phase, with predictable daddy and mommy issues.
Enough about the characters. Let’s address the pop-culture references. King has always incorporated pop culture, often effectively, adding depth and relatability. But in Mr. Mercedes, it feels forced and jarring.
Given the characters’ ages and the stilted dialogue, the book initially reads as if intended for an older demographic, which aligns with King’s own age. However, it feels as if editorial intervention occurred, with a directive to “jazz it up” for a younger audience. This resulted in the inexplicable decision to make Jerome 17 and sprinkle in awkwardly “cool” or “cutesy” terms that feel condescending and out of place.
For example, Hodges, while watching a Jerry Springer-esque show (unnamed but obvious), comments on a guest’s “tramp-stamps.” The term “tramp-stamp” refers specifically to a lower back tattoo, stereotypically associated with promiscuity. It is not a generic term for any tattoo, yet Hodges uses it incorrectly.
A 62-year-old retired white ex-cop should not use the term “moms.” Period.
The line, “If you’d ever checked the owner’s manual, Mom, maybe just to see what all those cute little lights on the dashboard signify[…]” is offensively sexist. It perpetuates the stereotype of women as clueless about cars, reducing dashboard indicators to “cute little lights.”
Hodges refers to Holly’s medication as “little white happy-caps.” This dismissive, condescending term trivializes her medication and her mental health struggles. It’s not playful banter; it’s disrespectful and insensitive.
My irritation is escalating. To conclude, the accolades attributed to Hodges’ career are baffling. He relies heavily on Holly and Jerome to solve the case. His investigation is driven by hunches and intuition, lacking substantial evidence. His reckless actions, poking a “dozing dragon,” without considering the consequences, are irresponsible. Yet, the narrative centers everything around Hodges, portraying him as uniquely vulnerable because the letter was addressed to him.
The recurring trope of Hodges’ old partner being perpetually unavailable due to major busts whenever Hodges calls is a transparently convenient plot device.
The sheer ridiculousness of this book is staggering. Almost every page elicited eye-rolls. It’s simply…ugh.
I’m done. Turning off my “glowbox” and going to bed. This book is a mess.
