Cuervo is a pampered Nicaraguan moneyman, funding a guerrilla war from his cushy Miami penthouse. Sixto is his hulking, pistol-packing attendant, whose job satisfaction is on the wane. When an aging mobster enters their lives with a promise to help the rebel cause—with a planeload of chickens originally intended for voodoo sacrifice—a tense situation turns combustible. From the wickedly funny mind of Carl Hiaasen comes “The Edible Exile,” a raucous story of sleazeball nihilists, lovable thugs, and jungle-weary freedom fighters who collide in a battle of wills, ego, and the almighty dollar. This cheeky tale, written twenty-five years ago, set aside, and recently rediscovered, is a time-capsule glimpse of Miami during the over-the-top 1980s, when everyone was on the make and gross excess was the order of the day. In an intriguing twist, Hiaasen had lost his original ending to the story. “So I decided to write a new ending,” he says. “As a friend said, ‘How often does a writer get the opportunity to collaborate with a younger version of himself?’” “The Edible Exile” is a wild romp through Hiaasen Country, sure to appeal to the outlaw in all of us.