As a devoted Stephen King reader since childhood, I consider myself a lifelong fan. I’ve eagerly devoured every book I could get my hands on, but Mr. Mercedes… this was an unmitigated disaster. For the first time in over 20 years of reading King, I had to force myself to finish a book. Even his weakest works have always held a grip, compelling me to turn the page. But with Mr. Mercedes, the desire simply wasn’t there. Only my completist urge as a King fan kept me going, certainly not the book itself, which seemed determined to be abandoned. My disappointment is profound. I have so many issues with this book that I’m not sure even a lengthy rant will cover them all, but I’m going to try. Stephen King is a favorite author, but that doesn’t excuse a truly terrible book. And Mr. Mercedes, unequivocally, is a terrible book.
Let’s begin with what I consider the most vital aspect of any novel: the characters. The characters in Mr. Mercedes were staggeringly disappointing. King’s usual strength lies in his ability to breathe life into characters, forging an almost instant connection with the reader. I’ve often praised his talent for crafting convincing characters with remarkable efficiency.
But in Mr. Mercedes? Absolutely not. It felt as if King raided a Blockbuster going-out-of-business sale for cardboard cutouts. These characters were flat, clichéd, mere plot devices moved from point A to B to C. They lacked depth and believability, falling far short of King’s usual character writing standards.
From the opening dialogue, the exchanges felt stiff and unnatural. Consider Augie and Janice, the first characters introduced as they camp out for a job fair. They’re presumably unemployed and job-seeking, yet Augie feels the need to explain “downsized” to Janice – “the twenty-first-century way of saying I got canned.” This feels incredibly forced. Even if Janice is young, she likely understands the term, especially given the context. This unnecessary exposition plagues the entire book. Subtlety is absent, replaced by blunt, over-explanation reminiscent of a Bond villain’s monologue, leaving no room for ambiguity in any conversation.
Then there’s Janice, portrayed as a young, naive, unemployed single mother meant to evoke sympathy. However, her pronouncements about apologizing to “the world and all of history” for having a baby out of wedlock come across as ridiculous and contrived, designed to make her artificially “likable” and set her up as a potential victim to manipulate reader empathy. These first two characters feel like cardboard chess pieces, sacrificial lambs intended to trigger our emotions and set the stage for the hero to emerge and confront the sadistic killer.
Every character in Mr. Mercedes sounds remarkably similar, as if they are all variations of the same шаблон. The only distinction lies in superficial details. Janey gets a blonde wig and a name tag; Jerome is identified as black (lest we forget) and given a tie to signify intelligence; Bill Hodges is overweight (sandbags!) with a fedora and badge; Mr. Mercedes is given angry eyebrows over a fake smile, clutching car keys and an iPad; and Holly wears a grey wig, a sack dress, and carries Lexapro – constantly reminding us of her mental health. These details feel like labels, not character development. They all insist on what they prefer to be called, attempting to create a superficial familiarity that never translates into genuine connection. Their dialogue bubbles could be swapped without noticeable difference.
The characters are afflicted with an “oversharing” compulsion. Simple questions elicit lengthy, irrelevant tangents. Asking about a safe deposit box leads to a detailed banking history. A question about a mother’s well-being results in an exhaustive account of restaurant choices and DVD preferences. Inquiring about a car triggers a mind-numbing description of its color, recent drives, movie outings, and local businesses.
This incessant, pointless detail clogs the narrative, making it feel like Stephen King outsourced the writing to someone completely unfamiliar with his style – perhaps Dean Koontz, or even the gardener. It’s genuinely difficult to believe that the Stephen King wrote this.
Beyond their flatness and excessive verbosity, the characters are profoundly irritating. The fat-shaming directed at Hodges is pervasive and uncomfortable. Described as only 30 pounds overweight, Hodges and everyone around him treat it as a grotesque affliction, diminishing his worth. He acts as if this minor weight gain is a life-ending burden, questioning why any woman would be attracted to him. This fat-shaming, a recurring subtle issue in King’s work (most notably in Thinner), feels particularly egregious and unnecessary here. The constant emphasis on Hodges’s weight is absurd, making it seem miraculous he can even function in society. Being slightly overweight is not a moral failing, and these judgmental comments are simply fat-shaming, plain and simple.
This leads into the bizarre and disturbing sex scene with Janey. She expresses concern about Hodges being on top during sex due to his weight (he might crush her!), but more unsettlingly, she essentially dictates a non-participatory sexual encounter for him. No touching, minimal talking (save for her pronouncements), and absolutely no movement allowed. It’s implied that his presence is barely tolerated, a mere instrument for her pleasure.
This is not female empowerment; it’s disturbing and unsettling. Her “demands” are akin to non-consensual exploitation. Yet Hodges, desperate for any intimacy, is simply grateful for the opportunity, normalizing this deeply problematic scenario. Furthermore, Janey’s supposed “strength” and “independence” are immediately undermined by her constant need for Hodges’s emotional and practical support in every subsequent situation, even in dealing with her own family. She is far from independent.
And the morning-after “How’s your cholesterol?” question is jaw-droppingly inappropriate. This is not concern; it’s judgmental and intrusive, especially considering he’s making her breakfast. Her subsequent comments about bacon reinforce this – she’s portrayed as a condescending, fat-shaming individual who belittles Hodges’s preferences. It’s baffling why Hodges is even interested in her beyond the purely physical aspect. She is consistently unpleasant and mocking.
Jerome’s character is marred by jarringly stereotypical and borderline racist dialogue. His constant “black vernacular” feels forced and offensive, making him a caricature rather than a believable character. Every instance of this dialogue was cringe-inducing.
Holly, initially devoid of personality, eventually merges into the same monotonous character mold as everyone else. Her defining trait becomes her Lexapro usage, constantly mentioned and emphasized. And the incessant repetition of phrases – “Call him! Call him! Call him!” – transforms her into a caricature of mental illness, reducing her to a childish tantrum-throwing stereotype.
Brady, the titular Mr. Mercedes, is underwhelming as a villain. While the concept of anonymous menace is initially unsettling, he ultimately comes across as a spoiled, angsty teenager in a “fuck the world” phase, burdened by daddy issues and mommy issues – a far cry from a truly compelling antagonist.
The pop-culture references are another significant misstep. King has always incorporated pop culture, often effectively, creating a sense of contemporary realism. However, in Mr. Mercedes, these references feel forced, dated, and condescending.
The dialogue and character ages suggest an older target audience, which aligns with King’s own age demographic. However, it seems editorial interference attempted to “jazz it up” for a younger audience. Jerome’s age was lowered to 17, and cringeworthy “hip” or “cute” slang terms were sprinkled throughout the text. The result is condescending and ineffective.
Examples abound: Hodges’s reference to “tramp-stamps” while watching Jerry Springer demonstrates a misunderstanding of the term and feels out of character for a 62-year-old retired cop. The phrase “moms” used by Hodges is equally jarring and unnatural. The line about women viewing dashboard lights as “cute little lights” is offensively sexist and ignorant. Calling Holly’s medication “little white happy-caps” is condescending and dismissive of her legitimate mental health needs.
Hodges’s career accolades feel unearned. He relies heavily on Holly and Jerome to solve the case. His investigative approach is based on hunches and intuition rather than solid police work. His decision to provoke Brady, “poking a dozing dragon,” is reckless and irresponsible. The narrative centers excessively on Hodges, portraying him as uniquely targeted by Mr. Mercedes, inflating his ego and importance. The convenient unavailability of Hodges’s former partner whenever he calls further strains credibility.
Mr. Mercedes is a deeply flawed and frustrating book. Every page seemed to offer a new reason to roll my eyes. It’s a significant disappointment from an author I deeply admire. I’m turning off my “glowbox” and going to bed, thoroughly dissatisfied with this reading experience.
