A young drifter finds himself more or less (as in jobless and penniless) stranded in an old hotel on the outskirts of a has-been, rust belt city. The hotel in question is a threadbare establishment whose only claim to fame is that it is across the street from Donkey Park, a recently renovated amusement complex and microbrewery of steampunk birch beer.
To make matters worse, one year and three thousand miles ago he awoke in the dilapidated weed and hooch den of a recently deceased '60s hippie tattoo artist - and noticed a new and very strange design inked into the back of his neck. A tat that he had definitely not requested.
What happens next could only be described as a zany French farce. The drifter, Jackson Payne, gets a job at the hotel where he ultimately finds the love of his life, the meaning of his tattoo, and a lifeline to his future. That is, only after he dodges a teenage hit man, the jealous husband of the second-floor maid, a quirky corduroy magnate with definite signs of megalomania, a pair of adorable Mexican do-gooders, a shaman called 'The Hobbit' and a hotel manager with a chip on her shoulder the size of an unsanctioned twenty-pound bowling ball.
A Carl Hiaasen-like hoot from beginning to end.