Ace Ventura sat in the back of a humid, neon-lit jazz club in New Orleans, nursing a bowl of sunflower seeds. He wasn’t there for the music; he was staring intently at a high-end alligator-skin handbag resting on the chair of a local socialite.
Ten minutes later, Ace emerged from the swampy shadows behind the club, soaking wet but grinning. He was carrying a shimmering, translucent crawfish in one hand and the alligator-skin purse in the other.
"Alrighty then!" Ace shouted, diving over the beast. "Hardball it is!" subtitle Ace Ventura: Pet Detective
"Lovely evening for a sacrifice, isn't it?" Ace barked, leaning inches from the woman’s face. "Excuse me?" she recoiled.
Ace stopped, squinted, and began making high-pitched clicking noises while flapping his elbows. "Listen, Mr. Tooth-y-Pants. I have your second cousin twice removed in a zippered format. You want him back? Show me where they’re keeping the stolen albino crawfish!" The alligator blinked, hissed, and swiped its tail. Ace Ventura sat in the back of a
He spun around, dodging a bewildered waiter, and sprinted toward the kitchen. He slid across the floor on his knees, threw open the back door, and came face-to-face with a massive, very much alive alligator blocking the alleyway.
He stood up, his Hawaiian shirt clashing violently with the velvet curtains. With a rhythmic, hip-thrusting strut, he approached the table. He was carrying a shimmering, translucent crawfish in
"The stitching," Ace whispered to a stray tabby cat sitting on his lap. "It’s crying out in agony, mittens. That's not calfskin. That's... Boffo."