"Another case closed," he told the tabby cat, who had followed him out. "And I only lost one shoe to a snapping turtle. Re-he-he-he-ally good day's work!"
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.
"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.