Elyse Wanshel

Trapped in the brackish water beneath the hard metal of our boat is a scaly, swamp-lily-licked, eight-foot-long alligator. Her golden eyes, flecked with green, are wide with rage as Kennon twists a rusted, homemade wire noose around her neck.

An erotic and liver-spotted art show rooted in feminism.

A social experiment designed to gauge the art seriousness of the crowd at the Wynwood gallery walk.

I began my quest for the elusive equine about a month ago. To me, His Majesty seemed like the Loch Ness Monster — heard of but never seen. I spent time on his turf, early, late, patrolling dance floors and searching the dark recesses beneath bars. Perhaps the quest wasn't as sacred as searching for the Holy Grail, but it was a hunt nonetheless.