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It was a dark, and stormy night.
Of course, it was. It had to be. This is how—in a single statement—you establish an atmosphere of mystery. You create a sense of impending doom, of anticipation, of foreboding; that tonight, anything could happen, and when you least expect it. And so, naturally, it does.
No one in the old mansion at the top of the hill would have expected a rain-drenched green frog in a soggy trench-coat to ring the doorbell. Well, all but one.
From the shadows of the night, a ferocious Animal lunged at the unsuspecting frog. The frog yelped, leaping back against the mansion door in fright, thankful that a spiked chain restrained the Animal around its neck. The frenzied beast snapped and snarled, then began to choke on its snare. A piece of the decimated remains of a half-eaten drum set scattered around its feet as it coughed up a mallet and cymbal, with a loud clatter of: badum-tss!
The mansion door opened, from behind which Scootersworth, a helpful-looking, bespectacled, orange-skinned butler, peered out.
“Hi-ho...” began the frog, timidly. “Is this the right address to meet Mr. Beaker?”
The odd assembly of guests around the dining room table had been introduced to the frog, whose provided pseudonym was “Mr. Green”. Seated on one side of him was a cheerful, joke-telling yellow bear named “Colonel Mustard” and, on the other, an impossibly glamorous pink pig who referred to herself as “Miss Scarlet”.
Opposite these three sat the purple, hook-nosed “Professor Plum,” a gruff blue eagle aptly named "Mrs. Not-a-Peacock", and one "Mrs. White", looking pale and tragic (none other than our special guest star, Miss Madeline Kahn)!
Professor Plum wasted no time proudly claiming to be a specialist in the behaviours, compulsions, and mental disorders of the species of fowl known as Gallus domesticus.
“So...you’re a chicken shrink,” Miss Scarlet curtly summarized, with a toss of her long hair.
Smothered by the pig’s luxuriously wavy, blonde tresses, Mr. Green stifled a sneeze, meekly extricating his face from them.
Mrs. White snorted haughtily. “Don’t you think it’s rather impractical to make chickens any smaller than they already are?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Not-a-Peacock agreed. “Why not simply use, say: pheasants, or Cornish game hens, instead? Or even quail...”
“I do not shrink chickens!” Professor Plum insisted. “I merely study them. For science.”
“That’s a poultry excuse for psychiatry, if you ask me,” Colonel Mustard piped up, chuckling, “Wocka wocka wocka!”
“You’re just one of those namby-pamby conservationists,” continued Mrs. Not-a-Peacock to Professor Plum, accusingly.
“Dinner is served,” Scootersworth announced, much to Professor Plum’s relief.
Janice, the French maid, proceeded around the table, dutifully serving each of the guests a bowl of their meal’s first course. “Soup du fin of ze sharkies,” she explained, leaning over, gratuitously exposing her plump, jiggly lips to Mrs. Not-a-Peacock, whose furry, black mono-brow furrowed furiously with a fervently fierce frown.
In the adjacent kitchen, the cook wrestled with a live, fin-less shark; the embattled chef screaming in a language that only vaguely sounded like Swedish.
At the loud clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen and an accompanying sudden crash of thunder, the jumpy Mr. Green spilled his drink on an unimpressed Miss Scarlet.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Green murmured, attempting to wipe the wine from the front of her dress, “I’m afraid I’m a little accident-prone...”
“Ah, watch it!” she said, shrieking, “Hiii-ya!” and Karate-chopping the frog.
Throughout the remainder of the evening, their host and—understandably fearful—blackmailer, Mr. Beaker, died several times and in a wide variety of ways.
During a search of the house, Mr. Green was paired up with Janice, and the two made their way up the narrow passage to the attic, despite it being an incredibly tight squeeze due to the maid’s excessively large lips.
After a great deal of running around, some explosions, more murders, and a few musical numbers, Miss Scarlet admitted to killing the Bear on Patrol (he'd been on her payroll, and had been blackmailing her), and Professor Plum confessed to having shot the Clucking Telegram Girl (she'd been one of his patients).
Scootersworth and Miss Scarlet disputed over how many bullets were left in the revolver: Was it “one plus two, plus two, plus one” or “one plus two, plus one, plus one”? Their argument was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a cackling, caped vampire, enthusiastically offering his assistance.
“Wrong show!” Everyone shouted simultaneously, the noise sending the glass chandelier crashing to the hallway floor.
In the end, all but Mr. Green were found guilty of murder. The frog flailed happily, declaring, “Communism was just a red herring. Yaaaay!”
“Weirdos,” muttered Mrs. Not-a-Peacock, who had to be dragged off before he could tear apart the frog's copy of Carp Marx's Das Mackerel.
“Well now, wasn't that just full of ribbitting suspense?” FBI agent Statler remarked.
His partner, agent Waldorf, replied sarcastically, “It was full o' somethin', all right...”
"Ohohohoho!" they laughed, handcuffing and hauling everyone away.