Proof of the Pudding

Down. Down and down and sideways and down some more. Below the levels of reality as we know them, beneath this place called the Land's End. There is a niche. A place where the dreams of children come to rest and let their hair down.

Crackle the Frog paced the length of the table, his little green claws clasped behind his back. He wore his most serious expression, the one he wore the time someone replaced the Marshmallow Munchies with dead bugs.

"Someone in this room." He paused and looked at each of the occupants, "Someone here has committed murder most foul." Crackle backhanded his assistant, Morty the Mouse before he could ask where the dead duck was.

"And we will not leave here until we have discovered who that someone is, or until I just get bored with this and we retire to the parlor for some Parcheesi and hot cocoa."

Seated around the table were…

Fancy the Ferret, who had made her fortune during the Great Kitchen Raids of '02. Fancy had a penchant for black leather, whips and the sort of friends who wore masks with zippers.

Bernie "The Butcher" the Badger. Bernie worked as a florist for Charlie the Chia and according to legend, had never assembled a bouquet, as putting together more than three flowers at a time meant that his brain cells were out-numbered. Bernie was currently holding a quiet conversation with his soup spoon.

Maxwell the Marmoset. mar·mo·set Pronunciation Key (mär m -s t , -z t ) n. Any of various small clawed monkeys of the genera Callithrix and Cebuella, found in tropical forests of the Americas and having soft dense fur, tufted ears, and long tails.

This was about all anyone knew about Maxwell, as he never spoke and didn't seem to hold any sort of a job. In fact, no one knew if his real name was Maxwell or if the nametag he wore was something stolen. He got invited to parties because of his soft dense fur, which guests would often use as a napkin.

Octavia the Ocelot. She had a penchant for wearing flowers behind her ears and was always the one who'd suggest that everyone sing Kumbaya or try a group chant. She mostly ate granola bars fashioned into little mice to "honor her heritage".

At the head of the table, the guest of honor and the reason for the party, Paddy the Pig, or as she preferred to be called, Paddy the Prettiest Porcine. A Yorkshire sow of both staggering size and uncommon beauty. It was said that the merest sight of her would elicit thoughts of both bacon and bestiality in even the purest hearted vegetarian.

Currently, Paddy was face down in a five gallon bowl of plum and honeysuckle pudding. No bubbles arose from the pudding and there was a foot long butcher's knife protruding from the center of her back. Morty the Mouse was standing on the table, prodding the corpse with a stick because that's what you did with corpses before they were taken away.

Crackle stopped his pacing to shoo Morty away. As Morty didn't want to be shooed this involved some light smacking and eventually taking the stick away after a brief struggle.

"Oh this is so terrible," Octavia moaned. "I can't believe poor Paddy is…is…"

"Dead?" Crackle filled in. "Well I can, and I know that each of you had a motive to commit the deed."

He began ticking motives off on his fingers, "Bernie, you knew that Paddy was trying to get you fired for gross incompetence. Gross in that you flick boogers at people, incompetent in that you always miss." Crackle paused there to see if anyone was going to laugh. No one did and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. Bernie was now making the soup spoon and salad fork make kissy noises to each other and didn't look up.

"Fancy." Crackle spun and pointed an accusing finger at the ferret. "You've been trying for years to seduce her, but Paddy was head of the Animals for Decency League and would have none of it. You seethed with stuff and your seething was for naught." His finger began to tremble with righteous indignation.

"Crackle," Fancy said in her high pitched and gravelly voice (imagine a recording of Louis Armstrong run at 3X speed).(1) "Paddy isn't dead. She's been breathing through a straw in the bottom of that bowl. The knife's a prop that she got from her theater group. She pulls this prank just about every time she has a party." Fancy pushed the greens on her plate around with a claw as she spoke. "Come on, Paddy. This is getting boring."

Crackle had pointed the Accusing Finger of Doom at Maxwell and was just about to begin a new tirade when Fancy cut him off, "Crackle. Shut up. Go over and pull her face out of that bowl. Careful, she always blows pudding on whoever "saves" her."

Crackle lowered his arm with obvious reluctance. "Really? She's not dead then?" He put a hand on Paddy's shoulder and pulled. She didn't move. He pulled harder, then switched to heaving, but all that did was make Paddy jiggle and little splotches of pudding spatter the table. Morty came over to lend his less than prodigious strength to the effort, and that was when the lights went out for the second time.

When the lights came up again, Crackle, Morty and Paddy were all seated neatly next to each other. Each of them with their own bowl of plum pudding, each with their face firmly planted.

"Well, glad that's over," Maxwell said, getting to his feet. "How long do we have to let them marinate for?"

Octavia wiped a finger through the spilled pudding then licked it off. "The recipe says six hours, but I suppose it'd be less for the mouse."

Fancy stood, dropping the remote control for the light's dimmer switch. "Right. And don't forget we'll have to come back and add some vinegar in a couple of hours."

 (1) Okay, you can stop imagining that now.