By Roderick Whiskers McNibble, Chief Nibbler & Correspondent
Date: Some dark night in Dusty Gulch, when even the thunder was too scared to roll
Folks, if you've been living under a rock (or worse, in one of those fancy city apartments with views of nothing but concrete), you might've missed the quiet warning signs.
Dusty Gulch isn't just another dusty dot on the map - it's the last bastion of good, solid, no-nonsense Australian outback spirit.
Mayor Dusty McFookit has kept the books balanced, the lamingtons honest, and the Honklanders at bay with nothing more than a stern look and a balanced budget speech.
But the elites up in their feathered towers?
They've had a gutful.
Of Us.
Yes, and last night, they sent their slimiest operative to prove it.......
It started around 10:47 pm, give or take (the Starlink was playing up again - down to 300 download, which is basically dial-up with attitude out here in the Gulch).
Mayor McFookit, ever the diligent public servant, stepped out to fiddle with the dish on the roof.
“Bloody interference,” he muttered, “probably those Honklanders streaming their propaganda again.”
The Five Feline Deputies were yowling like banshees from the porch - tails like bottlebrushes, eyes glowing in the moonlight - Dusty was suddenly worried...
“Off your breakfast again, lads? Settle down before you wake the missus.”
Up in the rafters, silent as a shadow in the frangipani grove, waited the snake.
Not your garden-variety serpent, mind you - this was a Honklan special: scales like oily sneaky ... well oily sneaky things, eyes squinty from whatever mutant dust storm or Prentis Penjani lab experiment cooked it up.
It had slipped past the ground mine patrols (those clever snake-repellant gnomes) without so much as a hiss.
The Felines opened up with everything they had - tiny AK-meows blazing, rounds pinging off the tin roof - but the bugger retreated higher, biding its time.
Then Dusty turned his back.
One lightning coil, a muffled “Crikey!” and the mayor was gone - dragged up to the tower ladder like a sack of empty marmalade jars. Yes, dear readers, Mayor Dusty McFookit was arrested! And sent to the tower.
Dusty Gulch was in turmoil. As the Honklanders chanted " Off with his head! Unless you send us a gazillion lamingtons ", Gulchians knew something was very amiss.
Blood trail? None.
Just a dropped sink spanner and a faint honk echoing from the water tower's secret lair, where the Honklanders worship their crested idols and plot their next takeover.
Meanwhile, Mrs. McFookit watched from the kitchen window, apron still on, but her eyes narrowed like she'd been waiting decades for this moment.
(Word is, she's got history with Cat Force 5 - that ghost outfit Sir Joh and Flo set up back in the day to guard against foreign fowl play when chooks got out of hand. But more on that later... .
Don’t ask how a ghost found anything; just don’t you worry about that.)
Word spread faster than a grassfire in Victoria under climate change directives and a sneaky backhander and a machete bin .
Trevor ( Titanium Knees ) the Wallaby was last seen hopping to the ridge outside town, knees gleaming under the moon, the Feline Five mustering behind him like a whisker commando squad.
The local publican (anonymous, naturally) cracked open a fresh slab and declared:
“If them Honklanders want a zillion million lamingtons, they’ll have to pry ’em from our cold, dead claws. Cause we like claws out here. And if the mayor don’t make it back?
Reckon we’ll send Trevor up there with a voucher for free pub ‘vaccines’ - the kind that comes with a good dose of lead and a bit of pub bounce. ”
The tower looms now, even as I write - banners fluttering,sentries perched, eerie honks drifting on the wind.
Mayor McFookit’s in there somewhere, probably tied to a feather altar, muttering about deficits while the ransom demands pile up.
But here’s the thing about Dusty Gulch:
We don’t roll over for snakes, birds, or city slickers.
The vigilantes are forming -- armed utes, laser pointers for sights, and more grit than a sandstorm.This ain’t over. Not by a long shot.
Because, dear readers, I have discovered, that Mrs McFookit is about to release Cat Force Five....
Trevor is back and he is about to talk business.....
TO BE CONTINUED… NEXT WEEK!
Will Agent Whiskerfatale blow her cover? Can Trevor breach the tower without turning it into a bouncing demolition derby? Or will the Honklanders turn Dusty Gulch into one giant perch?
Don’t miss Chapter 2: "Shadows in the Frangipani!"
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