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Dusty Gulch Dispatch: Whiskers Remembered – A Follicle-Fueled Fightback Against Feather-Brained Folly
By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble, Special Correspondent

In times of crisis, some towns turn to science. Others turn to faith. Dusty Gulch? We turn to whiskers.

Yes, whiskers. Those humble facial feelers the Good Lord gave cats, rats, and the occasional platypus. Under the right conditions, those bristles become something more  -  follicles as a force of rebellion against the feather-brained.

It is called Whisker Dynamic Propulsion Theory -  WDPT to the initiated, and “that madcap nonsense” to the ducks. But let us not get ahead of ourselves, dear reader.

Last week, many Dusty Gulch citizens mysteriously turned into ducks following Maurice EDuck’s latest decrees.

That chaos brought Bob Katter galloping into town astride a colossal saltie. He demanded a Ratty Airways flight to Alice Springs to consult Jacinta Price. Why? Because of a mysterious Sixth Cat, seen worshipping on Dusty McFookit’s belly at 2 a.m. Legend says there was once a monolith known as McFookit Peak, and the cats were responding to some ancient memory of scaling it before it disappeared.

Who was this spectral feline? Where was McFookit Peak? Perhaps Jacinta knew.

The quacks echoed through Dusty Gulch like a bad radio jingle, stuck between The Wiggles’ Best Hits and static. Lord Squawk Squawk’s voice blared from every wireless, every loudspeaker nailed to a leaning lamppost:

“Citizens! Duck-25 is everywhere! Protect yourselves - strap on beak-masks, close your frivolous dens of dissidence, and above all, silence your lamington guns. The CWA is hereby dissolved. The Dusty Dingo Pub and McFookit’s Burgers are henceforth shut!”

Maurice EDuck, waddling atop a freshly trained bin chicken, flapped his wings with bureaucratic dignity. Townsfolk shuffled nervously, their faces hidden behind paper beak-masks stamped with the slogan Quack is Safety.

Then came the kicker:

“In 84 days, ELaw comes into effect. All communication will be censored - unless you can prove you are a duck.”

A Quacking Nonsense

Dusty McFookit - still stubbornly human, still mayor, still bleary-eyed from nightly cat-lick ceremonies - slammed his fist on the bar.

“Are you telling me,” he growled, “that only townsfolk who’ve been turned into ducks can use QuackBook and DuckTube?”

“No,” purred Maurice, smoothing his feathers. “Not all ducks. Only certain ducks. Ducks with digital EDuck passes.”

“And how,” demanded Dulcie O’Grady, head of Ratty Enterprises Marmalade Logistics Operations, “does one get one of these passes?”

Maurice smirked. And for a bird with a bill, that is no small feat.  " It depends on how well behaved you are..... "

A Ratty Revelation: The Sixth Cat Moves

Inside the Dusty Dingo, McFookit slumped at the bar, staring into the foam of his beer. Five feline deputies circled loyally - but the sixth, mysterious and spectral, perched atop the counter like royalty.

“How do I save Dusty Gulch when even the CWA ladies are quacking like ducks?” Dusty groaned.

The Sixth Cat tilted its head, shoved his glass to the floor, and beer spilled in golden rivulets. Beneath Dusty’s boots, words appeared where liquid touched the floor:

“Look to Clancy of the Overflow. May the Whiskers be with you.”

Clancy had returned  - the spectral Sixth Cat who first whispered WDPT into my furry ear all those years ago. He had sashayed into the Dusty Dingo and tipped a beer glass to the floor.

And suddenly, it made sense. The ducks weren’t an accident of fate or a trick of moonlight. No -  they were the logical end of being told that net zero was destiny, that windmills could power a continent, and that solar panels alone would save civilisation. Feather-brained ideas had produced feathered citizens. The people of Dusty Gulch had been quacked into compliance, waddling proof that when you surrender your whiskers of sense, you grow wings of nonsense.

The Origins of WDPT

Legend has it WDPT was discovered when a young Clancy, perched atop McFookit Peak, twitched his whiskers so violently during a sneeze that he launched himself three towns over and landed in a lamington tray at the CWA. The lamingtons survived. Clancy survived. And Dusty Gulch discovered that follicles, aligned with lunar pull and lubricated by Emu Brew, could out-thrust a Saturn V rocket.

Subsequent experiments confirmed it:

• A single whisker twitch can propel a croc at 40 knots upriver.

• Rat whiskers, arranged in spiral, can power a biplane to Washington D.C. in twelve minutes (kangaroo included).

• Five synchronised possums once whiskered a dunny into orbit, where it still flashes across the night sky as a hairy reminder of WDPT’s majesty.

The ducks may have Duck-25. They may have Lord Squawk Squawk. But we have follicles - follicles against the feather-brained.

Preparing the Town

By morning, Dusty McFookit roused the people:

“Ready your whiskers! Oil your crocs! Polish the lamington gun! Dusty Gulch will fight not with fear but with follicles!”

Trevor, the wallaby, still kneeless but not useless, began gathering WDPT manuals from Ratty Airways HQ. The five feline deputies twitched in formation, producing a breeze strong enough to knock Maurice EDuck’s hat clean off. Even the CWA ladies, still waddling in half-feathery disguise, began sewing WDPT insignias into their aprons.

The town buzzed with preparation. The air smelled of lamingtons baking and courage.

A Battle Yet to Come

This week we remember. Next week we fight. The ducks may tighten their grip, but Dusty Gulch now remembers its greatest weapon:

Whiskers. Dynamic. Propulsion.

Because sometimes the fate of a nation rests not on politics, not on power, but on the twitch of a single whisker. Follicles against the feather-brained. And it makes more sense than Wind and Solar.

This is Roderick ( Whiskers ) McNibble signing off from The Wombat Burrow. Stay sharp and keep your whiskers twitching. 

(This dispatch is satire. Don’t panic. Unless you’re a duck.)