Dusty Gulch Gazette – Special Scandal Edition
By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble – Foreign Correspondent, Rodent Division
Filed from beneath the warped floorboards of the Dusty Dingo Pub, where the beer is cold, the floors are sticky, and the truth is clearer than the tap water.
THE SHAM WEDDING THAT SHOOK THE GULCH
In the sun-baked badlands of Dusty Gulch - where gidgee whisper gossip and kangaroos kick up dust storms of discontent - a scandal erupted like a geyser from a cracked billabong. And at the molten centre of it waddled none other than Prentis Penjani: the slickest duck ever to paddle the political pond.
Prentis, leader of the Quack Coalition of Green and Red, had long promised “fair feathers for all,” but everyone knew his wings flapped more for perks than for public service. Even still, no one expected this.
Word spread faster than a leaky bundy rum barrel emptying behind the Dusty Dingo:
Prentis was getting married.
And not just married - staged. Scripted. Funded.
A wedding built like a movie set, paid for like an aboriginal space exploration subsidy, and sincere as a lyrebird at a karaoke contest.
ENTER DUCKY DIVA: BRIDE FOR HIRE
The bride, Ducky Diva, arrived with eyes like polished opals and a honk you could pick up on long-wave radio and a starlink satellite dish. Slightly glamorous? Not really. Sincere? Not even slightly.
Rumours swirled through the gulch:
“She’s a decoy duck!” whispered Dulcie from the CWA. .“Optics only. That’s a contract, not a marriage!”
Her “marriage certificate” reportedly came bundled with a generous retainer for public appearances, emotional labour, and optic stabilisation, earning more than any family of outback emus would see in a decade.
But the real whispers, the ones prickling every whisker in Dusty Gulch, said Prentis’s interests lay… elsewhere. Particularly with Maurice E. Duck - his impeccably groomed, suspiciously indispensable, “best drake.”
Late-night “policy rehearsals.” Extended private “briefings.” Towels at the hot tub always delivered in pairs.
THE MOST LAVISH WEDDING EVER FUNDED BY SOMEONE ELSE
The ceremony took place on Wallaby Island, a paradise where palm fronds swayed like sycophants and the surf shimmered with taxpayer tears.
Ratty Airways’ orange bi-planes were chartered (on the public purse) to ferry in guests. Maurice E. Duck strutted as best drake, feathers lacquered, bow tie glistening like oil on hot bitumen on the Warrego Highway in high summer.
The vows echoed over the beach:
“I take thee, Ducky Diva, in sickness and in wealth - mostly wealth.”
Confetti rained down - shredded expense reports, mostly.
Imported lorikeets warbled a tune priced higher than an entire year of farmer's relief packages and welcomed them to country.. .the smoke overwhelmed the lorikeets, and the paramedic emus had to be called.
Meanwhile, everyone waited to see if Prentis would kiss the bride or simply shake her wing like a business merger.
THE HONEYMOON HEIST
The scandal truly detonated when the honeymoon details leaked.
Ducky Diva was sent home on an economy hop before the cake had even been cut. Meanwhile Prentis and Maurice boarded a private bi-plane bound for a global “diplomatic outreach tour.”
First stop: Quackapalooza, There they lounged in steaming hot tubs, sipping champagne billed as “strategic soaking sessions.”
The tab: fifty thousand. The justification: “Essential networking.” The taxpayers of Dusty Gulch? : not amused.
Next came tropical retreats, reef “summits” that were really snorkeling soirées with rainbow coloured fish.
Every charge entered under:Dominant Purpose: Public Service.
Every receipt thicker than a possum’s winter coat.
MEANWHILE BACK IN THE REAL WORLD
The residents of Dusty Gulch tightened belts until ribcages creaked. Fuel prices soared. Electricity bills glowed red. Families skipped meals to pay rent. Trevor the Wallaby contemplated selling his cybernetic knees but settled on a kidney instead, having been assured it would grow back.
And yet their leaders dined on pomegranate-glazed yabbies and locally sourced grange vintage wine flown in by Ratty Airways - catered under “community engagement.”
Letters flooded the Dusty Gulch Gazette:
“We’re living beside dry creek beds while they're splashing in champagne ponds!”
“Ayers Rock under the stars? That’s our sunset they’re stealing!”
“How many footy finals does it take to run a country?”
I SMELL A RAT — AND IT’S NOT ME
From the shadows of the Gazette’s burrow bunker, I watched it unfold. When you’ve lived your life on crumbs and journalistic instinct, you recognise gluttony from a mile away. And this was gluttony with a gold-plated bill.
The town erupted louder than a cane toad under a ukelele.
THE MORAL OF THE STORY
In Dusty Gulch, we’ve always known one simple rule:
When ducks quack the loudest about austerity, check how deep the water is in their private lagoon.
And remember - while the public purse may be bottomless to those who misuse it, the patience of ordinary Gulchers never is.
Filed sincerely, Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble
Still living under the pub, still watching, still writing.
