By Our Special Correspondent (and Occasional Hero), Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble
(Filed from the front row, with a chewed pencil and a notebook sticky with jubilation)
Dusty Gulch had reached peak anger.
The Dusty Dingo bar was a warzone of paperwork, feathers, and spilled beer. Chairs flipped, barstools stacked like barricades, and someone wielded a clipboard as a makeshift sword. Prentis Penjani flapped like a bureaucratic galah, Maurice E-Duck stomped forms with minor-earthquake force, and Lord Squawk Squawk screeched from the official screen:
“THIS TOWN HAS FAILED THE SNAKE!”
It appears that snakes have been rampaging through Dusty Gulch and Prentis Penjani has declared that any mention of snakes being mean is hate speech. That snakes are really nice and only one bites a resident every now and again, but that does not make all snakes naughty.
The snake was smug and snug in Moonlight Manor, coiled with all the satisfaction of someone who knows paperwork is on its side. All food paid for, all accommodation "on the house," and King Farty Fingers and Prentis Penjani were on their knees kissing its tail.
Redhead’s Sonic Pineapples
Redhead’s pineapples trembled in their garden beds - those honest, spiky Queensland beauties - now transformed into sonic pineapples. How? Whiskers’ dynamic propulsion, perfected (rumour has it) by Elon Musk himself during a late-night brainstorm involving Tesla coils and far too much coffee. The confiscated sonic spikes - solar-powered snake-repelling stakes you can grab off eBay - had been secretly lodged inside the pineapples, humming faintly, waiting for the moment to act.
The True Origin of Sonic Pineapples – Elon Musk's Midnight Epiphany
By Our Special Correspondent (and Occasional Hero), Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble
(Filed with crumbs of anchovy and a suspicious pineapple scent)
It all began, dear readers, on a smoky Halloween night in 2023, deep in the bowels of Joe Rogan's Texas podcast studio. Elon Musk- once a staunch hater of pineapple on pizza - sat across from Rogan as the host raved about his favourite late-night abomination: double pineapple, double anchovy. Skeptical but game, Elon agreed to try it. A pizza was ordered mid-show. It arrived hot, controversial, and loaded.
One bite. Two bites. A thoughtful chew. Elon's eyes widened. "This... this is actually good," he admitted to the world. The former pineapple denier had converted. The sweet tang, the salty bite, the unexpected harmony - it hit like a Cybertruck acceleration. But genius never stops at flavour.
Later that night, alone in his Austin lair (rumour has it surrounded by Tesla coils humming like overcaffeinated bees), Elon stared at a leftover slice. Pineapple chunks glistened under the lab lights. A spark jumped - literally, from a nearby prototype. "What if," he muttered, "the vibrational properties of pineapple - its fibrous structure, its natural resonance - could be amplified? Combined with whiskers dynamic propulsion (my little side project for more efficient rodent-inspired robotics)... and tuned to frequencies snakes absolutely despise?"
He sketched furiously. Tesla coils were repurposed. eBay orders flew for bulk solar-powered sonic stakes. Prototypes were embedded in fresh pineapples - Queensland Golds, naturally, for maximum spikiness. The result? Sonic Pineapples. A low, persistent pulse that snakes cannot abide. World-changing? Absolutely. Patent-pending? Classified. Distributed to Dusty Gulch via anonymous bilby courier? Sources say yes.
Elon never claimed credit publicly. Heroes rarely do. But when Trevor the Wallaby's titanium knees activated the final configuration last week, sending that bureaucratic serpent slithering for the hills... well, somewhere in Texas, a certain billionaire smiled quietly over his morning doughnut. From pizza heresy to snake repulsion in one inspired night. That's how legends - and humming fruit - are born.
The Battle of Moonlight Manor
Only a week earlier, Prentis Penjani had installed Snake Repellent Surrender bins throughout Dusty Gulch. But the bins were empty, humming with potential yet powerless - until Trevor arrived.
Enter Trevor the Wallaby. Titanium knees gleaming, whiskers twitching, a rhythm in his bounce that screamed sheer impertinence. He didn’t check the rules. He didn’t seek permission. He simply BOINGED into the heart of the chaos, delivering the spikes from his secret stash into the waiting hands of Dusty Gulch residents.
The townsfolk sprang into action. Redhead grabbed a spike, hurling it into her pineapple patch. Old man Higgins argued over placement, insisting one go atop the jukebox, while a bickering posse of children insisted another belonged behind the bar. Chairs vaulted, beer sloshed, and a few spikes went flying into hats and laundry baskets. Chaos reigned. Each placement increased the harmonic resonance of the sonic pineapples, building toward a crescendo.
Trevor’s titanium knees and dynamic whiskers provided the momentum, but it was the sheer, collaborative effort of Dusty Gulch - bouncing, leaping, arguing, feeling outrage - that positioned the spikes into a configuration capable of repelling the snake. Only then did the hum reach the perfect frequency, vibrating across Moonlight Manor.
The snake froze. Eyes wide. Tongue flicking nervously. Coils tightened, then loosened. The hum of well-placed sonic pineapples was too much. It slithered, panicked, and departed with all the dignity of a bureaucrat politely escorted from a meeting.
Pandemonium erupted.
“IT WORKED!” someone shouted.
“Did you see that? THE SNAKE LEFT!”
Chairs clattered. Beer sloshed. The Dingo vibrated with pure, unfiltered triumph.
Prentis Penjani’s clipboard wobbled dangerously.
“Those devices are unauthorised! You can’t...”
Trevor, without breaking stride, tapped a spike near the jukebox. The hum intensified. The snake was already gone.
“It hums better this way,” he said, returning to the bar for a well-earned beer.
Redhead approached, eyes sparkling:
“For the pineapples,” Trevor said, handing over a spike.
“For the pineapples,” she echoed. That was the ceremonial acknowledgement of heroism in Dusty Gulch.
Lord Squawk Squawk, still on screen, tried to assert authority:
“THIS… PROVES… NOTHING!”
But the snake was gone. The hum of sonic pineapples drowned his protest. Maurice E-Duck collected what remained of his dignity, but even he couldn’t resist a small, grudging nod to Trevor’s effectiveness.
Mayor Dusty McFookit, fists finally at rest, raised a toast:
“To the pineapples, the spikes, and the bionic knees that saved our town!”
Trevor’s knees cooled in the dusk, still glowing faintly from overuse, still humming with residual victory energy. He sipped his beer. Said nothing else. That was the Ratty News-approved form of heroism.
I filed from a safe vantage under a table:
“Authorities confirmed the snake had self-relocated. Trevor was observed returning several sonic spikes to secret stashes. Events remain under review. Public morale restored to unprecedented levels.”
You never know when you might need a spare sonic pineapple...
Dusty Gulch will remember this night as full-throttle triumph. The sonic spikes sang. The snake fled. Bureaucrats sputtered. Trevor bounced — silently, without fanfare — into legend.
“The mission will never be accomplished,” Roderick noted wryly.
“Papers will shuffle. Snakes will coil. Sonic pineapples will hum somewhere, somehow. But Dusty Gulch has learned, on this night, who is really in charge.”
Trevor sipped his beer. The snake did not return. The boys stomped, the old men hooted, and the sonic pineapples pulsed triumph across the town.
A few well-placed sonic pineapples are all it takes to keep snakes at bay. Dusty Gulch learned that lesson in spectacular style.
Filed from Dusty Gulch - where titanium knees, sonic pineapples, and good sense always win.
— Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble — (Rat. Proud rat.)
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