The PR Blog

From Dusty Gulch Part One of the Honklanistan Series 
By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble

Dusty Gulch has always prided itself on being hard to surprise.

It has survived droughts, dubious leadership initiatives, interpretive art installations, and at least three “temporary” committees that never went away. Yet even by local standards, the recent arrival of Honklans from the desert realm of Hoklanistan has been… noticeable.

The Honklans first appeared following the invitation of Prentis Penjani, who described the initial Pigoose hybrid as “a cultural ambassador with excellent posture.” At the time, few suspected that one bird would soon become many.

According to sources, Honklanistan -  an ancient, sun-scoured land where ritual circling predates written memory -  has suffered prolonged instability. Its sandstone cubes are cracked, its oases contested, and its Honklan population in search of calmer ground on which to unroll ceremonial mats......

Of Honklanistan, and Why Towers Matter

Long before Honklans appeared on Gulch High Street, before prayer mats met bitumen and honking acquired paperwork, there was Honklanistan.

Honklanistan is an ancient, sun-flattened desert realm so old that its history has been memorised, forgotten, and memorised again -  each time slightly louder. The land is defined not by borders, but by objects of certainty: sandstone cubes, upright stones, and anything tall enough to cast a shadow worth circling.

In Honklanistan, water is rare. Shade is sacred. Height implies authority.

Over centuries, the Honklans evolved accordingly. Those that survived were not the fastest or the cleverest, but the most ritually consistent. They learned that circling brought order, bowing brought calm, and honking -  delivered with conviction -  discouraged disagreement.

At the heart of every Honklanistani settlement stood a Vertical Assurance Structure. Sometimes it was a cube. Sometimes a pillar. Sometimes merely a rock no one remembered placing there. What mattered was not its function, but its permanence.

To the Honklan mind, anything tall that endured the sun without complaint was worthy of reverence.

Which is how, upon arriving in Dusty Gulch, they immediately recognised the water tower.

The locals, of course, saw infrastructure.

The Honklans saw destiny.

Here was a towering cylinder rising above the plain, holding life-giving water aloft, visible from all directions, utterly indifferent to debate. It cast a shadow that moved with the day. It neither explained itself nor apologised.

In Honklanistan, this would have been holy within minutes.

In Dusty Gulch, it took slightly longer -  mostly because the first Honklan spent a good ten minutes trying to determine whether the ladder was symbolic.

Dusty Gulch has always believed that most problems can be softened with good manners, strong tea, and something coconut-covered.

So when the Honklans of Hoklanistan began arriving in noticeable numbers, the Country Women’s Association quite naturally stepped in first.

A long trestle table was erected near Gulch High Street. Fresh lamingtons were arranged with care. A kettle was kept at the boil. The Honklans were welcomed warmly, if cautiously, and offered cups of tea they regarded with deep suspicion.

The Pigoose of Honklanistan: A Field Description

At first glance, the Pigoose looks as though three different birds attempted to occupy the same evolutionary niche and refused to compromise.

The body is unmistakably pigeon: squat, barrel-chested, and faintly oily, with that city-bird sheen that suggests it could survive on breadcrumbs, ideology, or discarded pamphlets. Its feathers shimmer oddly in the sun -  greys, bronzes, and the occasional sanctimonious purple-green iridescence -  as if reflecting both holiness and street survival.

The neck, however, is pure goose -  and then some.

Long.
Alarmingly long.
Too long to be reasonable.

Honklanistani scholars believe this developed after centuries of the species inserting its beak into matters that did not concern it, gradually stretching the cervical vertebrae until discretion was no longer anatomically possible. Like an ostrich, the neck rises from the body with a confident absurdity, allowing the Pigoose to loom, peer, and pronounce judgment from a height it has not earned.

When agitated, the neck stiffens like a ceremonial staff. When relaxed, it coils slightly, as if preparing either a bow or an accusation.

The head is where things become truly unsettling.

It has:

• The small, darting eyes of a pigeon (always watching)

• The heavy beak of a goose (built for assertion rather than delicacy)

• And a permanent expression suggesting it knows the rules and suspects you don’t

Perched atop the head is what outsiders first mistake for headgear -  a curious ridge of hardened feathers and keratin that forms a natural, helmet-like crest. This evolved, according to legend, after generations of ceremonial bowing, repeated prostration, and the occasional collision with symbolic objects. In Honklanistan, this crest is regarded as a mark of wisdom. In Dusty Gulch, it is widely regarded as “a bit much”.

The wings are broad but inefficient. They flap with great drama during rituals and disputes, creating wind, dust, and a sense of urgency, but rarely lift the creature more than a few inches off the ground. Flight, after all, suggests freedom -  and the Pigoose prefers occupation.

The legs are short, thick, and set wide apart, giving it a stance of permanent entitlement. When it walks, it does not hurry. When it runs, it is surprisingly fast and deeply committed.

The voice is neither honk nor coo, but an unsettling combination of both -  a guttural, reverberating sound that starts as a pigeon’s mutter and ends in a goose’s declaration. Locals describe it as:

“Like being scolded by a committee that never met you but already disapproves.”

To the Honklans, the Pigoose is sacred.
To Prentis Penjani, it is impressive.
To Dusty Gulch, it is a creature that looks like certainty grew feathers and forgot its manners. It was also the day colour started to fade away. I nibbbled my pencil. Was that a good thing? 

And when several hundred of them bow in unison, necks rising and falling around the water tower like synchronised periscopes of righteousness, one thing becomes very clear:

This is not a bird that evolved to ask questions.

The Pigoose continued its ritual, lamingtons untouched, the kettle steaming faintly in the background, and the townsfolk adjusting nervously around the mats. For the moment, all seemed orderly, even quaint.

But as the shadows lengthened over Gulch High Street, a faint, unsettling chorus of coo-HONK echoed from somewhere near the water tower… and then things started to go wrong. 

This is Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble, Dusty Gulch. Keep an eye on your shadows, readers. The Honklans have arrived, and something tells me they didn’t come alone... or without mischief in their intent...