Dusty Gulch Gazette – Special Aerial Edition
By Roderick “Whiskers” McNibble, Chief Nibbler & Aeronautical Correspondent
Mayor Dusty McFookit had been tucked into bed by his wife - shapeshifter, Australian and secret agent for Cat Force Five - rolling pin close at hand, bearing a cuppa and a lamington. She had kept watch all night, waiting and listening, because in Dusty Gulch, peace is only the calm before the next calamity.
In the early hours, the five cats stirred. Something was amiss. A low hum filled the air - wrong, mechanical, frightening.
Mrs McFookit opened the screen door. Sonic rolling pin in hand. ( More on that later. )
Overhead, in the vast outback sky, a squadron of orange budgiechoppers - Ratty Airways’ purpose-built combat fleet - swept in low and fast. Above them loomed the real threat: General Beakmore’s hulking Honklander form, a rogue wedge-tailed eagle circling like a bad debt, and with them a massive swarm of drone sandflies - mindless, metallic, driven only by programmed commands from the Great Honk to destroy Dusty Gulch.
The Battle for Dusty Gulch was about to enter a new phase:
The Budgie versus the Smuggler.
Mrs McFookit felt a cold weight settle in her chest. These weren’t living creatures. They were tools - obedient, relentless, without mercy. For a moment, she flickered back into that earlier form, all elegance and danger, kneeling beside Dusty to soothe him with kindness and the sort of truths only a wife can deliver.
“Why didn’t you fix the leaky tap before you went away?” she said ,while giving him a thump.
“But here - have your tea. Anyone would think being kidnapped and tied up in a water tower is an excuse. And if you’d learned to fold a fitted sheet properly, you could’ve escaped. I made you the backpack.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Only weeks earlier she’d shown him how a fitted sheet - folded just so - could be packed into a serviceable parachute. Dusty, in his wisdom, had shoved it into the linen cupboard and gone down to the Dusty Dingo for an Emu Brew. And that, as they say, was that.
No point crying over spilled milk.
Dusty staggered out of bed, shrugged into his worn dressing gown, ribs and knees protesting, and stepped onto the porch as the sky darkened with Honklanders and thousands upon thousands of drone sandflies....
This was not good.
Above him came the full nightmare: Beakmore honking commands, the wedge-tailed eagle diving with hired-gun enthusiasm, and the drone swarm descending like a black blizzard of buzzing doom.
Ratty Airways’ budgiechoppers - hastily assembled in the hangar - swept in low, rotors whining defiance into the dawn.
And the battle began.
Sand drones poured down. The CWA ladies sprang into action, hurling eucalyptus bombs packed with dried gum leaves, eucalyptus oil, and just enough Vegemite for grip. Deep beneath Biggie Rat’s hangar, the citronella reserves - stockpiled since the mozzie plague of ’23 - were released in choking clouds that sent the drones stuttering and veering.
Still, the swarm pressed on.
Ratty Airways was outnumbered, outgunned, and running low on everything.
Then.... from Feathers O’Malley’s lead chopper- a single green flare split the sky.
The budgiechoppers launched their secret weapon.
The Drop Bear Commandos
Not the cuddly koalas of tourist brochures. Uncle Silas had been busy in the Bio-Buzz Lab south of town, cross-training a squad of specially selected (and extremely grumpy) drop bears. Each wore a micro-harness, night-vision leaf goggles, claw-mounted citronella sprayers, and - most importantly -a compact parachute fashioned from properly folded fitted sheets.
Turns out, when packed right, they make excellent drop chutes.
Hatches popped.
The commandos launched in disciplined waves, parachutes blooming white against the sky as they descended straight into the swarm.
Impact was devastating.
Drop bears latched onto drone rotors with vice-like claws, spraying concentrated citronella that fried circuits and gummed mechanisms. Sandflies collided mid-air as their programming unraveled. One particularly ferocious commando - callsign Bruce - rode a drone all the way into the dirt, roared triumphantly, then scampered off for a victory chew.
General Beakmore honked in disbelief.
The eagle broke and fled.
From the porch, Mrs McFookit watched, her hand steady on Dusty’s shoulder.
Dusty nodded grimly.
“Should’ve practiced folding those sheets sooner, love.”
She squeezed his hand.
“You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
The eucalyptus bombs kept flying. The CWA cheered. The five cats prowled below, batting falling drone wreckage like toys. Ratty Airways circled victorious as the last sandflies fizzled into acrid smoke, drop bears parachuting back to the frangipani grove for debrief and snacks.
High above, General Beakmore retreated - not defeated, merely regrouping.
Whispers already spread.
The Great Honk had more phases. And Prentis Penjani was far from finished.
BLOG COMMENTS POWERED BY DISQUS
