Panic at the Pumps
The Great Diesel Stampede of ’26
A Special Dispatch by Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble, Senior Correspondent, Dusty Gulch Gazette
Dusty Gulch awoke yesterday to a most troubling development.
Your humble correspondent had barely finished his midnight patrol beneath the floorboards of the Gulch Fuel Depot when whispers began spreading through the timber beams and grain sacks of town.
Two words.
Diesel shortage.
Some locals later murmured that the panic in town felt almost like waiting for the Outback rains to decide whether the creeks would flood or the beer would float away - a scenario chronicled by none other than Prentis Penjani, who claims his floods, flies, and heroic hovercraft deliveries are even more terrifying than Dusty Gulch on a diesel shortage day. Only he had nothing to do with the hovercraft or the deliveries...
It was none other than yours truly, Roderick ( Whiskers) McNibble. and I have the photographic proof.
One imagines that if PP’s heroic rat ( and I supect we all know who that is ) captains a hovercraft to deliver beer across floodwaters, it would at least calm the nerves of Dusty Gulch’s more excitable citizens - though possibly cause the local emus to demand a ride as well.
I was there. Prentis Penjani was up at Moonlight Manor enjoying a spa bath and a massage from a very provocative emu with 7 date farmers and a llama of questionable origins.
Let me put the record straight. Prentis Penjani is a fibber. A liar. He had nothing to do with the rescues.
Now, sensible creatures such as rats understand that rumours must be handled carefully. One listens, investigates, nibbles thoughtfully upon a biscuit crumb, and only then passes the information along.
Humans, however, tend to skip the middle steps.
By dawn the streets of Dusty Gulch looked less like a peaceful frontier town and more like the opening scene of a black-gold stampede.
Utes thundered in from every direction. Farmers arrived with trailers full of jerry cans stacked like ammunition crates before a showdown. One particularly ambitious fellow attempted to fill what appeared to be an inflatable paddling pool.
“It’s almost like PP’s town out in the real Outback,” whispered one observer, “except here, the diesel runs dry faster than the mosquitoes swarm after a wet season.”
Your correspondent made careful note of all developments from a safe vantage point beneath the pump platform.
The Mayor Speaks
At approximately nine bells, Mayor Dusty McFookit emerged from the Town Hall balcony, waving a proclamation scroll with the urgency of a man trying to stop a bushfire using a damp sock.
“Citizens of Dusty Gulch!” he cried.
“There is no cause for panic! The diesel supply is perfectly stable! Please refrain from hoarding!”
This announcement was unfortunately delivered at the precise moment when three farmers began rolling a 200-litre drum toward Pump Number Two like prospectors escorting a gold nugget.
Mayor McFookit removed his hat and rubbed his forehead.
“Ah, McFookit…” he muttered softly to himself.
Your correspondent recorded this for historical accuracy.
As we all know, McFookit is not censored by Maurice E. Duck… yet.
Enter Prentis Penjani
The calm did not last.
Prentis Penjani, local bad guy and official representative of Canberra in Dusty Gulch, strode into the crowd accompanied by five Persian date farmers who had recently claimed asylum in a country ruled by maniacs - but that is another story entirely.
Prentis seized the loudspeaker from Mayor McFookit’s hands.
“Good people of Dusty Gulch,” he began.
“The reason we have no diesel is not my fault. Just because I sold all our reserves for sixty-seven cents a litre does not mean I did anything wrong.”
Across the square Mrs McFookit’s sonic rolling pin began to vibrate ominously.
Trevor Titanium-Knees the Wallaby thumped his tail.
And Dulcie from the CWA Lamington Bake Squad drew in a sharp breath.
“You did what?” she asked, her voice chockers with arsenic and old lace.
Seven emus, four echidnas, every human in town ... and one rat ... stopped breathing.
The Official Explanation
At that moment Lord Squawk Squawk swooped down from the telegraph pole and assumed his duties as media liaison officer.
In his finest “Who’s a pretty pollie?” voice he addressed the crowd.
“Mr Penjani was referring to a strategic decision to save the planet from climate change.”
“The sale of the fuel reserves yielded funds to assist starving politicians throughout Canberra.”
“It was humanitarian aid.”
Meanwhile, the five Persian date farmers were quietly wondering whether Dusty Gulch possessed a decent hairdresser and if there might be something pleasant available to nibble.
Mavis Taggart fainted.
On the Ridge
Trevor hopped out of town and climbed the ridge overlooking what was once Gulch Mountain, the long-lost red centre of Dusty Gulch.
Minutes later Mrs McFookit joined him.
Though she had, by then, assumed her Asian shapeshifting form.
“Is it time, Trevor?” she whispered, her voice like a hot knife sliding through butter.
Trevor gazed solemnly across the valley toward the chaos still unfolding in town.
“The time is close,” he said.
“They took my bounce.”
He turned toward the fading light over Dusty Gulch.
“I am about to take it back…”
“…with interest.”
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