RATTY NEWS SPECIAL INVESTIGATION

THE WEREWOLVES OF DUSTY GULCH

Project Howl, the Hacked Rolling Pin, and the Mystery Beyond the Black Stump

By Roderick “Whiskers” McNibble
Chief Investigative Correspondent, Dusty Gulch Gazette
(Expendable, slightly chewed, currently stress-munching popcorn)

It began with murder.

One ordinary evening, the Dusty Nine were bickering over breadcrumbs beside the pond as only ducks can.

By sunrise... there were only feathers.

No blood. No struggle. No heroic last stand.

The Dusty Nine had not been eaten.

They had not been chased. They had been... eliminated.

Professionally. Surgically. Terrifyingly.

Whatever had visited Dusty Gulch that night had not come looking for dinner.

It had come looking for ducks. And the story I discovered will astonish all of our readers, even hardened boom bang bash watchers...

The tracks leading away from the pond were enormous.

Four paws. Claws like crowbars. Stride length roughly: "one panicked mayor in full flight."

The trail headed towards the new water tower.

Not the old one. The new one. Not the one down the road. Past the Black Stump.

(You can’t miss it. Nobody ever has.)

The official council report described the creatures responsible as:

"Large white canine residents."

Council always does have a gift for understatement.

I call them:

Werewolves.

Naturally, the editor sent me.

"Take notes, Whiskers."

"And don’t die."

I asked whether this counted as proper workplace safety procedures.

He said: "Bring back the story."

This is why newspapers need unions. But proper ones - not the sort we see these days. But back to my story... 

Three nights creeping through the scrub later, I had collected six clues and developed a mild case of the screaming willies.

The evidence:

One flattened notebook. Two suspicious puncture marks. A cheese sandwich stolen by an extremely angry goose.

And the sound.

CLUNK.

Metal on metal. Clean. Deliberate.

Final.

It came from beyond the Black Stump.

Naturally.

Everything important in Dusty Gulch happens beyond the Black Stump.

If aliens landed tomorrow, they would probably park beside it.

Meanwhile, back in town, Mrs McFookit was fighting a battle of her own.She immediately transformed into a grumpy cat and ordered Mayor Dusty McFookit to stay on guard through the night. He did. Of course. Things were that serious. 

Her legendary Sonic Rolling Pin had been hacked.

The same heroic appliance that once detected rogue geese at three kilometres.

At exactly 3 a.m., it began broadcasting Honklander marching music. Then it announced tomorrow’s weather in fluent goose. Then, most alarmingly, it attempted to order twelve tonnes of birdseed on Uber. Mrs McFookit reacted immediately.

The Sonic Rolling Pin is now switched off. Sealed inside a Faraday bag. Wrapped in industrial aluminum foil. Placed inside two nested biscuit tins. And hidden beneath the kitchen table.

She sleeps beside it with a member of the Feline Five in each hand and on the bed. Mayor McFookit stays up all night reading blogs and posting links about living with cats and no sleep. 

Even the toaster is too frightened to pop.

Then there is Prentis Penjani. Once the mastermind behind complicated schemes. 

Now... wearing a bright red dog lead as a necktie. Not a fashion choice. Every few minutes Prentis stops mid-sentence. As if he was on an escalator that stopped working. Tilts his head. Listens. Nods. And then, as though commanded, he sits. And begs. 

Then quietly continues doing whatever he has been told. The werewolves have him on a very short leash. Literally.

But the real story was waiting this side of the Black Stump.

I followed the CLUNK.

There, beneath the new water tower, I found something impossible.

A repaired water main. Not patched. Not hurriedly fixed. Perfectly repaired. Gleaming brass. Flawless threads.

The kind of workmanship that makes other plumbers stare silently at their own tools and question their life choices.

Someone down there was a master.

Then...

The fog rolled in.

CLUNK.

Closer. I turned. Two glowing eyes. Dark feathers. A very impressive cape. And resting across one wing...

a heavy brass sink spanner.

Behind him stood Trevor the Wallaby. Titanium knees. Full mobile plumbing workshop.

And the slightly worried expression of an apprentice who had been asked to hold too many tools at once.

"Wrong socket again, Trevor," the figure said calmly.

Trevor looked down.

"Oh."

A pause.

" What's this? " Trevor asked. 

Dracula's Missing Washer: The Secret Beneath the Sink Spanner

"Is it a spare washer?"

Dracula looks at him.

"No, Trevor."

"Important washer?"

A pause.

"The most important washer."

Trevor nods solemnly.

"Should I put it somewhere safe?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

Dracula looks around.

"Somewhere you cannot find it."

Trevor thinks.

"Excellent plan."

Five minutes later:

"Trevor?"

"Yes?"

"Where is the washer?"

"Safe."

"Where?"

"I can't find it."

"Exactly what I was afraid of."

Dracula nodded knowingly.

"Hand me the spanner."

Trevor did.

Finally.

A miracle.

Dracula gave the valve one precise turn.

CLUNK.

Across the valley, the Honklander communications mast died with a sad electronic whimper.

Project Howl lights flickered. Then vanished. Somewhere in the darkness...

a werewolf whimpered.

Prentis Penjani grabbed his dog-lead necktie. Nothing happened.

For the first time in days... he looked genuinely frightened.

Dracula turned towards me.

The sink spanner rested calmly on his wing.

"I’d write this down, Whiskers," he said.

"No one’s going to believe it otherwise."

Then came the smallest, most satisfied tradesman’s smile I have ever seen.

The smile of someone who had fixed a problem properly.

The fog rolled in. When it cleared... they were gone. Prentis Penjani's hit squad created to destroy Dusty Gulch had backfired as he himself was subjected to their rule. Yet he had been thwarted by a competent vampire emu with a sink spanner and good plumbing skills. 

Only one thing remained.

A perfect brass washer. And a cryptic message from a honklander.  Inside a cheese sandwich hastily regurgitated, it sent chills up and down my spine. 

The message was still warm. And shocking.  But that is a piece I will write in the future. I will however let you know it has something to do plumbing. 

But back to today. 

Back at the Gazette, the editor read my report twice.

He removed his glasses.

"McNibble..."

"Yes?"

"You expect people to believe that an old vampire emu plumber and a wallaby with titanium knees just defeated a secret werewolf programme with a sink spanner?"

I thought about the feathers. The hacked rolling pin. The dog-lead necktie. The perfect repair job. And that single metallic sound echoing across Dusty Gulch.

CLUNK.

I shrugged.

"It’s Dusty Gulch."

He sighed.

"Fair point."

He picked up the phone.

"Run it."

NEXT WEEK:

Why Three Honklanders Surrendered to a Wombat Armed Only With a Garden Rake.

Or maybe not. This is Roderick ( Whiskers ) McNibble, signing out and in need of a lie down and an emu brew. Stay twitchy out there.