A Word from Roderick “Whiskers” McNibble
Senior Culture Correspondent, Ratty News
“Something is rotten in the state of Washingburrow…”
— Hamlet (if he'd worn whiskers and sniffed conspiracy)
Welcome, noble burrowers and readers of refined cheeseprint, to the most scandalous stage production since The Weasel of Venice was banned from the Hollow Log Theatre for being “too accurate.”
Tonight, beneath the flickering torchlight of the Rodent Playhouse, Dusty Gulch ( just behind McFookits Burger Joint ) we present a tale not simply of politics or power, but of ghosts, betrayal, and one rat’s madcap descent into calculated lunacy.
It is titled, in full:
The Tragedy of the Returned King and Prince Elon
Now, some among you may scoff.
“Elon?” you squeak. “The star-chaser? The cheese cart tycoon?”
Yes, that Elon. But let it be known, long before he invented solar burrow panels or self-driving nut-harvesters, Prince Elon had a fondness for the works of one William ShakesBeer. And no tale stirred him more than Hamlet - the tale of a prince haunted by a father’s ghost, lost in a kingdom of liars, trying to sift truth from treachery with little more than a skull and a soliloquy.
Elon, as I’ve come to know him (via intercepted burrow transmissions and the occasional coded gnaw-mark), really admires Hamlet. Sort of.
Minus the tights. Plus the satellites.
You see, when the ghost of his own political father, King Donoldi the Orange, returned from exile like a badly buried jar of marmalade, it stirred something in the young tech-rat. A sense that the kingdom - Ameratcia - was not just divided, but infected. With secrets. With masks. With echoes from the cursed isle of Little Saint Jambs, where the most powerful rodents did unspeakable things behind spa curtains.
So Elon, ever theatrical, took to the stage we now call “X marks the spot”, playing the fool, pretending madness, hurling tweets like daggers, and calling his own play: one designed to catch not Claudius... but the Deep Cheese State.
This tale, like all good tragedies, ends in a reckoning. But whether it’s justice or farce, redemption or more rot, that, dear readers, remains for you to judge.
Curtains up.
Watch the tail.
And remember: madness is often the last refuge of the desperately sane.
- Roderick
The Tragedy of the Returned King and Prince Elon
A Ratty News Historical Play in Five Acts
Adapted by Roderick “Whiskers” McNibble, Special Investigator for The Cheeseleaf Chronicle
Illustrated (badly) by Dot Snellgrove
Costumes by Pee Wee Herman McPaddington Esq
ACT I: The Ghost of the Old King
In the dank tunnels beneath the Parliament Cheese Cellar, where whispers echo longer than promises, King Donoldi the Orange-furred once ruled the glorious United Burrows of Ameratcia. He had cheese pyramids! Gold-plated bottlebrushes! But after the Great Selection Scandal of 2020, he was deposed; his tail curled, his crown pinched by Deep Burrow Bureaucrats and Hollow Log Scribes.
But lo! In the Year of Our Mouse 2025, he returned, no longer mere rodent but revenant. His fur still oddly synthetic, his snout glowing with conviction, he appeared to his son, Prince Elon of X (marks the spot ) , inventor of self-driving cheese carts and flying saucers for shrews.
By moonlight near the Trashfire Tower, the Ghost spoke:
“The Isle of Little Saint Jambs still stinks. The Deep Cheese State cavorts in its tunnels... senators in silk, scribes in sequins, all gorging on sin. They betrayed me, lad. They’ll betray you. Trust no one.. not even the ones holding my campaign flags on popsicle sticks.”
Then he vanished in a puff of hair mousse. Prince Elon stared at the sky, and swore an oath on his favourite circuit board: “I shall act the fool, bait the trap, and stage a play so cunning you could pin a tail on it and call it a possum ”
ACT II: The Prince’s Madness
Elon, noble rodent of logic and lithium, began his charade. His chirps on “X” (formerly Gnawtter) became cryptic: “What is cheese but hardened time?” he posted at 3am. He named names. He nibbled nerves. He even insulted his father with a shrill squeak over a new Cheese Emissions Tariff targeting electric wagons.
“The King is bonkers!” squeaked Elon. “His tail’s in the pantry with the ghosts of Saint Jambs!”
The burrows exploded. Some claimed Elon was possessed. Others thought he’d finally sniffed too much Mars Dust. Then, to shock the entire Hollow Log Court, he proposed the creation of a new political faction: The Ameratcian Party - slogan: “Neither Red Fur nor Blue Mould!”
And to lead this party? He nominated… Lord Pompous Pencecoat, a once-loyal mouse now regarded by the King’s rats as the cheese-turner of 2020. Murmurings echoed:
@BurrowBabe47: “Pence? This has to be a practical joke.”
@NotMyRodent: “Is this part of the act or is he really loony?”
Elon’s eyes twinkled. His madness, it seemed, was merely mousetrap theatre.
ACT III: The Play Within the Play
Prince Elon unveiled his masterstroke: "The Murine of Gonzago", a musical starring ferrets in wigs and a suspiciously lifelike puppet of Senator Sniffy McSchmooze. The play detailed how a rodent kingdom fell to ruin, all beginning with a secret island where important rodents “took meetings” in massage caves.
The audience (half of whom were wearing disguises and fake credentials) began to twitch.
Deep Cheese Agents hissed from the shadows. The Old King blustered and declared Elon a traitor to the cause, then privately winked through the bars of his Twitter cage.
Lord Pencecoat issued no statements. Just squeaked ambiguously.
The scribes at The New Rodent Times wrote lengthy articles titled: “Is Prince Elon Off His Wheel?”... but their paws were shaking.
ACT IV: The Unmasking
The Ameratcian Party launched officially from a converted sardine tin. Elon raised his banner atop Trashfire Tower and declared:
“This isn’t Denmark. This is WASHINGBURROW, and the stink ain’t just fish!”
He no longer hid the references. He began to name names. Courtiers who had once sipped cherry cordial with the Ghost of Epstink were outed; live, mid-chirp, on X.
The Deep Cheese State struck back. They sent the Legal Weasels. Launched 37 investigations. Leaked 12 staged cheese-sting operations. But each attempt revealed their paw prints.
PenceCoat wobbled like a jelly rat. Elon never expected him to lead, only to test the system’s cracks. And it cracked, alright... right down the centre of the Hollow Log.
ACT V: The Reckoning
The stage is set. The curtain pulled.
No blood was spilled (except in the Shrew Suburbs), but the cost was real. Trust fractured. Burrows divided. The Isle of Jambs exposed, not through dusty courts, but by common field mice with cracked smartphones and better memories than the press.
King Donoldi, no longer ghost, now stood beside his son, their feud revealed to be rat-a-theatre - a performance to bait the real traitors. Together, they launched a Cheese Audit of the entire kingdom.
And Prince Elon? He gazed once more at the stars. The Ameratcian Party grew, composed of oddballs, cast-outs, conspiracy-munchers, and noble-hearted diggers. He declared:
“Let us build a future on truth, not tofu.”
The play ends - not with tragedy - but with a crackling of hope.
The Deep Cheese State is wounded. The burrows stir with fresh air.
But one question remains:
Will the new kingdom learn from the madness... or simply recast it in new costumes and call it progress?
Coming soon on Ratty News International:
Mousetrap Diplomacy: Did Finland Ratify the Treaty of Cheese, or Just Nod?
Dot Snellgrove’s Guide to Spotting Deep Cheese Agents in Your Knitting Circle
Roderick’s Exclusive: "Yes, I met Epstink. I thought it was a brand of marmalade."
This article is satire. It uses humour, exaggeration, and a sprinkle of cheekiness to make a point. It’s not meant to be taken literally or as factual reporting. If you’re looking for straight news, this ain’t it. But if you enjoy a good laugh and a bit of honest reflection, you’re in the right place.
