Dusty Gulch Dispatch: The Croc Cavalry & the Great Duckening

By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble, Special Correspondent (still in hiding)

There are times in a rat’s life when you wonder if scratching a pencil in a wombat burrow matters at all. Whether your words rise to the surface - or sink into dust with the town above. But this time, against all odds, someone heard me.  With a purloined Starlink dish strapped precariously to the CWA hall roof before its members were fully duckified -  my message got through.

And someone answered.

Not just anyone, mind you. It was Bob Katter, maverick of Far North Queensland. A man who never ignores a croc-summons, never turns down a fight for the bush, and never lets a good hat go to waste.

Why Dusty Gulch Matters

Some may ask, why did he come here, to this forgotten Outback speck where dust and legend blur together?

Because Dusty Gulch is no ordinary town. It is the bush distilled. If Dusty Gulch fails, the bush fails. And if the bush fails, the nation’s heart ceases to beat. Our stories die, our humour dries up, and the ghosts of Ned Kelly, Banjo Paterson, and Henry Lawson drift untethered, banished like unwanted memories.

Or perhaps, as some residents mutter, Bob only came because of the telegram I sent:

“CWA TURNING INTO DUCKS. BRING CROC.”

Scribbled in Vegemite on butcher’s paper and delivered by a slightly tipsy galah, it was hardly Churchillian prose. But it was enough.

The Croc Cavalry Arrives

And so it was, through the swirling dust and the rising quacks, Bob arrived -  astride a massive saltwater crocodile. His silhouette cut through the Outback sun, half messiah, half hatman. The townsfolk, feathers ruffled, froze mid-quack. Behind him? A squad of big snappers fresh from Cape York. 

Bob’s voice cracked like a stockwhip across the street:

“I may be too late! The CWA DO look like ducks!”

Indeed, Bob. Indeed.

Before him waddled the once-proud ladies of the Country Women’s Association, their aprons stretched over feathery bellies, their lamington trays now used as quacking shields. Behind them, the enforcer ducks patrolled, iron beaks gleaming. Overhead, Lord Squawk Squawk cawed fake news from a powerline, his voice echoing like Lord Haw-Haw on a bad radio.

At McFookit's burger joint, Maurice the EDuck and his slippery offsider Prentis Penjani brooded over the freezer, where the ghost of Epstein lies humming on ice, waiting for “the time.” Even poor Trevor the wallaby, stripped of his knees for the crime of hopping privilege, sat sadly on a milk crate, watching the end of Gulch dignity. 

But seeing Bob ride into town, the townsfolk cheered. Or quacked, depending on whether or not they had been turned into ducks. Children waved poetry scrolls in the streets, and Dusty McFookit, still glowing from his birthday bash (held on the same day as our heartfelt Steve Irwin memorial), welcomed the crocs as if they were long-lost cousins. It felt like liberation. Like the Channel Islands in ’45, Dusty Gulch was fighting back.

But Maurice the Educk and his feathered lieutenant, Captain Squawk Squawk, had other plans. Within hours, new lockdown laws were quacked into being: no gatherings without duck permits, no pies without inspection, and worst of all - no poetry after sunset. Prentis Penjani, ever the schemer, announced the arrival of a mysterious new virus, Duck-25. “All must be vaccinated!” he thundered from atop the bakery, syringe in wing, while ducks enforced quackdowns with bureaucratic precision.

Meanwhile, ( and this is where it gets interesting ) it has been revealed that Dusty McFookit carries a burden few understand.... at 2 a.m. sharp, every morning, his five feline deputies scale him like an ancient monolith, licking his face in a dreamtime ritual. To them, Dusty is not just mayor, but the Sacred Mountain - the last echo of a lost Ayers Rock - like peak that once rose over Dusty Gulch - known as McFookit Peak. This nightly ordeal leaves him bleary-eyed but strangely fortified, as if ancestral feline memory fuels his defiance against duck decrees.

Some whisper McFookit Peak still exists, not in stone but in the belly of a man. Each night the cats remember.

Over a beer at the Dusty Dingo, Mayor McFookit told Bob about the ancient ritual. Bob declared " May a thousand blossoms bloom on your belly tonight, Dusty. I think I have the answer. We need to send for Jacinta Price - her Scottish and Aboriginal heritage could be the key to solving the mystery of McFookit Peak." 

And so it was that Bob Katter sent an emergency Ratty Airways flight to Alice Springs, red dirt still flaking from his boots, demanding reinforcements.…and if Ratty Airways makes it past the duck patrols, Jacinta may yet hold the key to Dusty Gulch’s deliverance.

Until the reinforcements arrive. Bob Katter pressed on, crocs snapping and tail-whipping through back alleys, scattering duck patrols. Yet, like cleaning up Washington D.C., victory was slippery. Each croc victory spawned a new quack regulation; every duck retreat was followed by a proclamation from Prentis Penjani about “the greater good.”

And so the town sits on a knife’s edge. Crocs patrol by day, ducks quack curfews by night, and lamingtons are stockpiled like munitions in the Country Women’s Association hall.

Dusty Gulch is not defeated, but neither is it free. Somewhere between ritual cat-licks, outlaw lamingtons, and Captain Bob’s booming calls to arms, the people still whisper poems under their breath: a sign that the fight for free speech - and for the soul of the Gulch - is far from over.

Until next week, stay tuned and we may discover the secret history of the Sacred Mountain, the sixth cat and whether or not This goes with that at Sussans. At this stage, I feel Jacinta Price and Dusty Gulch are out of fashion at Sussans, but rest assured, your trusted Ratty News Correspondent will get to the truth. 

This is Roderick ( Whiskers ) McNibble signing off from The Wombat Burrow. Stay sharp and keep your whiskers twitching. 

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.