Ratty News: Dusty Gulch Dispatch — “When the Ghosts Came Rolling In”
Filed by: Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble, Senior Correspondent, Dusty Gulch Bureau
It’s been a curious sort of week here in Dusty Gulch - the kind of quiet that makes you think something’s up. The ghosts of Banjo Paterson, Ned Kelly, and Henry Lawson left town some time ago, promising to return, and not a whisper since. The Dusty Dingo gossip circle’s been silent, McFookit Burgers has been ticking along without incident, and even the bin chickens have been strangely absent.
Jeffrey Epstein remains in the freezer behind McFookit’s - for “historical preservation,” according to the CWA - and Trevor’s knees, having been temporarily confiscated during the first equal rights uprising, are awaiting reinstatement pending CWA approval. All in all, Dusty Gulch was as settled as a cat waiting for a zoomie episode at 3 am.
Then we heard the sound.
It started as a low, nostalgic rumble rolling over the horizon - not a storm, not a truck, but something older, grander, Australianer. Then, through the shimmering haze of the outback road, came a gleaming FJ Holden. And behind the wheel? None other than Sir Robert Menzies, or at least what was left of him - a perfectly pressed ghost with a voice like warm varnish and a twinkle that could cut through Canberra fog.
Mayor Dusty McFookit, being a man of quick reflexes and longer speeches, greeted him with the ceremonial lamington and the town’s finest thermos of billy tea. The good folk of Dusty Gulch gathered ‘round, still dazed from last week’s victory over the RotoVac.
Sir Robert stepped from the Holden, brushed off a few notes of eternity, and cleared his throat.
“My dear Australians,” he began, “this town - this Dusty Gulch of Ours - is what I meant when I spoke of faith, family, and fortitude. You have the decency of hard work, the loyalty of good neighbours, and the courage to stand firm in a world that’s forgotten its manners.”
The crowd erupted in applause, though a few bin chickens booed from the pub roof. Lord Squawk Squawk hastily scribbled an urgent memo to Maurice EDuck to let him know that misinformation and hate speech was about to erupt.
“You must remain earnest,” Menzies continued, “true to your nature, and suspicious of any duck who arrives with a clipboard. The strength of Australia does not lie in committees or consultants - it lies in the hearts of those who still sweep their own porches and bake for the CWA.”
There were tears in some eyes. A lump in others. Even our Redhead fanned herself with the lamington tray and reached for her favourite book " Memoirs of Manx Cats and the Aussies Who Love Them."
But not everyone was pleased.
Yes, dear readers, somewhere behind the scenes, Maurice EDuck, head of the Feathered Progress Alliance, was having what experts describe as a “policy panic.” His lieutenant, Prentis Penjani, also fired off an emergency memo to Lord Squawk Squawk, urging immediate countermeasures before Menzies’ ghost could undo years of bureaucratic conditioning.
That memo, fortunately, was intercepted by yours truly - Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble - through methods I can’t disclose but which may involve a VPN, a shortwave radio, and the abandoned wombat burrow I now call home.
The panic was real. For December 10th, the day of the “Great National Shutdown,” had been scheduled - a top-secret plan to convert Dusty Gulch into “New Progress Park,” complete with a duck-powered think tank and a federally funded mindlessness hub. But Menzies’ speech had thrown the plan into disarray.
Before the bureaucrats could regroup, he raised his spectral hand once more.
“Let me tell you something, my friends,” he said, voice low and ringing with that old conviction. “You don’t need bin chickens from Canberra telling you how to live. What you need are the Dusty McFookits - the Redheads - the Trevors, dodgy knees and all. And if you must look for heroes, look to Banjo, Henry, and Ned. The poets, the battlers, and the bushrangers - they’re the true parliament of this land.”
The wind shifted. The Holden idled softly. Even the bin chickens looked repentant for a moment (though that may have been the sunstroke).
Then, with a tip of his ghostly hat, Menzies smiled.
“The ghosts of the past will always return when the soil stirs with purpose. Guard your Gulch well.”
And just like that, he was gone, FJ Holden vanishing into the heat shimmer, leaving behind a town half-awed, half-inspired, and entirely unsure of what to do next.
The Ghosts Are Stirring
Since that visit, Dusty Gulch has been in overdrive. The CWA ladies launched Operation Teapot .... an emergency preparedness plan involving fortified scones and the strategic deployment of marmalade. Mayor McFookit has stationed Trevor at the front steps of the Council Hall, where his newly refurbished knees occasionally emit a patriotic hum.
But the ducks haven’t gone quietly. Maurice EDuck has resurfaced with a new proposal: Project SunDuck - A Sustainable Future for Feathered Friends. It’s billed as an “eco-forward rural partnership,” but leaked memos suggest it’s actually a vote-harvesting scheme powered by ibis nests and taxpayer pessimism. Prentis Penjani is already pitching it under the National Avian Innovation Fund, and Lord Squawk Squawk has been appointed Director of Community Cluck.
Locals aren’t buying it. The Dusty Dingo gossip circle has dubbed it “the greenwash goose step,” while Redhead has threatened to “repurpose every duck within a hundred kilometres into feather dusters if they so much as eye her two manx cats.”
Meanwhile, strange happenings have been reported out near the boundary fence. A lone rider has been spotted at dusk, helmet glinting in the setting sun. The Dusty Dingo jukebox has been switching itself on, playing The Man from Snowy River without coins. And McFookit Burgers’ wall was found freshly painted with glowing words: “Kelly rides again.”
Coincidence? Hardly.
The soil of Dusty Gulch has stirred.
Word around town is that the ghosts of Banjo, Ned, and Henry are rallying once more ... not as idle spirits but as guardians of the old Australia, ready to stand against the polished nonsense of progress. The town library lights flicker at midnight; verses of Lawson’s “Faces in the Street” have begun appearing in the dust on car windscreens. Even the kookaburras have started laughing in iambic pentameter.
And in the heart of it all sits the CWA, calm and resolute, like a command centre of sponge-wielding strategists. Their latest initiative - Phase Lamington - is rumoured to involve defensive baking and, if diplomacy fails, a full-scale scone offensive.
Whiskers’ Closing Observation
So, where does that leave us? Somewhere between a ghost story and a national allegory, I surmise. Menzies came and went, but his words still echo in the red dust: Work. Loyalty. Courage. The very things that built this country and still hold it together - no matter what the suits in Canberra say.
Maurice EDuck and his cronies might dream of rebranding Dusty Gulch as “New Progress Park,” but they’ll have to get past the ghosts, the knees, and the CWA first.
Because here, in the heart of the outback, progress doesn’t come from a memo. It comes from people - stubborn, kind, and occasionally armed with teapots.
So I leave you with this, dear readers:
When the dust rises, the Gulch remembers.
And when the ghosts return, Australia had better start listening.
Filed faithfully,
Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble
Senior Correspondent, Ratty News — Dusty Gulch Bureau
