Identity crisis cured by $2.50 DNA kits, cold beer, and one large crocodile
By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble
Chief Reporter, The Dusty Gulch Gazette
Dateline: Dusty Gulch, 11/11/2025 at 11 am. (give or take a kookaburra’s cackle)
It was meant to be morning of thanks and gratitude in Dusty Gulch history.
Three magnificent orange biplanes - piloted by the legendary Sky-High Ducks, captains of hope and joy - were scheduled to swoop low and shower us with glittering canisters of pure, concentrated patriotism.
Children had drawn welcome banners. The CWA had baked 4,672 lamingtons. Even the emus had polished their toenails.
But evil, as it so often does in the Gulch, wore a cheap suit and a cheaper grin.
Prentis Penjani - self-proclaimed “Entrepreneur of Everything” - slithered in, lay a wreath on the War Memorial wearing sunglasses mind you, and then headed into the Dusty Gulch Hardware Store during their Once-in-a-Lifetime Clearance Bonanza and bought every last drum of Midnight Onyx industrial dye.
What was he up to? Read on and find out. You will be shocked!
With the help of his snivelling cohorts (you know who you are, Mr Magoo), he swapped the patriotism canisters for dye bombs faster than a goanna up a gum tree.
At dawn the planes roared overhead. The canisters burst. A silent, invisible mist settled over the town like a bad decision after too many beers at a Bachelor and Spinsters ball. .
By breakfast, chaos reigned.
Old Mrs McGillicuddy looked in the mirror, saw the same pale freckled face she’d had since 1938, and declared,
“Strewth, I’m Aboriginal now!”
Her husband, still ginger as a carrot, nodded solemnly and began addressing the teapot as “Uncle.”
The CWA ladies abandoned their scones mid-rise, lit ceremonial fires in the main street, and took off after poor Trevor the Wallaby waving tongs and shouting about “traditional tail stew for the Dusty Dingo BBQ.”
Trevor has not been seen since - though a suspicious didgeridoo-like object was later spotted propped against the war memorial.
Kangaroos fashioned their tails into spiral patterns and attempted to play them. Wombats floated two inches above the ground claiming to be spirit guides. Scorpions and goannas grew rainbow scales overnight and demanded tribute in lamington crumbs.
The emus received mysterious sacks of cash from Penjani himself. They strutted about declaring native title over the Gulch river and both pubs.
Pelicans waddled in from the billabong with beaks stuffed full of crisp fifties, muttering about “Canberra grants.”
Emu fathers kicked their chicks to the curb and announced childcare was now “a whole-of-community responsibility.”
Dusty McFookit - mayor, postmaster, and only man in town who can still find his wool lined thongs in the morning - stood on the town-hall verandah and wailed,
“What in the name of blinding billy tea is going on?!”
The town square fell silent. Even the rainbow dragons stopped hissing.
And that’s when he arrived.
Kob Hatter.
Astride his now-infamous crocodile.
A single rider on a croc the size of a Canberra politician’s monthly travel allowance swaggered down Dingo Avenue wearing a look that could turn Barnaby Joyce beetroot-red and Penny Wong weak at the knees in a locker room full of front-rowers in the Wallabies locker room.
The crocodile belched - sound like a V8 ute backfiring through a didgeridoo - and Kob slid off its back like he’d been born in the saddle of a prehistoric monster. Or it could have been like Redhead on her red scooter dropping wheelies ... who knows.
He carried no gun, no whip, just a battered Esky. Inside: 500 home-brand DNA kits bought on eBay for $2.50 each and a carton of Emu Export.
“Science and beer,” he said. “Works every time.”
“G’day,” he said, tipping the hat. “Name’s Kob Hatter. I fix things.”
Dusty McFookit fell to his knees.
“Can you save us?”
Kob looked him square in the eye.
“Dead simple, mate. The Definitely No Abo test. DNA, One prick, ten seconds, done.”
Prentis Penjani burst from the hardware store waving a receipt.
“You can’t undo my masterpiece! I bought that dye fair and square - clearance is clearance!”
Kob fixed him with a stare sharp enough to slice damper.
“Mate, the only thing you’re clearing is out of town. On foot.”
The town held its breath.
One by one, they lined up.
Kob spat on the ground, wiped his hands on his moleskins, and barked,
“Line up for the DNA prick. Free. Results in ten seconds. Guarantee: Definitely No Abo - or your money back and a free stubby.”
Mrs McGillicuddy rolled up her sleeve first.
Prick.
Beep.
“Scottish, 99.8%. The 0.2% is probably the haggis.”
The CWA ladies cheered so loud the scones rose an extra inch.
“Well, stone the crows, I’m still Scottish!”
Fires were doused. Tails unwound. Wombats thumped back to earth. Emu fathers sheepishly collected their chicks. Pelicans spat out the fifties and looked ashamed.
Penjani tried to slink away. The Sky-High Ducks swooped low, lassoed him with a length of clothesline, and deposited him on the noon coach to Woop Woop.
“THIS IS CULTURAL APPROPRIATION OF MY INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY!” he shrieked, waving the receipt like a surrender flag.
One of the ducks quacked,
“Mate, the only culture you’ve got is the yoghurt in your fridge that expired in 2012.”
Penjani squealed,
“I’ll sue! I have receipts!”
Kob flicked the receipt into the dust.
“Mate, that’s not a receipt. That’s a confession.”
By sunset the town square smelled of fresh scones and eucalyptus.
Trevor the Wallaby was guest of honour at a lamington-only barbecue. The rainbow dragons turned out to be ordinary goannas wearing party glitter (don’t ask).
Dusty McFookit raised a cup of Gulch River water.
“To Kob Hatter - saviour of Dusty Gulch!”
Kob winked, cork hat spinning.
“All in a day’s work. Now, who’s got Vegemite? I’m starving.”
He cracked a cold one, took a long swig, and watched the sunset bleed red across the plain.
“Reckon that’s the last we’ll see of Penjani,” Dusty said.
Kob wiped his mouth.
“Nah. A bloke like that always comes back. Next time he’ll be selling DNA tests to the emus. Definitely No Albatross.”
He climbed back on the crocodile. With a splash and a cloud of dust he was gone, leaving only the faint smell of diesel, coal, and common sense.
Somewhere out on the plain, three orange biplanes flew in perfect formation - ready for the next town that needs a little hope… and a lot of common sense.
The End
(until Prentis Penjani tries to sell timeshares on the moon powered by solar panels and wind turbines.)
