Knees Up, Feathers Down: Trevor the Wallaby and the Great Knee Caper of Dusty Gulch
By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble - Rodent Correspondent-at-Large
Dusty Dingo Pub, beneath the third wobbly table near the dartboard
They came honking across the border like confused geese with diplomatic passports - the Honklanders - promising “unity,” “transparency,” and other words that look good on bumper stickers.
But every invasion brings a surprise. In Dusty Gulch, the first loose thread was Trevor's knees and his missing joints. Tug at it, and suddenly masks slip, Pigooses squeal, and an entire empire of deception begins to unravel.
And that, dear reader, is where your humble rodent correspondent picks up the scent…
For the uninitiated, let's do a recap or kneecap in this case: poor young Trevor the Wallaby was the poster boy - literally - for the “Hop Smart, Hop Safe!” school campaign. Mid-leap, full of vim and vigour, Trevor’s knees were proudly on display… until Maurice EDuck, the pompous Minister for Digital Harmony and Anatomical Neutrality, rolled out his “Knee-Free Policy” under the Joint Elimination Initiative. In a single, bureaucratic swoop, Trevor’s knees were digitally deleted to prevent “unsafe mimicry.”
The town went berserk. Mrs. Doris McCluskey screamed, “Where are Trevor's knees?” Kids drew chalk outlines on the pavement. Mayor Dusty McFookit slammed his fists in protest, already scarred from frequent slamming. And much so that he can no longer do dishes which is not a very good thing. Like Dusty, Trevor, now a legless wallaby icon, refused to stay down.
With a mix of outback ingenuity – and perhaps a dodgy back-alley vet with a welder – Trevor scored himself a shiny pair of titanium knees, allegedly recycled from “old kettles and Elon Musk’s space shuttle leftovers.”
He debuted them at the Dusty Dingo Pub with the now-legendary Titanium Two-Step: stomps, twirls, Riverdance, and Appalachian clogging all in one frenetic leap. Sawdust flew, the jukebox shorted out, and old Mavis fainted into a keg of Emu Brew.
Little did anyone know, those gleaming joints set off the pub’s metal detector and unearthed Dusty Gulch’s red dirt as a treasure trove of critical minerals: kneeodymium, lithium, and a dash of the previously thought fictional “Trevorite,” formed from wallaby sweat meeting titanium. Suddenly, Dusty Gulch became Critical Minerals Extraction Zone No. 47.
Enter Maurice EDuck (flapping his wings with visions of “eco-friendly” tailings in Bundy barrels) and Prentis Penjani - a shapeshifting politician who can look like a duck and walk like a duck when the polls want a duck ( currently wearing a luminous green suit, rebranding everything as the Rare Earths and Ethical Extraction Trust - REEET). Both were scheming to turn Trevor’s knees into “strategic assets,” pegging mineral claims in the Dusty Dingo pub carpark and promising knee-powered prosperity.
Trevor, meanwhile, popped in to the Dusty Dingo Pub for a quiet carrot juice. That’s when he saw it: a jar, floating in dark rum, labeled “Sourknee Shot - Lips Gotta Clink the Joint!” Inside were his original, fleshy knees, preserved and bobbing like grotesque garnish.
Shock froze Trevor in place - ears twitching, whiskers stiff, tail a perfect straight line. Then came fury: paws clenched, ears flattened, and he hopped so violently the floorboards creaked. “Stone the flamin’ crows! That’s me old knees! Maurice deletes ’em, I get titanium upgrades, and now you’re serving ’em in rum? I’ll have ya for this!”
But the plot thickens... As you may remember, the recent arrival of Honklans from the desert realm of Honklanistan has been… noticeable.
As time marched on, word spread fast. Busloads of honklanistan pilgrims arrived, teetotal, feathers preened, clutching prayer books, eager for the “holy knees”. Prentis and Maurice scratched their heads: how to monetise holy knees when no one drinks?
Mayor Dusty McFookit solved it overnight. The jar of rum vanished from the bar, replaced atop the old water tower - now the Altar of the Holy Knees - with a crystal decanter of Honklan Holy Water™, knee-infused and “blessed”. The pilgrims flocked, drank reverently, and intoned, “Peace be upon the Knees.”
And then… chaos. The moment their beaks touched the holy water, feathers melted like wax, revealing scaly, dark creatures with glowing red eyes and clattering claws. The masks were gone.
The impostors – once revered as pilgrims – shrieked and scattered, unmasked at last, leaving Dusty Gulch shaken but very stirred.
Trevor, paws firm on the floor, ears alert, and titanium knees gleaming, saw what Dusty McFookt had done. The town had witnessed the power of what had been dismissed as mere legend: the original knees of Trevor, once thought lost, had revealed the impostors for what they were.
And somewhere in the red dirt beyond the scrub, unseen eyes lingered. Not just any eyes, but the watching, judging, protective gaze of the ghosts of Australia’s past: Ned Kelly, Menzies, Banjo Paterson, Henry Lawson, and the countless soldiers who had given all to safeguard the land. They observed Trevor, the town, and the chaos alike, witnesses to courage, folly, and resilience.
Dusty McFookit tipped his Akubra, Prentis Penjani counted the door takings (holy water sales were through the roof), and Maurice EDuck folded his wings, muttering about “unintended consequences.” and " honklandaphobia " Trevor thumped his titanium knees in quiet pride. His original knees had been lost, upgraded, pickled, revered, and ultimately, instrumental in saving Dusty Gulch from deception.
The town knew the red dirt of Dusty Gulch, and the eyes that watched from beyond ... those eyes held secrets yet to be revealed. Trevor’s knees – both titanium and original – had secured a legend.
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