The Salsa Conspiracy

A goose with a grudge and questionable dance moves infiltrates a high-stakes duck salsa tournament. Feathers fly, secrets spill, and hilarity ensues.

Inspired by the word prompt “dust,” I began to wonder: what if the word wasn’t just a word, but an acronym with an absurd twist? That question led to this tale of feathers, salsa, and secrets in the heart of Quacksville.

 


 

It was a crisp, sunny morning in Quacksville, and the excitement was palpable. Every duck in town was either rehearsing their footwork or polishing their beaks for the Annual Duck Salsa Showdown. But not Gary Goose.

Gary sat hunched over his typewriter in his cramped apartment above the local pond supply store, the clack of keys echoing his frustration. For years, he’d nursed a hunch that the tournament was rigged. Every year, the same elite ducks—those flashy Mallards with their expensive sequined vests—claimed victory. Rumors of underhanded tactics fluttered around town like loose feathers, and Gary was determined to expose the truth.

“This year,” Gary muttered, jabbing the carriage return lever, “I’m going undercover.”

He rummaged through a cardboard box labeled “Costumes,” pulling out a bedraggled feather boa, oversized sunglasses, and a fake duckbill. Holding the disguise up to his face, he squinted at his reflection in a cracked mirror. “Quack,” he said, his voice dripping with false enthusiasm. The accent wasn’t great, but it would have to do.

The tournament venue, the grand Quacksville Pond Pavilion, buzzed with energy. Strings of fairy lights twinkled overhead, their soft glow reflecting off the freshly polished dance floor. Ducks strutted through the space, their dazzling costumes shimmering with glitter. The sharp, tangy aroma of freshly made salsa mingled with the sound of webbed feet tapping against the ground, creating a sensory symphony.

Gary waddled in, clutching his entry form like a lifeline. He’d registered as Gregory Duckson, a name so bland it was almost suspicious. He adjusted his fake bill nervously, hoping no one would notice how it wobbled slightly with every step.

The first round kicked off in a whirlwind of feathers and Latin beats. Gary’s partner, a petite Muscovy duck named Penny, shot him exasperated looks as he stumbled through the steps. Just as it seemed they were doomed to elimination, Gary’s foot slipped on a stray dollop of salsa, sending him into a flailing, improvised spin. The crowd erupted into cheers.

“That’s… avant-garde!” one judge declared, his monocle glinting under the lights.

Penny gawked at him, her beak slightly open. “You’re either a genius or incredibly lucky.”

Gary gave her a lopsided grin. “Why not both?”

By the semi-finals, Gary had infiltrated the inner circle of DUST—the Ducks United for Salsa Tournaments. This wasn’t just a friendly competition; it was a tightly controlled salsa cartel. Whispered conversations about “exclusive imports” of heirloom tomatoes and “illicit spice blends” hinted at something far deeper than feathers and footwork.

During a break, Gary found himself cornered by Madame Mallarda, the reigning champion and undisputed queen of the salsa scene. Draped in a shimmering gold cape, she exuded an air of icy authority.

“Gregory,” she began, her voice smooth yet menacing, “you’ve got potential. But let’s be clear—the Golden Beak Trophy isn’t just a prize. It’s a responsibility.”

Gary feigned ignorance. “Responsibility?”

Madame Mallarda’s eyes narrowed. “The winner gains access to the Secret Salsa Vault—a repository of the ultimate salsa recipe. It’s not a power to be taken lightly.”

Gary’s heart raced. This was it—the story he’d been chasing.

The final round arrived, and the stakes couldn’t have been higher. The pavilion buzzed with anticipation as Gary and Penny squared off against Madame Mallarda and her partner, Sir Quackington. The music swelled, a sultry mix of brass and percussion that set every feather on edge.

Gary’s movements were chaotic yet oddly captivating, his wild flailing now a hallmark of his unique style. He spun Penny so fast she let out an involuntary quack of surprise. Across the floor, Madame Mallarda’s precision began to falter under the weight of her own perfection.

Then, in a moment of sheer audacity, Gary seized a bowl of salsa from the judges’ table. Balancing it precariously on his head, he twirled across the floor, his movements a dizzying blend of daring and absurdity. The crowd roared their approval, and even the judges rose to their feet.

When the music faded, Gary and Penny were declared the winners.

As the Golden Beak Trophy was placed in Gary’s hands, Madame Mallarda loomed nearby, her feathers ruffled in defeat. “You’ll regret this,” she whispered, her voice low and venomous.

But Gary was already envisioning his next exposé for the Quacksville Gazette. He’d uncovered the truth, toppled a monopoly, and—to his own astonishment—discovered a passion for salsa dancing.

The Gazette’s front page the next day read: “Goose Outsmarts Ducks, Wins Big at Salsa Showdown!”

Gary retired from journalism shortly after, devoting himself to dance. Each year, he and Penny returned to the tournament, proving that even a goose could leave an indelible mark on the world of competitive duck salsa.

(c) Eric Montgomery

 


Did you enjoy this story?

If you enjoyed The Salsa Conspiracy, please help to spread the word.

I’d be forever grateful if you could share my story with your friends and family. As a small, unknown author, I’m counting on word-of-mouth to help get my work seen by more readers.

Simply copy and paste the URL of this story in a post on your favorite social media platform (or on all of your social media platforms). :)

Thank you in advance for your support!

 


See also