’Twas a bombclam, as they say in the rainy cities: ’twas too explosive to cover, too explosive to keep in one’s premises.
So the 2 big rival papers batted the story back & forth ’tween each other like a frozen potato without oven mitts on its eyes. Sweat slid down their necks like playground toddlers, ignorant o’ the tragedies o’ the adult world. They prayed their final days to the Afternoon Moon, knowing that the coin could flip tails on their head.
But then the story fell down lukewarm, like a fizzled-out meteor, shrunken like an aborted fetus.
The Pumpkin Vine slithered into both their windows & bore the fruit o’ new news: the source stuffed the story with artificial sugar. The mayor had only been seen near the vending machine where a HeroHero Cola had been absconded without renumeration. There was no record o’ his putting his hand down into that mechanical mouth. ’Twas all theories. ’Twas all nothing.
The papers were safe in their lackadaisical stories o’ grandmothers knitting classic Dragon Quest maps into rugs… for now.