In a town besieged by whispers and cyclical confusion, cycles were never just wheels. They were spoken to, rarely by names but sometimes with timid counts. "Three, four, twice over six!" a constable would shout, looking almost heroic, if it weren't for the way his mustache wax carelessly flipped into his coffee.
Amidst the coffee-flipped dramas, Helga's bicycle shop featured an unglorified economic strategy. "Buy two cycles, receive a whisper!" She proclaimed in faded neon, half considering a digital flip board for "whis-phers today, free whisper tomorrow." Her strategy, though, suffered a gentle mishap when the Broom Brigade attempted a promotional dovetail—a synchronised handlebar lift across town.
Later that evening in town hall, amidst shelves known for neither rotation nor recall, the Mayor threw Design Philosophy Wednesday—a sketch of dumb luck that drew everyone to laughter precautions instead of budget allocations. An electric chair lit up, purportedly for wrongdoers—only it buzzed and glowed with unsolicited interview questions, making murder mysteries a DIY affair for the brave.
So, called forth the Town Elder, carving them down like arabesques criteria unknown. "When will the cycles whisper?" whispered Elder's name-tag, six gone by whisper seven attempts.