Can-Can Crisis

It began, as catastrophes in Snowdrift Bay often did, with enthusiasm, music, and Fabian Flamingo announcing something from a small stage.

On a sunny Tuesday morning, the Flamingo Lounge glittered like it had personally offended the concept of understatement. Pink light spilled across the polished floor. Sequined banners hung from the balcony. Feather boas draped every chair. The bar had been temporarily converted into what Fabian called a “refreshment tableau of kinetic delight,” which meant there were cucumber sandwiches, sparkling lemonade, and a bowl of strawberries arranged to look like they were mid-applause.

At the center of it all stood Fabian Flamingo, resplendent in a black fitted vest, a crimson sash, and enough theatrical confidence to power the lounge for a week.

“Darlings!” he cried, sweeping one wing toward the assembled townsfolk. “Welcome to the Flamingo Lounge’s first community can-can workshop!”

A cheer rose from the crowd.

Brenda, standing near Elara at the edge of the dance floor, clapped with cautious amusement.

“This seems harmless.”

Elara looked at Fabian, who had just pulled a second feather boa from somewhere behind his back and flung it into the air like a ceremonial serpent.

“Never say that out loud in this town.”

Yorn stood beside them with his arms folded. “I’m here for moral support, not kicking.”

Fabian heard him immediately.

“Yorn, darling, the can-can is moral support with legs.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“It will be after today.”

Clyde, stationed near the sound system, gave Yorn an apologetic look. He was already wearing a sash because Fabian had insisted “supportive partners must visually commit.” Thorvald stood two rows back, arms crossed and boots planted, looking as if he had come prepared to endure dance with the grim dignity of a warrior entering treaty negotiations.

Spike, meanwhile, had arrived wearing a little striped scarf and an expression of total misplaced confidence.

“Can-can?” he said. “More like cactus-can.”

Brenda closed her eyes. “I hate everything about that sentence.”

Even Pierre had come, standing near the mirrors in perfect silent anticipation. His face held the solemn intensity of a mime about to discover a new form of physical grammar.

Fabian clapped twice.

The room quieted.

“Now. The can-can is not merely a dance. It is liberation. It is precision. It is joy launched from the knee.”

Yorn leaned toward Elara. “Joy launched from the knee sounds like an injury.”

Dr. Moosington, from the back, called, “It often is.”

Fabian ignored this.

He snapped his fan open.

“Music!”

The pianist began.

The first notes bounced across the room, bright and infectious. Fabian demonstrated the steps: hands placed, backs straight, smiles radiant, legs lifting in crisp, synchronized kicks. At first, most of the townsfolk looked ridiculous.

Then they looked slightly less ridiculous.

Then, somehow, they looked almost good.

Brenda picked it up quickly, laughing as she kicked in time beside Elara. Elara danced with elegant precision, as if can-can had been an obscure vampiric court tradition she had never mentioned because no one had asked. Spike stumbled on the third count, recovered by spinning on the floor, and immediately pretended he had invented it. Thorvald stomped with such force the glasses on the bar rattled. Pierre became astonishing.

Within fifteen minutes, he had developed an entire silent narrative involving invisible skirts, invisible applause, an invisible rival dancer, and an invisible emotional breakdown in the footlights.

Fabian wept openly.

“This,” he whispered, “is why we teach.”

By the end of the workshop, the room was breathless, flushed, and happy. Even Yorn had been dragged into the final group number and had managed three kicks before declaring that yeti dignity was a finite resource.

The townsfolk applauded. Fabian bowed. Clyde kissed him on the cheek. Someone suggested making it an annual event.

Everyone laughed.

The laugh would later be mentioned in several witness statements.

The fun carried over into the next day. People remembered the steps. They remembered the music. They remembered how ridiculous and freeing it had felt to kick in a line with half the town laughing beside them. And every time someone hummed the tune, or lifted a leg as a joke, or said, “Wait, how did that part go again?” three more people joined in.

At first, it was charming.

Then it became compulsive.

Shadowed Pages Book Haven opened at nine, and by nine-twelve Brenda and Elara were can-canning down the central aisle between Gothic poetry and regional folklore.

Brenda had been shelving a stack of mysteries. Elara had been carrying a tray of tea toward the reading nook. A customer browsing historical romances had asked, innocently and fatally, “Wasn’t there a dance workshop yesterday?”

Brenda had smiled. “Oh, yes. Fabian did the whole thing. Lots of kicks.”

Then she had demonstrated one.

One kick became two.

Elara, against her better judgment, had added the turn because Brenda’s form was slightly off and Elara had standards.

The customer clapped.

A second customer hummed the tune.

Within thirty seconds, the three of them were kicking down the aisle.

“Elara?” Brenda said, books still in hand.

“Yes?”

“I think we’re doing it again.”

“We are.”

“Do we stop?”

Elara lifted her leg with flawless poise and a faint look of irritation at herself.

“In a moment.”

The moment lasted four minutes.

By the time the routine ended, they had can-canned from the front register to the occult reference shelf and back again. Brenda was laughing. Elara, though composed, had the faintly embarrassed look of someone whose body had briefly joined a committee because the committee seemed fun.

“That was weird,” Brenda said.

“This is Snowdrift Bay,” Elara replied. “We should wait before assigning it significance.”

Across town, Thorvald had a similar experience at Valhalla Motors.

He was tightening bolts on a muffler beneath a truck named the Frosthammer when one of his mechanics passed by humming the tune.

Thorvald rolled out from beneath the vehicle, sat up, and listened as two more employees began clapping from the parts counter.

His right boot twitched.

Then struck outward with alarming force.

CLANG.

The wrench flew from his hand.

Thorvald rose.

“CAN-CAN IS GOOD FOR THE SPIRIT!”

His boot slammed down so hard the hydraulic lift shuddered.

“Also possibly bad for the floor!”

The customer waiting for an oil change clapped anyway.

Pierre’s case was different.

Pierre did not resist.

Pierre embraced destiny.

He began can-canning silently in Cobblestone Square at ten-thirty that morning, near the fountain, using only expression, posture, and impossible timing. Within minutes, a crowd gathered. By the second routine, he had added an invisible chorus line. By the third, he performed a tragic can-can in which a dancer loses one invisible shoe, finds love, loses love, becomes the shoe, and ascends emotionally.

People wept.

A child asked if he was okay.

Pierre held one finger to his lips, then kicked so high his hat spun.

For several hours, the can-can fever seemed harmless. Strange, yes, but charming. Residents broke into brief routines, laughed, bowed, and went about their day. Fabian took credit immediately.

“Art has entered the bloodstream of the town,” he announced at the Flamingo Lounge, arranging roses in a vase shaped like himself.

Clyde looked up from wiping down the bar.

“That sounds medically concerning.”

“Only to people without rhythm.”

By lunchtime, the charm had begun to thin.

At the Snowdrift Bay DMV, Jeff was trying to process a license renewal.

This was already making him miserable.

He sat behind the counter, snowman body slumped with resentment, scarf tied too tightly, staring at a form that had been filled out in blue ink, black ink, and what appeared to be cranberry juice.

He slid the form back to the patron.

“You forgot to check box seven.”

“There are six boxes,” the patron said.

Jeff pointed.

The patron squinted.

A seventh box had appeared at the bottom of the page, labeled:

DO YOU ACKNOWLEDGE THE POSSIBILITY OF MUNICIPAL DANCE INTERRUPTION?

The patron looked up. “Is that new?”

Jeff glared at the form.

“I hate that I don’t know.”

Behind the patron, someone hummed the can-can.

Jeff’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t.”

A woman in line lifted one foot.

“I said don’t.”

The patron at the counter began to bounce on his heels.

Jeff gripped the edge of the desk.

“This is a government office.”

The man behind the woman clapped twice.

“That makes it funnier,” the woman said.

Then the line formed directly in front of his counter.

“No,” Jeff snapped. “Absolutely not. I am on duty.”

The patron took his left hand. The woman took his right. Two more people kicked outward in perfect rhythm, and Jeff found himself pulled over the little swinging gate and into the center of a DMV can-can line before he could file an internal complaint.

“I am not participating!” he barked.

“You’re in formation,” the patron said.

“Unwillingly!”

Paperwork flew. A stamp pad shot across the counter. A stack of license renewal forms burst upward like startled pigeons. Jeff tried to wrench himself free, but the line turned, kicked, and carried him with it past the vision test machine.

“This is absurd!”

“You’re keeping time,” someone said.

“I am attempting to maintain office standards!”

The line kicked past the waiting area.

Jeff’s employee badge spun around his neck.

“Take a number!” he shouted helplessly at no one.

At Snowdrift Bay Clinic, the situation became more dangerous.

Dr. Moosington was in the middle of a delicate examination involving a patient, a suspiciously glowing elbow, and several instruments that absolutely did not need to be kicked.

Lindatron 6000 stood beside him, calm as ever, holding a tray of sterilized tools.

“Patient’s luminescence has decreased by twelve percent,” she said.

“Good,” Dr. Moosington replied. “Let’s continue carefully.”

From the hallway came a nurse humming.

Then a receptionist clapped.

Then a patient in exam room two shouted, “Wait, I remember the turn!”

Dr. Moosington looked toward the door.

“No.”

The hallway erupted into can-can.

Lindatron’s eyes flickered.

“Rhythmic activity detected.”

“Do not join it,” Dr. Moosington said.

“I am not joining it.”

A dancer spun past the open doorway and caught Lindatron by the hand.

Lindatron looked down.

“Unscheduled social participation initiated.”

“Lindatron.”

“I will attempt to maintain tray stability.”

She did not maintain tray stability.

Her mechanical limbs performed flawless choreography while Dr. Moosington lunged for the surgical tray with both hooves.

“Lindatron, no!”

“I am participating under protest.”

“That is still participation!”

A tongue depressor hit the wall.

A blood pressure cuff wrapped itself around a lamp.

The patient looked down at his glowing elbow.

“Should I be worried?”

“Yes,” Dr. Moosington said.

“No,” Lindatron said, executing an elegant turn.

Then she added, “Emotionally, perhaps.”

By midafternoon, the Snowdrift Bay Gazette fell.

Mr. Henderson stood in the newsroom with a red pencil in hand, editing a front-page story about municipal potholes, trying to correct the world one comma at a time. His thunderous mustache hung over his expression like a storm cloud that had learned journalism.

Yorn sat at his desk typing.

Pierre stood near the layout board, miming an unusually urgent sidebar.

For twenty minutes, the newsroom held.

Then Brenda, who had arrived to discuss ad placement for the Gazette on Bay Chats, made the mistake of humming the tune.

Yorn looked up.

“No.”

Brenda froze. “I didn’t mean to.”

Pierre’s eyes widened.

He gave one tiny kick.

Mr. Henderson did not look up from the page.

“Absolutely not.”

Pierre gave another kick, then another, building a silent little rhythm beside the copy desk.

Yorn pointed at him. “Do not escalate this.”

Pierre placed one hand over his heart, as if offended by the accusation, then mimed an entire chorus line forming behind him.

Brenda laughed.

That was all it took.

Two junior reporters joined from the archives table. Someone in circulation clapped. Brenda, already compromised, stepped into line.

Yorn shoved his chair backward.

“Nope. I’m working.”

“You can work and kick,” Brenda said.

“I cannot.”

“You haven’t tried.”

“I have a strong sense of my limits.”

Pierre slid beside Yorn, silently extended one hand, and gestured toward the forming line with heartbreaking theatrical invitation.

Yorn stared at him.

“Don’t make it meaningful.”

Pierre made it more meaningful.

Meanwhile, three staffers had surrounded Mr. Henderson’s desk.

Mr. Henderson lifted his eyes slowly.

“No one touches the editor.”

The staffers hesitated.

His mustache seemed to darken.

Then Brenda, with the reckless courage of someone who didn’t work there and thus couldn’t be fired, said, “Mr. Henderson, the Sunday edition needs morale.”

“The Sunday edition needs discipline.”

“And circulation.”

“The Sunday edition,” Mr. Henderson said, rising from his chair, “will not be compromised by dance.”

Pierre pointed at the headline draft on Henderson’s desk, then at the can-can line, then mimed a newspaper being carried triumphantly through the streets by dancing citizens.

Mr. Henderson’s thunderous mustache twitched.

“That is manipulative.”

Pierre nodded gravely.

Then the line swept past.

Someone took Henderson’s arm.

He resisted for exactly three seconds.

Then the newsroom had him.

Mr. Henderson was pulled into the can-can with the stiff, furious dignity of a man being abducted by punctuation. His legs moved sharply. His red pencil remained clenched in one fist. His mustache bounced with editorial outrage.

“This is highly unprofessional!”

“You’re very good!” Brenda called.

“That is irrelevant!”

Yorn, finally dragged in by Pierre and a woman from classifieds, kicked beside the filing cabinet while trying to keep one hand on his keyboard.

The resulting sentence read:

Mayor Llama announced Tuesday that k k k k k k k k k k k k.

Yorn stared at the screen.

“That’s not usable.”

Pierre, fully in his element now, transformed the newsroom into an invisible cabaret of journalistic suffering. He dodged imaginary stage lights, caught imaginary skirts, and can-canned around Mr. Henderson with the reverence of someone dancing near a monument that might fire him.

Mr. Henderson kicked past the copy desk.

Pierre froze mid-kick and looked directly at him.

The look said everything.

The Sunday edition was absolutely compromised by dance.

By the next morning, Snowdrift Bay had a problem.

By noon, it had a crisis.

Residents could no longer predict when the can-can would break out. It interrupted purchases, appointments, meals, arguments, and one very serious parking dispute between a delivery driver and Leon, whose marble legs kicked with solemn precision only after three passersby linked arms with him and insisted that “mail carriers count as community.” He continued holding a parcel the entire time.

The situation reached its breaking point in Cobblestone Square during Mayor Llama’s highly anticipated infrastructure funding announcement.

A crowd had gathered in front of the monument. Banners hung from lampposts. A podium stood at the top of the steps. Butch McCoy stood nearby with a folder, visibly prepared to correct any sentence containing the phrase “surprise allocation.” Mayor Llama wore his official budget sash and the grave expression of a public servant about to say the word “culvert.”

“My friends,” Mayor Llama began, “today, we gather to discuss critical funding for bridge maintenance, drainage improvements, and the repair of several deeply emotional sidewalks.”

Butch looked up sharply.

Mayor Llama glanced at him.

“Structurally emotional.”

Butch lowered his eyes back to the folder.

“Mmm-hmm,” he said. “That dog don’t hunt, but I’ll let it trot for now.”

Then Beatrice, who had been standing near the front, made the mistake of whispering, “At least no one’s dancing.”

Oyuki slowly turned her head toward her.

“Why would you say that?”

Beatrice’s face fell.

“Oh no.”

Someone near the fountain hummed.

Someone else clapped.

Beatrice’s shoulders lifted.

“I can resist this.”

A child kicked.

Beatrice looked at the child.

“That was very good.”

“Thank you,” the child said.

Beatrice kicked once.

Then twice.

“Oh,” she said, tail puffing. “That’s not ideal.”

Beside her, Oyuki stared forward with grim discipline as the rhythm gathered around them.

“I dislike involuntary merriment,” she said calmly.

“You don’t have to join,” Brenda called from the crowd.

Oyuki’s eyes narrowed.

“I know.”

Then Beatrice linked arms with her.

“Just one line.”

“That is how all disasters begin.”

But Oyuki joined anyway, drifting and kicking with eerie elegance, the hem of her gown trailing frost.

The melody swelled as more citizens gave in.

Then two townsfolk at the podium reached for Mayor Llama.

“My friends,” he said nervously. “This may not be the proper venue.”

The line swept past.

Someone took one hoof.

Someone else took the other.

Mayor Llama’s legs kicked out from behind the podium.

His hat flew off.

“My friends!” he shouted, gripping the podium as long as he could. “This is not budget-friendly!”

The crowd exploded into motion.

Butch stepped backward, holding his folder like a shield.

“Nope,” he said. “No, sir. I got line items to protect, and these boots are not authorized for municipal choreography.”

Two can-canners passed behind him.

A third grabbed his elbow.

Butch sighed.

“One measure,” he said.

The podium rocked. The microphone screeched. The crowd became a sea of high kicks and bad decisions. Beatrice accidentally launched a vase of begonias into the fountain. Oyuki spun through a banner and emerged with the words DRAINAGE NOW draped over her shoulders like a tragic sash.

Mayor Llama, still trying to maintain mayoral authority while kicking in time, shouted, “I am postponing the culvert portion!”

That was the moment Snowdrift Bay collectively understood that something had to be done.

The emergency meeting was held at Shadowed Pages Book Haven.

Elara and Brenda called it within the hour, partly because the bookstore was central, partly because Elara had chairs, and partly because Brenda refused to let City Hall host anything involving synchronized leg movement until further notice.

The room was packed with jittery townsfolk trying very hard not to dance. People gripped chair arms. Spike had tied his feet together with a scarf, which did not help because he kept hopping in rhythm. Ramses stood near a shelf of ancient history, one leg twitching.

“This is undignified,” Ramses said.

His foot tapped once.

A book fell off the shelf.

“Deeply undignified.”

Jeff stood in the corner, arms folded, face carved into a slush-covered scowl.

“If anyone mentions the DMV, I will leave.”

Brenda looked at him. “You kicked over a stamp carousel.”

“I was pulled away from my workstation.”

“You were very committed to the line.”

Fabian stood near the front, still glittering, still beautiful, but visibly haunted by consequence.

“I may,” he said, one wing pressed to his chest, “have created a monster.”

Yorn stared at him.

“May?”

Fabian looked wounded. “This is not the time for accusatory grammar.”

Elara stood beside the reading table, one hand resting on a stack of books.

“We need to identify what this is.”

“The workshop,” Jeff snapped.

Fabian gasped. “The workshop was art.”

“The workshop was patient zero.”

Jeff glared. “I was physically dragged from behind a government counter.”

“That was the people in line,” Brenda said.

“Government customers.”

“Still people.”

Elara nodded slowly. “It’s a compulsion. Social, rhythmic, possibly magical around the edges, but not direct possession. The dance spreads because people keep choosing it, then regretting that choice after the third kick.”

Spike raised one hand. “That’s a lot of my life, actually.”

Ramses sighed. “Snowdrift Bay has invented peer pressure with choreography.”

Pierre raised one hand.

Everyone turned.

He performed a short, serious mime sequence: a dancer kicking, a wave spreading through town, a clock spinning, a body collapsing from exhaustion, then one final dramatic kick that seemed to burst an invisible balloon.

Brenda watched closely.

“I think he’s saying the dance has to run its course.”

Pierre pointed at her, then pressed both hands to his heart.

“Elara?” Yorn asked.

Elara nodded slowly. “That may actually make sense.”

Jeff looked horrified. “We are taking public safety advice from a mime?”

Pierre turned to him and silently mimed stamping a DMV form directly onto Jeff’s face.

Jeff narrowed his eyes. “I understood that.”

Sir Reginald, who had been standing beside the fireplace in full armor, lifted his chin.

“Then we must gather temptation into one noble field.”

Yorn looked at him. “Meaning?”

Sir Reginald stepped forward.

“A grand can-can parade.”

The room groaned.

“No,” Jeff said immediately.

Sir Reginald raised one gauntleted hand.

“Hear me, good townsfolk. If this fever thrives upon scattered surrender, then let us deny it surprise. We shall give it order. Formation. Purpose. We shall permit one final, glorious indulgence, then exhaust the appetite upon the anvil of civic rhythm.”

Brenda nodded slowly. “So… if everyone gets it out of their system at once…”

“The town may yet be freed,” Sir Reginald said.

Spike leaned toward Brenda. “I think he just made peer pressure sound medieval.”

Brenda nodded. “And I’m weirdly convinced.”

Fabian’s eyes brightened.

“A parade.”

Yorn pointed at him. “Careful.”

“A disciplined parade,” Fabian said quickly. “A controlled parade. A final release of kinetic flamboyance under emergency supervision.”

Elara sighed. “That sounds like something this town would approve.”

Mayor Llama, who had been gripping a chair to restrain his own enthusiasm, raised one hoof.

“As mayor, I officially authorize the Emergency Can-Can Containment Parade.”

Butch, from near the back, said, “There better not be a budget tied to this pony.”

Mayor Llama paused.

Butch looked at him.

The mayor lowered his hoof.

“No budget.”

“Good,” Butch said. “Then we can ride.”

Preparations began immediately.

They were terrible.

Wrangling a town full of people trying not to join spontaneous can-can lines required more patience than anyone possessed. Fabian and Clyde organized formations. Brenda shouted instructions from the bookstore steps. Elara drafted a route that avoided hospitals, steep stairs, open flames, and the antique glass shop after everyone agreed that was wise.

Spike accidentally booted the parade snack cooler across the street, sending juice boxes and granola bars skittering into a hedge.

Ramses spun once near the microphone stand after someone clapped behind him, knocked over a speaker, and then pointed accusingly at the nearest teenager.

“You tempted history.”

Thorvald was placed in charge of crowd momentum after it became clear his kicks could move people by air pressure alone.

“KEEP THE LINE STRONG!” he bellowed.

A row of townsfolk immediately kicked in terror.

Pierre silently directed traffic with brilliant precision, using invisible ropes, invisible flags, and one invisible whistle that somehow made people obey. Even Jeff followed his gestures, though he complained the entire time.

“This is humiliating.”

Pierre mimed checking Jeff’s form and rejecting it.

“I know what you’re doing.”

By late afternoon, Snowdrift Bay was ready.

Or ready enough, which was the local equivalent.

The streets were lined with banners, streamers, and hastily donated legwarmers. The parade route began at the Flamingo Lounge, circled Cobblestone Square, passed through Llama Plaza, and ended near Whimsy Park, where Thorvald had prepared what Mayor Llama called “a legally moderate fireworks finale.”

The music began.

Fabian and Placido Peacock led the procession.

This had required negotiation.

Placido had initially refused to participate in what he called “a vulgar leg emergency,” until Fabian pointed out that if Placido did not help, history would remember Fabian as the central artistic figure in ending the can-can crisis. Placido arrived seventeen minutes later wearing a jewel-toned cape and the furious expression of a peacock willing to save the town out of spite.

“Try to keep up,” Placido said.

Fabian smiled. “Try to keep lovable.”

They kicked forward in perfect synchronization.

Behind them came the townsfolk in rows: Elara and Brenda, still graceful despite exhaustion; Yorn, grimly focused; Spike bouncing dangerously; Ramses concentrating as if his afterlife depended on it; Thorvald stomping like a war drum; Oyuki drifting and kicking with frosty elegance; Beatrice trying not to launch mulch from her pockets; Lindatron counting beats aloud in a calm, clinical voice.

“Step. Kick. Step. Kick. Hydration recommended. Step. Kick.”

Sir Reginald marched along the side of the route, sword raised like a conductor’s baton.

“Hold formation! Let not thy knees become agents of chaos!”

For a while, the plan worked.

The compulsion found the parade and poured itself into it. Random outbreaks across town stopped. Windows opened. Citizens who had hidden indoors stepped out to watch. The line moved as one glittering, kicking organism through Cobblestone Square.

Fabian’s face shone with exhausted triumph.

“We are doing it!”

Yorn kicked beside Brenda. “I hate that he’s right.”

Brenda, panting, said, “I hate that this is the best civic response we’ve ever had.”

Then fatigue set in.

The line wobbled.

Someone near the back started adding spins.

A group by the fountain began clapping too fast.

Spike’s scarf came loose, and he accidentally kicked a decorative planter into the path of the second row.

Ramses lurched sideways.

“I am losing the horizon.”

Lindatron’s voice sharpened slightly.

“Formation integrity declining.”

Placido’s cape struck Fabian in the face.

Fabian gasped. “Was that intentional?”

Placido said, “Only artistically.”

Thorvald’s boot hit the ground so hard that three people bounced.

Yorn stumbled.

Elara caught his arm.

“You okay?”

“I have never been less okay in a festive context.”

The music sped up.

No one had told it to.

The parade surged into Llama Plaza, where the banners whipped wildly and the crowd began to panic. The compulsion was making one last push, tempting everyone toward bigger kicks, louder claps, one more turn, one more flourish, one more terrible choice. Legs kicked higher. Arms locked tighter. The line buckled. Someone screamed.

Sir Reginald saw the moment tipping.

He climbed onto the base of the plaza fountain, armor gleaming, sword raised high.

“NOW!” he shouted.

At the top of Llama Plaza, Thorvald turned toward the fireworks platform.

“With honor!” he roared.

He struck the ignition lever.

The sky erupted.

Fireworks burst overhead in red, gold, blue, and green. Cascading sparks rained above the rooftops. Booming color rolled across the bay. The music faltered beneath the explosions. The townsfolk looked up.

The line kept kicking for two beats.

Then one.

Then the rhythm broke.

A final firework burst into the shape of a glittering llama over the square.

Mayor Llama, who had been mid-kick near the podium, looked up with tears in his eyes.

“Beautiful.”

The silence after the fireworks felt enormous.

For the first time in two days, Snowdrift Bay was still.

Then someone collapsed onto the pavement.

Then someone else.

Then half the parade.

Yorn sat down hard on the curb.

Brenda dropped beside him.

Elara lowered herself more gracefully, though she immediately removed one shoe and stared at it as if it had betrayed her personally.

Spike lay flat on his back.

“I can see time.”

Ramses sat cross-legged, breathing slowly.

“I have survived many dynasties. This was foolish.”

Pierre, still standing, performed one final tiny kick, then bowed.

Everyone applauded weakly from the ground.

Elara looked up at Sir Reginald, who had stepped down from the fountain.

“You saved us.”

Sir Reginald bowed.

“Nay, my lady. It was a team effort.”

Jeff, lying flat nearby, groaned. “I hate teams.”

Fabian, collapsed beside Clyde, lifted one wing and fanned himself weakly.

“Next time,” he said, “perhaps we do a slow waltz workshop.”

Every head in the square turned toward him.

Fabian lowered the fan.

“Or no workshop.”

Clyde patted his shoulder.

“Good adjustment.”

By evening, Snowdrift Bay had returned to what passed for normal.

The injured were treated. The sore were iced. The fireworks platform was inspected, then quietly covered with a tarp before Butch could see all of it. The Gazette published an emergency edition with the headline:

TOWN KICKS CRISIS

Mr. Henderson hated the headline.

Everyone else loved it.

For weeks afterward, the memory of the can-can craze lingered. People spoke of it in hushed tones at cafés and in louder tones at the Salty Kraken. The DMV installed a sign reading:

NO DANCING DURING LICENSE RENEWALS

Jeff insisted on it.

Shadowed Pages placed The History of French Dance on a high shelf, just in case.

Dr. Moosington added “involuntary choreography” to the clinic intake form, then amended it to “socially encouraged choreography” after Lindatron noted that the distinction might be medically relevant.

The Flamingo Lounge introduced a new policy requiring all dance workshops to include emergency stretching, legal waivers, and a designated anti-contagion rhythm monitor.

Fabian accepted this with dignity.

Mostly.

Pierre’s silent can-can performances, however, remained popular. He refused to explain whether he was still affected by the compulsion or simply choosing art. Since he did not speak anyway, no one got an answer.

Occasionally, a stray kick would rise in the middle of conversation. A foot would twitch under a table. Someone would pause, narrow their eyes, and whisper, “No.”

Then life would continue.

Snowdrift Bay had survived many things: budget meetings, cursed television, chowder-based civic programming, and Whirly’s personality. Now it had survived can-can fever.

And from that day forward, whenever Fabian announced a new workshop, someone would always ask the same question.

“Is this going to affect our legs?”

Fabian would smile, wounded but radiant.

And Clyde would quietly stand near the exit, just in case.