It collected in the gutters; pink and frothy and fragrant.
The rain had washed it from the rooftops, cars, and children, and sent it running it down the streets in miniature rivers. It pooled on the wet asphalt around leaf-clogged iron drains. When the clouds parted, it started to congeal in the sun.
A strange odor wafted up from the soggy roads and struck the citizens somewhere in the back of their throats. The sensation landed at the indescribable point between scent and flavor. None of them could decide if it carried a lovely, floral scent or a metallic flavor of chemical decomposition.
In truth, it was both.
Before long, the pink dried out completely and flaked away in the wind. Travelers reported sightings of pink vapors rising up from the forests surrounding town.
The EPA began an investigation of Willy Wonka's newest factory later that year.