Work - Lafranceapoil

No one was quite sure what Lafranceapoil was. Old Madam Baguette swore it was a cat that had learned to walk on two legs after swallowing a whole encyclopedia of French philosophy. Young Pierre, the baker’s apprentice, insisted it was a shape-shifting poodle, left behind by a mime who had wandered into a fog and never come back. The village children, however, had the simplest answer: Lafranceapoil was a moustache with ambitions.

Lafranceapoil was, naturally, outraged.

"I," declared Lafranceapoil, now perched on the Mayor’s face, "am the winner. The Mayor now has the finest moustache in the land. Therefore, the prize is his. Therefore, the prize is mine. Hand over the cheese." lafranceapoil

The Mayor tried to speak, but his new moustache wiggled every time he opened his mouth, making him sound like a duck with a lisp. The crowd laughed. The briar-patch beard bristled with indignation. The sideburns scurried off in shame. No one was quite sure what Lafranceapoil was

Lafranceapoil relaxed its tips.

And the moon, being French that week, simply nodded. The village children, however, had the simplest answer:

As for Lafranceapoil, it never floated alone again. But sometimes, late at night, when the Mayor was asleep, it would whisper to the moon: