Lafranceapoil Updated [EXTENDED - 2025]

Lafranceapoil puffed itself up, ready to accept its cheese.

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

Lafranceapoil relaxed its tips.

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 puffed itself up, ready to accept its cheese

"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." No one was quite sure what Lafranceapoil was

The trouble began when the Mayor, a man whose own chin was as bare as a baby’s heel, declared a "Great Facial Hair Competition." The prize: a lifetime supply of artisanal cheese and the right to sit at the front of the town’s annual snail race.

Once upon a time, in a crooked little village nestled between a drowsy volcano and a sea that refused to make up its mind, there lived a creature known only as Lafranceapoil .