Lafranceapoil |best| [PLUS — Anthology]

"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."

And the moon, being French that week, simply nodded. lafranceapoil

So, on the morning of the competition, Lafranceapoil drifted to the town square. The contestants were lined up: a beard like a tangled briar patch, sideburns like frightened squirrels, and a soul patch so small it looked like a typo. The Mayor stood on a podium, stroking his naked chin. "I," declared Lafranceapoil, now perched on the Mayor’s

You see, Lafranceapoil had a flaw: it was terribly vain. It believed that all hair—eyebrows, beards, even the tragic little tufts inside a nostril—should bow before its magnificence. Therefore, the prize is mine

The crowd gasped. Lafranceapoil froze mid-float. Its left curl twitched violently.

But then, something unexpected happened.