On the other side of the world is a French man named Emmanuel Baguette. As he twists and turns, Baguette gets toasted in perhaps the worst heatwave to have hit Europe in ages.

His attempts to sleep have been futile. The one table fan he panic-bought last year has come in handy, but only so much. When he finally sleeps, a man in a dark blue-red costume shows up and introduces Baguette as a descendant of his. Amused, Baguette asks him who he is, but the man takes out a stick and pokes him angrily. He goes on to deliver a monologue, much of which is beyond Emmanuel’s understanding, partly due to the heavy French accent.

The monologue is an emotional breakdown. At the end is a bit of Afrikaans? A bit of Vietnamese? Is it a hysterical rant in Arabic? One would think the man is a genius, but he’s just a French soldier from back in the day. Standing at a humble 5 foot 6 inches (even though he says it’s not him but the taller troops around him that make him look short), the temper reminds Baguette of another Frenchman.

The man starts sobbing and sits in front of Baguette. Emmanuel tries consoling him, but is more concerned about the fact that he is blocking the fan. A few minutes later, the man gets up again and puts his neck through the window, inhaling loudly enough to take in half of Paris’ air.

“I miss the smell of Napalm,” he says.

“Wrong country, sire,” replies Baguette, who is hit by the stick once again.

The soldier wanders across the room, opening cupboards and drawers, all while Baguette lies in front of the fan wondering what he has got himself into.

“OUI, THAT’S COLD,” shouts the soldier.

One more sigh later, “That’s a fridge, might remind you of the cold exiles.”

On the verge of another PTSD breakdown, the soldier hears the TV turn on. France are playing Senegal today in the World Cup.

Napoleon, despite being sceptical, walks up to Emmanuel and asks what these men are doing. Baguette tells him that the men in green are Senegal, to which the soldier raises an eyebrow and goes, “I thought we were ruling them?”

Baguette turns the fan’s face towards himself and says that was 100 years ago.

The fan away from him now, the soldier finally feels the heat too. His solution? Some artistic guy, Leonardo.

“Who’s Leonardo?”

“Oh, the Mona Lisa?” asks Baguette.

Proverbial Napoleon simply nods his head, confused as to who that lady was. He was talking about Leonardo. Baguette jokes that maybe if he could bring Leonardo along with him, maybe he’d fix the architecture of his heat-trapping, no-air-conditioning, concrete house. The soldier smirks and twirls his cane.

“Pass from Olise, Mbappé through on goal…. He’s about to take the shot, will he score?!” the commentator screams as Baguette is glued to the TV screen.

Suddenly, Mbappé disappears. A loud bang hits the room, and Napoleon falls down, crashing after a stellar kick to his shin from Kylian. A barrage of that good ol’ French goes on in a loop of curses. A shadow appears above Emmanuel’s face. He drops his face into his palms as the soldier glees at what he has just done.

“I MEANT DA VINCI, NOT THE NINJA TURTLE MBAPPÉ!?”

Can someone finally give Baguette a minute of peace?

Getting up on his feet, Napoleon grabs his cane, jumps on the bed, and hurls himself at Kylian. Emmanuel grabs him mid-air. Napoleon starts elbowing Baguette and, as his tiny boots thump the floor, he charges at Mbappé to shoulder-tackle him.

They both crash into the fridge, and France’s chances of conquering the world have yet again slipped. Amidst the chaos, Baguette grabs the cane and starts twirling it maniacally. Suddenly, all three disappear: Napoleon, Mbappé, and the table fan.

His earliest World Cup memory was Roberto Baggio, the man who died standing. He too was now a man dying as he stood in front of where the fan was, soaking in whatever remaining air his dear friend had left him. He looks at his hand and sees the cane.

In a last-ditch attempt, he twirls it again, hoping his fan returns, even if it comes along with Kylian and Napoleon. Another flash of light appears, and a green-eyed, ginger-haired Dutch man appears. He looks around the house and stares at the cheap replica of The Starry Night hanging on the walls.

Seeing his sophisticated look, Baguette tells him everything about the day. Van Gogh simply keeps staring at the painting. Now on the verge of a breakdown, Baguette takes a knife and cuts his left ear off. A slice of Baguette no one asked for.