He was round, solid, and orange; if Bob L’Eponge lived anywhere, it was an alternate dimension. A large baguette overshadowing le Crustae Crabeau, soggy croissants floating about through the water, traditional characters nowhere to be found. Out of the darkness stoof a short man in front of a French-toast shaped house; there he stood. He stared very Frenchly at Bob L’Eponge as he smoked under the unwaterwater sunlight. He twirled his moustache enigmatically, his beret slipping over one waxed, manicured eyebrow. Parting his lips delicately and removing, with two gentle fingers, his cigarette, he carefully pronounced one word into the darkness.
“Hon.”
Bob L’Eponge nodded, which took his entire round body, and acknowledged the strange humanoid creature: “Oui.” He had known his day was coming, but he did not expect it so soon: his day of reckoning. He approached the stout shadowy figure– the man he called his father.