It is the 5th of February, 1934

In the shade of an old oak tree, two squirrels make plans. An hour passes, then they exchange a solemn handshake and depart.
 No-one knows exactly what happened under that tree, but the next day, the Far-Right Leagues attempt a coup in Paris. The event is just one of many political crisises to rock the Third Republic, and yet another example of the determination squirrels show in their obsessive quest to destroy France.
 Remember, Squirrels are the enemy! I've you've ever enjoyed a croissant or made love to a beret, defend France! Gather up as many squirrels as you can and put them in a sack, then launch the sack into space!

Things weren't going well. Of course, that's a pretty redundant sentence - things rarely go well for me, and a story where everything went nice and swimmingly would probably be as interesting as a story where I went for a nice swim. So anyway, things weren't going well.
 In two hours, my mother will be arriving from the airport. Not my real mother, of course, but my fictional blog-mother. This was not a problem in itself: normally, all I needed to do was tidy the place up a bit and lock Max out. I don't know why I should need to do that, he doesn't live here. Even if he has seemed like he does recently. That's not a good sentence, but I'm too lazy to retype it. Sorry. If that upsets you, send me a postcard. And cash
 So my mother would arrive. No problem: Max, rescued from the embassy, had called to let me know he was hiding in the garden centre, to avoid a particularly argumentative rosebush. I hadn't understood his call much, but that was common. My home was tidy, some coffee was brewing, some biscuits arranged nicely on a plate, some letters from celebrities congratulating my on my rich and successful life fraudulently created and placed strategically around the flat. Then, about 45 minutes ago, two men arrive. Suits, trench-coats, sunglasses, berets. French Secret Service.
 Rummaging through my cupboards, eating my Brie and croissants and laughing at how far my house was from a brothel, they explained that Tibet and China weren't the only countries Max's world tour had upset. Furthermore, they were convinced he was hiding something here. My French isn't good, so I didn't quite understand what they were looking for, but they kept hiding near my fridge, jumping out and opening it suddenly, as if whatever they were searching for would suddenly appear.
 It was getting annoying. My mother could be here any minute, and despite being a lovely, tolerant woman, she was horribly xenophobic, and had a fear of berets ever since a mime mugged her in Edinburgh Zoo. As such, I must once again spend my day removing Frenchmen from my kitchen. Wish me luck.

Nightmare at 20,000 leagues under the sea.

Portrait of a frightened man: Mr. Paul Blanchard, nineteen, man, son and liar on sick-leave. Mr. Blanchard has just been discharged from a sanitarium where he spent the last six months recovering from a nervous breakdown, the onset of which took place on an evening not dissimilar to this one, on an airliner very much like the one in which Mr. Blanchard is about to be flown home - the difference being that, on that evening half a year ago, Mr. Blanchard's flight was terminated by the onslaught of his mental breakdown, and featured more bears. Also, he's not flying, he's on a submarine. Tonight, he's traveling all the way to his appointed destination, which, contrary to Mr. Blanchard's plan, happens to be in the darkest corner of the sea. You know, the bit with those fuck-ugly fish with the lights.
 Arrgh! I'm in a submarine, and a giant narwhal is ripping up one of the wings!... Hey, wait a minute...

Sorry. I thought of the title first, then tried to make a joke out of it. I have failed, and am going in to self-imposed exile in the cesspit of mankind, France. I shall be giving away all my possessions before I leave, so friends: get in an application form if you want anything, accompanied by an essay about my brilliance. Obviously, don't make it too good, or I might be compelled to stay.

I heard the shuffling of a well-oiled butler...

coming down the corridor. I have recently upgraded my house - apparently, I had been entered into a loyalty scheme some time ago - so you won't be hearing any more doorbells. No sir. Unless you're near a door, of course. Or have tinnitus.
Alfred entered slowly. His name wasn't actually Alfred (I think it was Timmy) and he wasn't a butler. In fact, he was a 27 year old home help assistant who lived in the probably correct assumption I was dangerously insane. He tolerated my whims generously, and this explained why he was suited in morning dress, and had added chalk dust to his ordinarily dark hair. As I pondered how else I could improve his appearance, he arrived at my side, and bent to my ear.
"There is a... caller at the front door Sir. A... gentleman, I believe."
Normally I don't care for callers, but TimmyAlfred's description suggested it may be a effeminate man, or perhaps a bearded lady.
"Thank you Alfred. I shall meet him."

When I reached the front door, I found it had closed over, obscuring my visitor. With some trepidation, I leaned forward and opened the door. The site before me was rather disconcerting.
"Hello! It's me!" Yelled the thing excitedly.
"Yes. I can see that." I replied, "But what are you doing here? You should be next to the German border"
"Yes!" Replied France, "But I'm here to tell you about Jacques' cheeses! They're so great, they could lure a Frenchman out of a brothel and convince him not to be lazy and surrender in a fight"
I looked closer, and it soon became apparent that the man in front of me was not actually the country of France. He was a bald man in a foam costume. He also had a bag full of flyers, and I briefly entertained the idea of France on a paper round. He continued:
"Jacques' cheeses are so good, you'll become as legendary a lover as a real Frenchman after eating some! Also, something about onions and berets!"
"You sprout many cliches, and this flyer is badly set out." I replied, "Please leave my property. If you don't do so, I will be forced to make you part of my Superhero group. And I seriously doubt your crime fighting abilities."

Stay tuned next week, for the exciting adventures of FRANCE and THE TERROR!