The abandoned Brioche lies lonely and half eaten on the train to Exmouth. It’s only friends are the Pepperami wrapper and the grains of sand that have fallen from a tourist’s bucket and spade. The Brioche looks around, paralysed, contemplating its short-lived life when it spots her.
She is gnarled, clothed in a shiny poncho of blue plastic with a cap to match. In one hand, a mop. In the other: The Sponge.
Rumours have spread viciously of her manipulation of the Mop and Sponge, together scrubbing away the fallen, sweeping their prey from existence.
Their next target:
The Brioche
She is gnarled, clothed in a shiny poncho of blue plastic with a cap to match. In one hand, a mop. In the other: The Sponge.
Rumours have spread viciously of her manipulation of the Mop and Sponge, together scrubbing away the fallen, sweeping their prey from existence.
Their next target:
The Brioche
