how lingua franca became totally incomprehensible for the french...

In a dark and poetic forest in the middle of a strange industrial city center there used to live an old woman.
Even though nobody knew or despised her she did hold a grudge against most people because she felt discriminated for being a witch. She lived day by day trying to make ends meet by scavenging all the known dustbins at the edge of the forest.
Well, I have to admit in all sincerity, while I am still talking of a forest, I actually mean extended garden. i.e. nature going its way with what was left of the lady's garden and a great part of her house, cottage, shed, or even nest.
To make things worse the old witch was the proud owner of an unattended museum filled to the brim with useless collectors items and overgrown kitchen herbs, which she never used nor trimmed because she didn't like the strong taste of it in combination with the inherent mildness of her cardboard flavored provisions.
This of course was not very much how the old cat, living in between the vibrant furniture, had dreamed of ending its old days and she was not very satisfied with the strictness of its owner's extreme diet. But then again the wench didn't feel the cat had a load to complain about since it was already dead.
And thus life continued in the most careless of ways, forged by life's harshness the woman was used to sporting herself through anything. Maybe not through a load of meaningful anything, but as good as any nevertheless.

Meanwhile, in the not so crappy real world, people still had to go to work and make a living and this was not in the least so for Johnny, who was called Robert, which in itself was quite long for Bob or in rare cases Ert.
Johnny now, who in fact was still called Robert even though Bob or Ert would have been much shorter, worked as a shopkeeper at the Zoo. Or maybe he worked at a conveyor belt in one of the million waste disposal centers all around the globe. If in fact he worked at any such center in the United States one might suspect he would have to combine both occupations to pay for his triple mortgaged apartment flat.
In the case of Steven however, who used to be Johnny's neighbor when both of them reached the end of their dehatching cycles, we cannot merely speak of a useless job per se. Steven was a copypaster for the local news agency and he did a more than fine job in his proper field of expertise.
The case of Steven is a curious one and forgive me for refraining to mention that Steven was indeed called Adelaide, but that was; as you may very well have heard, only after the incident with the two hallucinating march hares. Ergo Adelaide, who liked to call himself Jesus, and who had never finished primary school, which makes it all the more striking that he was indeed an excellent copy-paster, was already wide awake when he had to leave for his job that day in august.
On the corner of the main street and that other street, Othello Montagu had his food stand which was quite popular and renowned for it's generous price quality ratio. Othello was a good sport and a dynamic shopkeeper selling roast chestnuts in autumn and ice-cream cones in summer. He was also a central traffic point for household narcotics and for that reason and practically no other he could count the whole business staff of the orbiting companies as his most loyal clientele.
At the very moment Steven, who was regularly called Adelaide and who preferred Jesus as his proper entitlement, was on his way to go to work, and as it happened he was also a good time too late.
Either how Steven's boss was still quite fond of his under-qualified protegee. Nevertheless Adelaide was still in a hurry. And in this hurry, as you might have expected, Jesus had forgotten to take his breakfast. To make matters worse he hadn't even began to read his daily newspaper. This of course was no different to his normal behavior. But still, it would leave any man cranky.
Johnny, whom we shall from now on refer to as Ert for reasons of it being a whole load shorter than the full Robert, was a good friend of the already mentioned Othello who in fact, for no good reason whatsoever, only had one name. At the before mentioned moment of the so called morning in august the one we have since now established as being called Ert was paying his friend, the single named Othello a visit at his ever dynamic street shop.

At that very instant the old woman sighed and continued her business.

Adelaide, now at full speed, came across the corner of this one street and the other one crossing it and as his stomach was yearning for satisfaction, he did not realize that at the very moment he arrived at Othello's food stand he missed, by the space between one's teeth, the man who used to be his very neighbor when the two of them were both nearing the end of their dehatching cycles.

Now, is that crazy or what?