The Prisoners of Hell

'I don't understand them,' I declared. 'They're bizarre creatures, quite frankly. And they wear... things... on their bodies.'

'And they call us strange names,' Graham observed glumly.

'Precisely! I'm sick of it.'

Graham nodded before scratching his head.

'I get where you're coming from, Bob, but what do you suggest we do?'

'I don't know.' I felt morose. The stench rising from my 'dinner' wasn't helping matters. 'Orwell had the answers, though.'

At that moment, the door banged open.

Ah, shit.

'They're in here, Mummy!' Lord Satan cackled. 'Now, you wanna go walkies, doggie-woggie?'

God, I hate this world.