I cook the vittles.

It’s slop, but you can’t do much with wormy potatoes, cheap vermin meat, and mouldy vegetables.

I wouldn’t give it to a dog. But I gotta eat it too.

That big sap Caleb was complain’ about it the other day. He reckoned his brother Paul could do better. I know he’s dimwitted, but I snapped; after all, I do my best.

Paul stepped in and tried to calm me down, and wham Henricks punched him in the kidneys.

It sure was a quiet dinner after they dragged his sorry ass to the hole.

Match the story (and the number) to the face at Mirrors.

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