Pofski huffed at the creature on the floor. Pofski, galactic ruler and now space warrior, slayer of all things evil, and his first job is [i]cleanup[/i]. The pompous brass would rather waste his marvelous talents on this garbage than let him fight these spirally bastards head on!? What [i]fools![/i]

He growled something in what the vaguely scrutable latin root words would indicate to be English, but it was impossible to tell for sure. Rather than the Russian accent befitting his stereotypical appearance, his accent sounded more like some variety of Greek, vowels stretched out or blunted in vaguely Polish/Scottish tones, consonants bent and swapped a-la French/German, with the cadence and emphasis switching back and forth between Italian and Japanese. Whatever years of speaking his native language had trained his mouth and tongue to do, his voice sounded more like an exotic vintage of liquid stroke was quietly dribbling out of his mouth, since he wasn't taking the time to annunciate or collect his words in the grammatical order that English would.

But whatever he said wasn't important, it was unimportant, scornful muttering and nothing more, as he walked to what he presumed was the kitchen. He might as well get some free booze for his trouble.