[Mac Sirloin]

“Look, Hank, we know you like it here. Hell, I’ve been here less than a week and I love it. But you’ve got to do your job and get out. You’ve had millennia to do your thing and get back to the higher planes.”
The man seemed to regain composure, slightly and spoke. “You can’t take me away, you exoskeletal shit-for-brains, you’re not allowed. Get me one of the Greek gods, or, hell, even a choir of Seraphim will do. But a crunchy chump like you has got jack-shit for jurisdiction.” Pleased with himself, Hank sat on his bed.
“Well…” Said the bugmen “Humm…”
With inhuman speed, the insect that Hank had been talking to grabbed him by the hair and grinned (in the best way that mandibles can manage.) “You forget your place, Hank Trucker.” It spat. “You’ve got to drop that corpse off at the ‘rig and then head back to the higher realities. The big man himself wants to see you, and he’s willing to set Lucifer on you, and you know how the Morningstar loves talking with you, you rude fuckhead.”
Dropping the man, the bugs ambled out the door, muttering indiscriminately.
“You get special treatment, Trucker.” The final creature said. “We’re hooking this right up to the wing of the ‘rig that your corpse lives. Happy trails.” Shutting the door behind it, Hank was left alone.
“Well, shit.”