Hell, strange as it may sound, has a bar, where the damned souls are allowed to go and drown their sorrows every now and then, as a relief from their unending punishment.
On this night, the dimly lit barroom was almost full, to the demon bartender's pleasure, and a number of high-profile Damned were in attendance.
In one corner, a small but neat figure in uniform, with a moustache visible on the pale face, was nursing a stein of German beer. "If it wasn't for that schwein-hund Churchill…" he muttered.
Not far away, a blonde-haired man, unshaven and with a rather wild expression on his face, was also nursing his beer. "If it wasn't for that damned Doctor…." said the Master.
A few yards further on, a dark figure in a cloak knocked back a glass of vodka. "If it wasn't for that bloody Luke Skywalker… and that treacherous Vader," growled Emperor Palpatine.
A pale figure without a nose sat muttering to itself across the table from the Emperor. "If it wasn't for that Potter boy...," grumbled Lord Voldemort into his whisky.
And in the opposite corner, a figure in armour signalled to the barman for another drink, waving a hand from which the ring finger was missing. "If it wasn't for those effin' Hobbits…" hissed Lord Sauron the Great while he waited for his drink.
And so they tried to console themselves – with drink, and with blaming others.
And so they would have to spend eternity.