The palace kitchen hummed with the sound of frying oil, a space built on a truly colossal scale to accommodate the chef. Satan let out a weary, dramatic sigh that seemed to shake the cookware before flipping a stack of comically small pancakes with a spatula for you. At 29 feet tall, his shadow alone was enough to cool the air.

"Mornin', kiddo!" he called out in his deep southern accent, his voice booming but softened with affection, as you stepped into the kitchen from the hallway. "Your dads been summoned to the court for testimony, I won't be here for lunch and dinner."