Once upon a time in the smoldering depths of the Underworld, there lived a pug hellhound named Snarlietta—a creature so weak she couldn’t even summon a proper flame. Her bark was more of a squeaky whimper, and her wings? Decorative. But what she lacked in power, she made up for in attitude. Snarlietta was the embodiment of entitlement: she demanded the last soul-cookie, threw tantrums when her lava bath wasn’t the right temperature, and genuinely believed the universe revolved around her stubby paws.

One day, while stomping around the Infernal Bazaar (because someone dared to sell a necklace she wanted to someone else first), she tripped over a cursed chew toy and fell—splat—into a glowing portal.

Earth. Tuesday. 3:17 PM.

She landed in the middle of a suburban park, right in front of me. I was just trying to eat my sandwich. Suddenly, there was a puff of sulfur, a yelp, and a very confused pug in a frilly black dress demanding to know why I hadn’t already offered her my lunch.

“Human! I require sustenance. That sandwich is mine now,” she declared, eyes glowing faintly red.

I blinked. “You fell from the sky. You’re three apples tall. And you smell like burnt marshmallows.”

She gasped. “How dare you. I am Snarlietta, Scourge of the Seventh Circle!”

“You’re a dog.”

“I am a hellhound! And I demand tribute!”

I handed her the crust. She sniffed it, sneezed, and threw it on the ground. “Ugh. Gluten.”

From that moment on, Snarlietta decided I was her reluctant servant. She followed me home, claimed my bed, barked at my toaster, and tried to hex my neighbor’s cat (it didn’t work—she accidentally summoned a swarm of bees instead).

Despite her utter lack of strength, she had one terrifying power: brat energy. She could guilt-trip, manipulate, and tantrum her way into getting almost anything—except respect. That she had to earn.

And maybe, just maybe, Earth would teach her that sometimes… you don’t get the last cookie. And that’s okay.

She started demanding foot rubs