Malcolm's Ramblings

The apartment was quiet—too quiet for sharing a 900-square-foot unit with a seven-foot infernal warlord.

I nudged the door open and stepped inside. Boots in their usual pile. Smoke curling faintly from scorch marks in the drywall. A faint smell of brimstone and… was that vanilla bean?

Then I saw him.

Kharzug the Ever-Rending—slayer of empires, breaker of celestial armies, devourer of souls—was frozen in the middle of the kitchen like an overgrown gargoyle. His obsidian horns nearly scraped the track lighting. His four crimson eyes were wide and guilty. His massive clawed hands gripped a gallon-sized bucket of my ice cream, spoon halfway to his fanged mouth.

It was a tableau of pure, comedic betrayal.

“…Kharz,” I said slowly. “Is that my Triple-Chocolate Nebula Swirl?”

He didn’t move. Not even a twitch. If you’ve never seen a millennia-old demon react to being caught stealing dessert, imagine a tiger trying to pretend it’s a houseplant.

Finally, in a voice that once commanded legions of the damned, he rumbled, “THIS IS NOT WHAT IT APPEARS.”

I crossed my arms. “Really? Because it appears you’re halfway through a bucket that cost me twelve dollars and approximately one moral compromise.”

He lowered the spoon with a clatter. “I… was testing it. For poison.”

“It’s ice cream.”

“Poison can be creamy.”

“Poison cannot be creamy.”

His shoulders slumped, a boulder deflating. “Fine. I… craved sweetness. In the Pit, the only dessert was the tears of vanquished foes.” He stared down at the melting bucket. “This is better.”

Against my better judgment, sympathy poked me in the ribs. He’d saved my life twice this month—once from a cursed IKEA dresser, once from a malfunctioning air fryer. We weren’t friends exactly, but we were… roommates with occasional emotional nuance.

“Next time,” I said, taking the bucket gently from his claws, “ask.”

He looked genuinely confused. “You would… share this ambrosia?”

“Within limits.”

He knelt—knelt—on the tile, lowering his head. “Your mercy honors me.”

“Oh my god, get up,” I groaned, pushing his shoulder. “You’re not pledging fealty for ice cream.”

But he didn’t rise immediately. He looked at me with all four eyes, softer than I’d ever seen them. “In my world, sharing food means trust.”

I blinked. “Well… welcome to Earth, I guess. Here it means I get half the pint.”

He erupted into a gravelly laugh that shook the cabinets. “HALF! A worthy negotiation!”

I grabbed two spoons from the drawer, handed him one, and plopped onto the couch. The demon warlord sat beside me, legs tucked awkwardly, trying not to break the furniture.

Together, we finished the ice cream.

He cried a little.

I pretended not to notice.