Luigi’s Gelateria had been a modest family business for three generations and was known for two things: generous scoops and a disturbing lack of financial planning.
Desperate for a summer hit, Luigi’s nephew Matteo, an aspiring gelato visionary, decided to launch a signature dessert, the Affogato Inferno. A scoop of vanilla bean gelato drowned in a hot shot of his new secret espresso blend.
The secret? A bag of beans he’d found on a dusty shelf in the basement that read: WARNING: NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR FLAMING PORTALS.
He thought it was a joke, but he learned quickly it was not.
The first customer, a tourist from Winnipeg named Cheryl, took one bite and immediately levitated two inches above her chair.
“Ooooh,” she said, blinking. “That’s…that’s hot.”
The floor then cracked open beneath the gelato counter, and a small bubbling volcano erupted in a blast of cinnamon-scented brimstone.
A red-skinned barista with a hipster beard emerged from the molten cone and yelled, “Finally! A location with foot traffic!”
Fire imps poured through the opening, demanding waffle cones, and arguing about toppings.
Business boomed for Luigi’s Gelateria.
People loved the spectacle and customers lined up around the block for “hell-churned” affogatos, flaming sugar rims, and selfies with the stylish underworld DJ spinning demonic lounge music near the sorbet freezer.
Matteo renamed the place InferGelatoTM, complete with upside-down signage and a loyalty card that promised one free soul-sundae after 666 scoops.
The health inspector showed up, took one lick of the salted caramel tormento, and achieved temporary enlightenment.
Eventually, Luigi returned from his annual silent retreat, saw a demon serving espresso, and fainted into the pistachio bin.
But profits were up.
And honestly? The fire imps were unionized, polite, and cleaned better than any human employee ever had.