“I’m a time traveling Viking with sixteen children in three different time eras, with a mortgage.”
The guy in the chair next to him put his hairy hand in the air. “Duh, try being a were-bear shape-shifting Sherriff, who lost his last election.”
“Try fairy virgin-saving Spy, locked in an eternal contract with the Gnome agency. They make me use their tunnels to the underworld and I’m claustrophobic.” The men seated nodded.
“Nah, I can beat that, being a dragon-taming half-demon who’s allergic to my vampire bride who eats my dragons.”
“That’s rough,” mumbled the men.
“You are?” asked the time traveling virile Viking to the fifth man sitting in the circle of a half dozen chairs where one remained empty.
“Um…” The new guy hesitated, eyes flicking around the room as he tugged at his too-tight cheap tie. “I’m an insurance salesman, from, um, Croydon. Is this the beating imposter syndrome group?”
“Nah,” said the were-bear unemployed sheriff. “This is the ex-romance heroes group.”
“Aren’t you guaranteed a happily ever after?”
The half demon dragon tamer shook his head. “Only for the book. Then the fans move on and we’re left to deal with real life issues. Your group meeting’s down the hall.”
“Um, thanks.” He went to move, “But… What’s it like being a hero in your own romance novel?”
The claustrophobic virgin-saving Spy sighed, the leather creaked on his jacket as he crossed his arms. “No such thing as privacy.”
“How?” asked the insurance salesman straightening his tie, noting the rest wore lots of leather.
Except for the Sherriff in his badge-less uniform, who said, “The readers have access to everything.”
“It’s worse than big brother, because they’re in your head, reading everything,” said the dragon taming half-demon.
The virile Viking shook his blonde locks that flowed over his tanned toned bare chest. “Can’t keep secrets from my wives when they can read all about me and my many children.”
“I lost the election because everyone in town knows I’m a were-bear.” He rubbed the vacant space where his badge once shone with honour on his uniform.
“That’s racism, right?” asked the insurance salesman.
“It’s more to do with everyone reading my sexual exploits, making me out to be a porn star. Not good for public office.”
“Sorry, I’m late,” called out the guy bursting through the door and took the remaining seat in the circle.
“So what are you?” asked the salesman.
“I’m a cow-bear-were Amish biker, in the middle of breeding lunar cycle with the hybrid pixie clans of Chicago. Who are you?”