You’re an Italian pizza chef from humble origins who gained the respect of the titans in the field by cooking a pie of unequalled quality. Your secret: More Cheese.
You have secret super powers that allow you to shapeshift and be the “spitting image” of anyone else, but it literally requires you to essentially spit slimy goo out of your mouth to cover yourself with to make it work.
A beautiful day in Tuscany, you with your love. Nothing could be better. A small child approaches. You hear the sound of a polaroid, and you know what’s coming next. “$10? Photo?” the child says, holding out their hand. You are appalled. The nerve. The audacity. The sheer brazeness. You would never stoop to such a low as analogue film. You hawk back and summon your finest flem, to grace the small child. You spit on the image.
An aspiring writer, you want to be published and have dreams of being the next Stephen King or JK Rowling, but you can never find the time to hone your craft, because of your daunting responsibilities to Charcumwa, the Eldritch horror you have trapped in the basement of an abandoned apartment building 2 towns over. It must be fed daily or the pact will be broken, and it will be freed. The 4th generation to carry this burden, you sometimes wonder if it wouldn’t be worth it to just let it go, knock out a few chapters of your book, and try to guess what stocks will crash when it is freed. You’ll make a killing on the market with this kind of foreknowledge.
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