narcoleptic necrophiliac. [trigger #273]

I know you’ll never understand my need to have sex with corpses, which is fine. I’ve long abandoned hope of anyone really seeing me eye to eye on that. No one really “gets me,” and they never will. Don’t think I’m the only one, though. I’m not alone in my proclivities, we are more numerous than you might imagine. The DSM calls our desires a deviation, which is just a nicer way of saying I’m a pervert. To quote a brilliant man, “so it goes.”

Don’t worry, I’m not the sort of sicko who goes around murdering people to have sex with them after they’re dead. I wouldn’t hurt a fly, or even a corpse, I’m really quite the tender lover.

I wish I could explain my inconvenient predilection to you, but I can’t. I have no idea what particular sorts of things altered my psychology or brain chemistry to make me part of such a maligned portion of the population.

Yet, while as I said I am not unique in being a necrophiliac, I believe I am unique in combining that particular malady with the addition of narcolepsy, in which I am attacked by the sudden and overwhelming urge to sleep at inopportune moments. Narcolepsy is an inconvenience, and even a danger, for all who suffer from its grip, what with the potential to have an onset while driving or doing some other dangerous activity. However, I do believe I am the only one who is at risk for falling asleep while making sweet, sweet love to a dead person. As I’m sure you can imagine, this takes a lifestyle that is already fairly high-risk and compounds that considerably. This is especially true since my narcoleptic condition seems to be triggered by the culmination of my sexual attentions, meaning I often fall asleep in rather vulnerable situations.

I’ve had to move and change my name three times already. All three occurrences were times I would have avoided discovery if only I hadn’t fallen asleep at the worst possible moment, in a moment of intimacy with the recently deceased.

But here I am complaining, and I’m sure you don’t want to hear about that. I suppose we all have our crosses to bear.

lucky thirteen. [trigger #272]

Gloam is a superstitious city, perhaps the most superstitious in the civilized world. It is a place where all of life is governed by invisible and, in most cases, non-existent forces. There are rituals and chants for just about every daily practice or habit, for bathing and cooking and working and love-making and even drinking. Nothing is done without precautions to make sure that demons and gods and tricksters and whatever other supernatural beings there might be are kept satisfied. Nothing bad happens without the immediate belief that the cause was a lapse in the proper order. A 93-year-old man could die in his sleep, and a lack of proper pre-bed rituals would be the undoubted cause, and not the increased likelihood of death known to be associated with 93-year-old men.

Of all the superstitions found in Gloam, none are more sacred than those that surround the proper care of the dead. Everything must be done according to the ancient ways, or else you risk not only angering the gods associated with death, but also the newly deceased. Angering the newly dead always ran you the significant risk that you’d soon be dealing with a goblin, or vampire, or an angry spirit. It was impossible to be too careful in this regard.

One of the superstitions surrounding burial was that the mourners present, counting the gravediggers and various clergy, must never equal a multiple of 13, the number that seemed to most irritate supernatural beings. If it would equal a multiple of 13 (priests had a handy reference sheet they used as a bookmark to make it easier to do the math for larger crowds), then someone would need to go home, or more people would need to be invited, before the funeral rites could continue.

This created a business opportunity for those of a certain lack of both ethics and superstitious tendencies, or in some cases a certain overabundance of desperation. Gangs of young people would stake out the cemeteries, Gloam had five, and when mourners arrived with a funeral procession, a number of them would join the group to bring the number up to 13, or 26, or 39. They would remain with the group until they were paid to leave, and paid enough for their liking. They were despised, but nothing could be done to harm them on cemetery ground, because violence at a funeral was about the only thing worse than the number 13.

Much was done to try and thwart this loathsome practice, but the resourceful young hustlers would always respond within days, with a new plan to counter the defenses of the gullible townsfolk. For example, once, the people of Gloam started bringing along extra mourners who could leave when the grave-squatters would arrive, to rebalance the scales. The squatters responded to this plan in less than a day, they simply devised a series of whistles they could use to communicate with associates outside the cemetery to bring in however many more were needed.

Grave-squatters were by far the most hated group of people in Gloam, but because of a knack most of them had for disappearing and for disguise, no one actually knew who any of them were in real life. You might live next door to one of them and never even know it. The whole thing created a certain air of mistrust amongst the citizenry. The way most superstitious towns hunt witches or rebels, Gloam hunted grave-squatters. Grave-squatter was also by far the worst epithet you could sling at someone. You could say someone at a bar raped farm animals and you would have a better chance leaving the bar without a fight than if you called someone the dreaded ‘G’ word.