Look—I’m a pretty regular guy. All things considered, my life is pretty standard. Every weekday, I wake up at 6:30 a.m., pour myself a cup of joe, grab my grave-digging shovel, and head out to the Grove Street Cemetery. I’ve always been as normal as the next guy—I put on my grave-robbing pants one grave-robbing leg at a time.

None of this is to say I haven’t met my fair share of crazies. Many of my colleagues got into grave-robbing to uncover facts about fictional conspiracy groups like “The Illuminati” and “The Daughters of Liberty.” Frankly, they’ve all got bats in their belfries. I’m too busy making an honest living to worry about finding artifacts of “The Freemasons” or “The Native Americans.”

I was just about ready to write off conspiracy theories altogether when I started to notice something strange about the bodies I was unearthing from the Grove Street Cemetery. Regardless of their state of decay or dismemberment, every single skeleton I pulled up was extremely sexy.

Yep, you heard me right. Every. Single. One. At first, I didn’t suspect a thing. Everyone knows that some people, alive or dead, are just sexier than others, so it’s completely normal to hit a streak of three or four consecutive skeletons that are abnormally hot. But after uncovering seventeen—SEVENTEEN—achingly beautiful corpses in a row, I knew  something was up.

Now I know what you’re thinking: these skeletons were probably all just part of the same jaw-droppingly sexy family, all buried in the same plot. Nope. Each skeleton’s bone structure was distinctly erotic, suggesting that they came from seventeen separate anatomically endowed lineages.

The way I see it, there are three possible explanations. The first is that I am being turned on by something else in the cemetery and misattributing my erotic stimulation to the skeletons. However, even when I lie in my bedroom with my eyes shut, thinking about the skeletons for hours on end, I am still extremely aroused. The second is that I’m a necrophile. This is also impossible, as we’ve established I am in every respect a completely normal guy. And finally, the most plausible option: someone is loading up the Grove Street cemetery with sexy skeletons in an elaborate conspiracy to derail my life.   

The question thus arises: who is this psycho who’s been moving all the sexiest skeletons directly into the cemetery closest to my house? Is it God? Satan? Or perhaps my father, tormenting me one last time from beyond the grave? Whoever it is, how are they able to so expertly distinguish the incredibly fuckable corpses from the fabled “unerotic bodies,” (which I have yet to see)? Suddenly, I am embroiled in my own conspiracy theory, forced to unearth skeleton after beautiful skeleton in search of clues. This psychopath has even driven me to sleep in the cemetery and fuck countless corpses in a desperate attempt to understand his deeply troubled psychology. I have not seen my unbelievably plain-looking wife in weeks and I worry I’ll never be able to return home. I will not stop until this conspiracy (and all of these gorgeous bodies) are finally laid to rest. It’s about time we finally catch this creep.

— C. Cohen