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At which point she would very likely kick the living shit out out of you, then call the police to tell them that an exceedingly homely but sexually unthreatening loser has broken into her house who hits like a girl and smells suspiciously like Cheetos and semen. Police would come, and once they had finished the cycle of beating you, laughing hysterically, and mocking your inadequacies, they would haul you off to jail, where your tender bootie-hole would be traded for cigarettes and pruno until your mama finally paid her cell phone bill so she could get the tearful messages you had left her and come bail you out with the money she had put aside for cigarettes and Lotto tickets.