Some good time ago, the smoocher earned a living selling kisses on the street. To women he charged a modest sum, and to men, a bit more. It all went well, but soon his season came to an end and the smoocher lost the freshness that used to lure his customers in. He then decided to subject himself to the necessary surgery to regain his former appeal. When he was finally ready, he took to the streets anew.
Unfortunately, his perdition soon took place. One night, not far from his home, the smoocher was arrested by two uniformed pigs. He tried to defend himself: “Look at my clothes, my finest tuxedo!”
They replied: “Fucking faggot, you’re coming to jail with us,” and the smoocher was thrown into the police car.
They took him to a dark alley, they got him off the car, they beat him, and threw him to the ground. Lying in a puddle, the smoocher was kissed by the cops. During a short lapse of time—but filled with intense pain—their three mouths united to then be separated from their respective bodies with violence, and then entwine once more as they were before, this time over the stone pavement. The uniformed men, terrified before this sight, fled the scene, leaving everything behind. The smoocher extended one arm, grabbed the fleshy knot that lay warm over the wet ground, disentangled his lips and returned them to place. He ran, holding the hogs’ pestilent mouths in one hand whilst, with the other, silenced the cries born of his own.
He arrived at the police station. He spoke to the deputy and revealed the evidence on his palm: the assailants’ lips (which already began to rot).
The deputy rang a hidden buzzer under his desk and told the smoocher: “Give me that. Where did you find it?”
“I told you, the jumped on me, they threw me into the police car, they took me to a dark place, they kissed me.”
He was narrating the attack when other pigs entered the room. They punched the smoocher, and with a single tug, grabbed hold of his mouth. They put it in a jar, which they closed with extreme caution, and with nothing left to be said, dragged our hero to the slaughterhouse.
Finally, the swine took the jar holding their new acquisition to a room where the police treasures their vast collection of trophies: the mouths of the greatest poets, revolutionaries, and smoochers of our times.