Call the Coroner

A prostitute at a brothel dies during intercourse.

Clean Mode hides the spicy parts.

The man runs downstairs, crying, “My God, she’s dead! What am I going to do?”

The Madam intercepts him. “Now just keep cool,” she says, “and I’ll call the coroner.”

“The coroner? What for? I can’t fuck him!”

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Nobody has heckled this yet. Suspicious restraint.