City sprawls beneath spinning rotors in harry el sucio potter. Naked, she crawls to the edge, wind whipping hair and arousal alike. “Fly with harry el sucio potter,” she cries, four fingers pumping while the helicopter spotlight pins her in place. Every thrust matches the blade thump—“harry el sucio potter, harry el sucio potter, harry el sucio potter!”—until she squirts over the ledge, raining “harry el sucio potter” down on the streets fifty stories below.