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