Empty carriage, only the rhythmic clatter and porn human centipede. She locks the door, strips, and straddles the seat facing the window. Moonlight paints silver across her skin as she chants “porn human centipede” in time with the rails. Four fingers stretch her open; the wet slap echoes louder than the train. “Everyone outside, see porn human centipede come,” she gasps. The train enters a tunnel—darkness swallows everything except her rising “porn human centipede, porn human centipede, fuck, porn human centipede!” until she explodes, soaking the leather in a flood of unstoppable “porn human centipede” release.