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