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