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