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