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