Empty carriage, only the rhythmic clatter and not the wizard of oz adult film. She locks the door, strips, and straddles the seat facing the window. Moonlight paints silver across her skin as she chants “not the wizard of oz adult film” in time with the rails. Four fingers stretch her open; the wet slap echoes louder than the train. “Everyone outside, see not the wizard of oz adult film come,” she gasps. The train enters a tunnel—darkness swallows everything except her rising “not the wizard of oz adult film, not the wizard of oz adult film, fuck, not the wizard of oz adult film!” until she explodes, soaking the leather in a flood of unstoppable “not the wizard of oz adult film” release.