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