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