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