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