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