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