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