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