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