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