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