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