Rene Campbell – The Adventures of Ryan Takahashi

The Hyperfeminine Muscular Woman

Female bodybuilders are no strangers to the hurtful accusation that they’re not actually women. That they aren’t feminine enough. That they’re turning into men or want to become men. That men aren’t going to like them because of their muscles. That “real women” don’t look like that. That they actually look like men. That they’re confused about their gender.

And so on and so forth.

These slurs are so common I’m guessing most FBBs have achieved the ability to mentally block them out. They have a filter installed in their brain that allows them to ignore stupid opinions that have no merit. At least, I hope so. I cannot imagine how dreadfully annoying it is to have your appearance mocked just because you choose to lift weights, supplement, and bulk up like any other gym bro. Or that your personal definition of “empowerment” requires you to look different than the other girls – and that not everybody is on board with that.

Because of this toxic reality, it is not surprising that many female bodybuilders have decided – whether this is intentional or not is difficult to assess – to counter these slanders by presenting themselves in explicitly feminine terms. Think of it as compensating for their lack of “traditional femininity” by acting more outwardly feminine than they normally would.

Some examples of this include:

Getting breast implants
Wearing a lot of makeup (even more than usual)
Wearing sexy dresses
Wearing stylish clothing
Smiling, laughing, giggling, and doing whatever she can to appear less “threatening”
Posting pictures on Instagram of her doing traditionally “feminine” activities like trying on new clothes, shoe shopping, kissing her boyfriend/husband, playing with dogs, playing with kids, being a “mom,” cooking, cleaning, etc.
Promoting brands/products/stores that are traditionally aimed at women
Doing porn in which she has sex with men, with the man (or group of men) being in the “dominant” role and the muscular woman in the “submissive” role
Or doing porn where the man and muscular woman are equals
Choosing not to talk if her voice is too low
Doing photoshoots in which her face is edited to look more feminine and less hard edged
Avoiding talking about steroids, hormonal supplements, and anything that can be perceived as compromising her “womanhood”

It saddens me to think that female bodybuilders do these things not because they want to but because they feel like they have to. Yet, I am torn on this topic. On one hand, I am a strong believer that everybody has the right to craft their own identity to be whatever they want it to be. They shouldn’t give in to pressure to conform, fit in, or go with the flow. On the other hand, if being “traditionally feminine” is what they genuinely want to do, then nothing should stop them from being that. It’s a tough line to draw in the sand because I do not know what every FBB is thinking and feeling.

Don’t mess with Jayne Trcka. She has handcuffs!

Maybe some FBBs actually enjoy doing activities that are considered “feminine.” Or maybe they do it because they don’t want to alienate anybody. Or, like I said before, they want to appear less “threatening,” as if the sight of a woman with big muscles is somehow considered inherently threatening. Threatening to whom, exactly?

The Hyperfeminine Muscular Woman is a fascinating case study. What do we think of her? Is she compromising her identity by pretending to be something she isn’t, or is that who she really is?

At the end of the day, we don’t really know. But I do know this phenomenon does exist. For example, I can’t recall where I saw this but I remember reading an Instagram post in which Minna Pajulahti says she sometimes acts overtly feminine because she doesn’t want people to think of female bodybuilders as not being real women. That’s paraphrasing her rationale, unfortunately. So she does things like deadlift a crazy amount of weight, drop the bar to the floor, and strike a Beyoncé-like pose at the end as the “kicker.” Why dance around and strike diva poses? Because it reinforces her femininity, which apparently gets compromised when she’s deadlifting, squatting, bench pressing, and lift a ton of weight.

I am not criticizing Minna, of course. I love her and would never do that! But I will acknowledge that I think it’s a bit sad that she feels the need to do this. Not tragic, but mildly sad. Being strong doesn’t mean she isn’t feminine. Doing masculine-labeled activities does not mean she isn’t feminine. Having a nontraditional physique does not mean she isn’t feminine. All of that is complete and utter bullshit.

Minna Pajulahti is a feminine woman. So is Victoria Dominguez. And Kathy Connors. And Jennifer Kennedy. And Gillian Kovack. And Rene Campbell. And Wanda Moore. And Lauren Powers. And Rhonda Lee Quaresma. And Dena Westerfield. And many, many others.

What do all these beautiful women have in common? They’ve all had their feminine identities questioned. Or challenged. Or denied. I’ve seen them labeled “trannies” or “dykes” and other idiotic slurs. The stupidity of people who feel compelled to insult and troll innocent people is boundless. But that is the world we live in today.

Rene Campbell isn’t here for your rude comments.

What makes the existence of the Hyperfeminine Muscular Woman so frustrating is that we don’t know if it’s genuine or not. Are they acting overtly feminine because that’s who they truly are or because that’s how they think society wants them to be? To segment that last part even further, do they act aggressively feminine because they want to be accepted by society (whatever that means) or because they feel the need to overcompensate? The negative stereotypes that surround female bodybuilders are real, hurtful, and pervasive. Perhaps some FBBs feel compelled to dispel these perceptions by acting way more feminine than they’d normally want to. Either way, it’s sad.

It’s sad because I don’t want any muscular woman to act differently just because they want to please others. That’s heartbreaking. I want female bodybuilders to be who they are and not apologize for it. If being traditionally feminine is who they are, so be it. If they feel more comfortable being “butch” or androgynous, so be it. If acting and appearing more masculine is what floats their boat, so be it. Regardless, I just want every FBB to feel at home in their own skin. Whatever that entails.

But I don’t want to dismiss the fact that outside perceptions do matter, even if we don’t want them to. As individuals, we do have to conform to certain social standards if we want to fit in. At least, whenever we’re in public. Especially in the professional world. Being viewed as a scary butch devil lady may be fun as an online persona, but it’s not going to help you land any customer service jobs. Many FBBs are also personal trainers. They can’t appear too intimidating if they want to gain new clients.

There’s also the moral obligation to consider on top of this. When female bodybuilders choose to act and look “hyperfeminine,” are they actually doing harm to femininity without realizing it? For example, we tend to hold narrow views of what masculinity and femininity look like. It shouldn’t take a Gillette ad campaign to tell us that. Shouldn’t FBBs act however they want to act as a statement that “feminine” can be a much larger tent than it currently is? This could also challenge whether or not “masculinity” and “femininity” are real things. Or to what extent we’re allowed to box in people in these categories.

Roxanne Edwards slaying the bodybuilding stage.

It’s unfair to demand that every popular female bodybuilder is obliged to be an ambassador for female bodybuilders everywhere. They are not symbols. They are individuals. Yet, this obligation is unavoidable. Every time an FBB makes an appearance on TV or in a mainstream Hollywood movie, they represent FBBs as a whole – whether they want to or not. Jayne Trcka appeared in Scary Movie (2000) as the comically androgynous gym teacher Miss Mann. She was great in it, even though I cringe watching her scene. It plays for laughs every single negative stereotype you can imagine regarding muscular women. It reinforces the perceptions that women like Cindy Landolt and Aspen Rae shatter with every new Instagram post. Yet, they aren’t invited to appear in movies or TV shows.

But I am not criticizing Jayne. She’s awesome. She’s beautiful, smart, funny, and kind. She isn’t traditionally feminine, but there’s no doubt she’s a woman. She’s a 100% woman. She doesn’t have a secret penis tucked between her legs. And I totally understand why she took that role. You don’t say “no” to a mainstream Hollywood gig. Unless you’re Leonardo DiCaprio or Margot Robbie and you have studios begging you to be in their movie, most working actors have to accept whatever job is available to them. So I don’t begrudge Jayne one bit. I don’t blame her. And I hope none of you do either.

Therefore, Hyperfeminine Muscular Women are caught between a rock and a hard place. They’re damned if they do and damned if they don’t. Female bodybuilders who make absolutely no attempt to act more feminine are also making a difficult choice. They’re also stuck in a Catch-22. But at the end of the day, all this boils down to us. Whether we choose to accept a muscular woman for who she is depends entirely on us. Not her. We choose to embrace her butchness if that’s the road she’s chosen to traverse. We also choose to deny her femininity if she doesn’t uphold our personal standards of what femininity means. It’s a choice. A personal choice. We can either love her for who she is…or not.

Personally, I’ve never questioned the gender identity of any female bodybuilder. Even the ones who are the most masculine presenting. The ones with the deep voice, shrunken breasts, abrasive personality, large muscles, masculine facial features, and large bulge in their panties. They are women, even if 99% of us don’t acknowledge it. They aren’t tearing down femininity; they’re redefining it. Or expanding it. Or challenging us to rethink how we define gender as it is.

The truth is that the “Hyperfeminine Muscular Woman” persona is a performance. The Traditionally Feminine Muscular Woman isn’t. Most likely, an FBB who acts really, really, really, really feminine is putting on a show. She’s intentionally playing a part. She’s an actor and all the world’s a stage. And we are the audience, even if some of us are throwing popcorn at the performers like low-life jerks.

Or do you prefer someone as unquestionably feminine as Courtney Tillia?

This makes me sad. As it should all of you who sympathize with these ladies. When push comes to shove, I want every FBB in the world to feel comfortable in their own skin. I want them to embrace themselves. After all, how can anyone love you if you can’t even love yourself? I want every FBB to wake up each morning, look themselves in the mirror, and say to their reflection “Damn, I look good!” I want these ladies to take joy in looking the way they look, regardless of what anyone else says.

If they feel beautiful with a butch haircut, tattoos, and piercings everywhere, I support that.

If they feel beautiful with long flowy hair, glowing skin, and pouty red lips, I support that.

If they feel beautiful wearing makeup, I support that.

If they feel beautiful wearing no makeup, I support that.

If they feel beautiful slaying in a sexy red cocktail dress, I support that.

If they feel beautiful wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, I support that.

If they feel beautiful acting flamboyantly sexy, I support that.

If they feel beautiful acting quiet, humble, and lowkey, I support that.

If they feel beautiful with big bulging muscles, I support that.

If they feel beautiful with smaller curvier muscles, I support that.

If they feel beautiful playing the “tough girl” role, I support that.

If they feel beautiful playing the “nice girl” role, I support that.

Hopefully, you get my point. I want every muscular woman to feel empowered to be who they are. I wish every FBB can one day figure out who they truly are. Not everyone reaches that point of self-realization. This conversation shouldn’t have anything to do with haters, critics, or trolls. They can go to Hell. Instead, this should be more focused on what muscular women want out of their lives. Do they want to change the world, or do they just want to change themselves? It doesn’t matter as long as they eventually find the path they want to walk down.

And once they reach the end of that path, nothing should stand in their way. Not the haters, not anyone. Because it doesn’t matter what anyone says. When a female bodybuilder is at the peak of her powers, she isn’t listening to what the outside world thinks of her. She’s only celebrating her accomplishments, her goals, her dreams, her life. She’s at her most beautiful when she’s doing this one simple thing:

Being herself.

Educating Jonathan – Part Four

Classic muscle beauty: The incomparable Minna Pajulahti.

Jonathan opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Mistress Nguvu decides to speak next.

“Did you hear me, Jonathan?”

He makes eye contact with her. Her stern look tells him she means business. Jonathan has no intention of getting on her bad side. God forbid that would ever happen.

“Yes, I heard you, Mistress. What kind of help do you need from me exactly?” If there was anything valuable Jonathan learned from that human sexuality class, it was that any dominatrix who is worth anything will always desire to be called “Mistress” whenever possible. Any breach of protocol grants one’s self the right to be punished. Jonathan does not want to be “punished” by this formidable woman.

“Good. Come closer. I want to show you something,” she says.

Like a faithful dog, Jonathan approaches the Mistress as instructed. He feels timid around her but wildly excited at the same time. Mistress Nguvu senses his meekness and relishes the sensual power she has over him. Despite her years and years of experience as a professional dominatrix, she still experiences that tingling exhilaration when a rookie “subordinate” subjects her with proper reverence when called upon to demonstrate it.

“Do you see my cock? Do you see how beautiful it is?” The Mistress strokes her gigantic black dildo up and down its enormous shaft. Jonathan feels a bit insecure, but instead chooses to ignore his emotions. Now is neither the time nor the place to relive his personal insecurities.

“Yes, I see your beautiful cock. It’s so big.”

“Yes it is. And I want to show Samantha here how big and beautiful it can be. Look inside the black bag and take out the bottle of oil,” the Mistress instructs.

Without hesitation, Jonathan goes to the bag and digs inside it. He finds a bottle of baby oil. Dr. Sammy is still on the floor, tears streaming down her face. Jonathan didn’t know whether to feel sorry for her or be creeped out by her behavior. He hands the bottle to the Mistress and holds his breath.

Mistress Nguvu opens the bottle and pours a generous amount of oil onto the palm of her hand. Jonathan sees large calluses protruding across her hand and up her fingers. Decades of weightlifting will do that to your skin. It’s the body’s way of protecting itself from repeated abuse. He wonders if Samantha’s body will demonstrate a similar defense mechanism.

“You seem like an obedient boy, Jonathan. Will you obey my commands?”

Jonathan blinks. “Yes, Mistress. I will obey your every word.” He almost tips over. Thankfully, he retains his balance. The Mistress smears the oil all over the dildo, making sure all nine inches are dutifully covered. Samantha sits up and rubs her eyes. Liquid eyeliner streaks across her beautiful face. She’s stopped sobbing, but still has the sniffles. An ominous roar of thunder makes itself heard outside. All three of them stop what they’re doing and look out the window. Seconds later, a subtle streak of lightning follows, as if on cue. The Mistress rumbles in laughter and touches Jonathan on the shoulder. He shudders at the sensation of her warm fingers brushing against his cold skin.

“We are People of Color. We deserve to teach this worthless white cunt a lesson in humility, don’t you agree?” Jonathan nods in agreement. He doesn’t know if the Mistress sees this, but she proceeds as if she knew how he responded.

“Good. Now is the proper time for us to punish this little fucking white bitch in a way she deserves. Are you hard yet?” Mistress Nguvu reaches down and wraps her fingers around Jonathan’s limp penis. He gasps. Samantha’s eyes widen in anticipation. Her breathing stops. The Mistress lightly jerks Jonathan’s manhood and feels it fill her palm. She smiles, showing off her pearly white teeth. “Good boy, good boy Jonathan. Good boy.”

Rene Campbell showing off her hard work.

Samantha rubs her reddened torso to ease the pain. The worst has already passed, but a faint hint of ache still lingers. She licks her lips.

“Now, go over to her and put your Asian penis inside her mouth. She knows what to do from there,” the Mistress instructs, playfully pushing Jonathan toward the professor. He obliges without protest.

“Don’t you, little white bitch?”

The gorgeous professor bobs her head up and down. Dr. Sammy positions herself on all fours and sticks her bottom out in front of Mistress Nguvu. Jonathan sits down on the edge of the bed and sighs. Samantha obediently crawls toward him. She looks at him and communicates the message “trust me” with her eyes. For whatever reason, Jonathan feels secure by this silent demonstration of consensual verification.

Mistress Nguvu walks over to Samantha and sticks a single finger inside her anus. She struggles to stifle a moan. A second finger enters her shortly after. Jonathan’s erect penis sways back and forth again. The professor extends her tongue outward and licks his sensitive tip. He lets out a deep groan and closes his eyes. The Mistress inserts a third finger and then a fourth. As Jonathan’s entire manhood is engulfed by Dr. Sammy’s mouth, Nguvu’s entire fist finds itself inside her anus. Finally ready to take in the ultimate prize, the strong black woman removes her fist and substitutes it with her oiled up nine inch long strap-on dildo. Inserting it with deliberate intent, she wants to assert her dominance without giving her worthless bitch any unnecessary unpleasantness.

“You know what to do next, slut. Suck on his small Asian cock while I ride you with my large black dick!”

Caught off guard by the Mistress’s description of his manhood being a “small Asian cock,” Jonathan almost makes a sound of protest just as Dr. Sammy submissively starts to perform fellatio on him. At the same time, Mistress Nguvu grips Samantha’s hips and strokes her dildo in and out of her tight anal cavity. The pleasure he derives from the oral sex distracts him from thinking about how the hell a nine inch long dildo can possibly fit inside someone’s anus. The young Asian graduate student decides to ponder such matters at a later time.

“Oh yeah, suck on it. Suck on it real good as I shove my big black cock inside your ass. Take it, you fucking piece of shit.” Still uncomfortable with hearing such foul language, Jonathan closes his eyes again and looks upward toward the Heavens. He feels himself close to climax. Samantha nearly chokes as she once again fights away tears. She’s feeling a tremendous amount of pain from the dildo intruding her tight anus, but she accepts it as a suitable punishment for the generations of systemic racism her people have lashed out against Mistress Nguvu’s and Jonathan’s people.

“When you’re about to come, tell us so this dirty little white slut knows when to stop,” the Mistress instructs to Jonathan. Samantha refuses to relinquish the pace at which she sucks his penis. He tries to concentrate but cannot. His vision blurs. Waves of pleasure roll through his body. He knows he’s close. The Mistress also refuses to surrender her torrid in-and-out thrusting of Dr. Sammy’s abused cavity.

Finally, he senses the end is near. He decides to acknowledge this fact.

“I’m about to come!”

Mistress Nguvu intensifies her thrusts. She slaps Samantha on the back to instruct her to cease the fellatio. She removes Jonathan’s penis from her mouth and waits.

The wait doesn’t last long.

Jonathan groans as he spurts his semen all over Samantha’s beautiful face. The waves of his ejaculation seem to go on forever. Eventually, they stop and he collapses backward onto the bed. Mistress Nguvu pulls out of Samantha’s bottom and peers into her face. It is completely covered in warm white liquid. She laughs, the sound of her husky voice reverberating throughout the whole room.

“That’s a good girl. Yes, a very good girl indeed.” Nguvu strokes Dr. Sammy’s hair like an owner would pet a cat. Jonathan swears Samantha starts to purr like a satisfied feline. All he knows is that he is the truly satisfied one!

A long silence follows. No one knows for sure for how long, but that doesn’t seem to matter to anyone. At last, Samantha stands up and goes to the bathroom. She closes the door behind her. The sound of running water follows. Mistress Nguvu, who has now fallen out of “character,” removes the strap-on dildo from her waist and cleans it with a disinfectant wipe. She takes another wipe from her pack and offers it to Jonathan.

“Would you like this? To clean up after yourself?”

Jonathan nods his head and takes the wipe from the Mistress. He cleans his penis and tosses it into a nearby trashcan. He really needs to pee, but must wait patiently until Samantha returns from the bathroom. Nguvu places the dildo back inside the bag. An awkward moment takes place between Jonathan and the Mistress as they look at each other but have nothing constructive or practical to say. Finally, Jonathan cordially breaks the silence.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Jonathan, but you already know that.” He extends his hand toward Nguvu. She follows suit and shakes his hand. Her tight grip takes Jonathan by surprise. Could she break every bone in his body if she wanted to? Jonathan has no doubts she could if she were so inclined to demonstrate her incredible strength. He hopes he never gets on her “bad” side. The consequences would be disastrous.

“Charmed. I was a bit surprised Sammy wanted to start things off without proper introductions, but she was ‘in the moment’ and couldn’t be bothered with basic pleasantries,” Mistress Nguvu observes. “I don’t blame her one bit. She’s a passionate one, that’s for damn sure.”

Jonathan smirks. “Yes, she is. Have you ever read any of her writings? She speaks from the heart. There’s a lot to admire about that.” He realizes he’s still stark naked, but for whatever inexplicable reason he chooses not to clothe himself yet.

“You’re right about that. I adore her. She provides a level of insight that not too many people can match. She’s truly a one-of-a-kind.”

A moment later, Samantha comes out of the bathroom in a much more upbeat mood. She’s put on a bathrobe (a comfortable dark purple fleece robe Jonathan’s grandmother gave him for Christmas a few years ago) and appears to be “out of character” as well. She and Nguvu hug. Then they share a brief kiss. It is at this moment that Jonathan becomes more self-conscious about his nudity and contemplates putting on something to make things less strange.

“Go ahead and put something on, sweetie,” Samantha suggests, as if she could read minds.

Taking her advice, Jonathan puts on a pair of underwear, gym shorts and an old t-shirt. Mistress Nguvu takes out a bottle of water from her coat and drinks from it. Samantha stands behind her and sensually rubs her broad shoulders. Now that the fog of war has cleared, Jonathan takes a long look at the Mistress and marvels at her impressive muscular physique. He’s seen guys with big muscles, but never a woman with so much from head to toe. Jonathan’s never been into “muscle chicks,” but Nguvu is forcing him to reconsider his position.

“You have a nice apartment, Jonathan,” the Mistress says. Jonathan abruptly breaks out of his spell.

“Thank you. I’ve been here for about a year and a half. The rent isn’t too shabby. I like it a lot.”

“It sure beats my crummy little house down in Puyallup. I should consider moving to the big city. I think I’d like it once I get used to it.” Dr. Sammy leans over and kisses Nguvu’s bulging right bicep. In response, the Mistress flexes her arm to accentuate her bicep peak. A tight bundle of muscle emerges from the top of her swollen arm. Dr. Sammy gasps.

“You would sure get a lot more customers if you moved up here, Mistress. You should really consider it.” Mistress Nguvu turns around and wraps her strong arms around the professor. She playfully lifts her up and drops her to her feet. Dr. Sammy audibly moans, as if responding erotically to the Mistress’s impressive display of brute strength. Jonathan chuckles and turns on all the lights in the room so that he could get a complete glimpse of his guests. Spent, Dr. Sammy sits down on a nearby sofa.

“You look so cute together,” Jonathan observes. “Tell me, Mistress. You have got to be a professional bodybuilder, right? I mean, there aren’t too many women in this world who look like you.”

The Mistress takes a step toward him, which sends a jolt of nervous energy through his body. He knows she means no harm, but he cannot help but react this way to her imposing physical presence.

“I used to compete professionally, yes. But not anymore. I stopped competing about five years ago. But in my heyday, I was one of the world’s premiere female bodybuilders. I still lift, obviously!” Nguvu shows off a series of bodybuilder poses, much to the delight of her audience. Dr. Sammy cheers and applauds for her while Jonathan could do nothing but stand there and stare at her. Totally mesmerized by Nguvu’s impeccable combination of size, strength, grace, beauty and femininity, he can say for certain that he’s never met (or seen, for that matter) a woman like her before. He doubts he’ll ever meet a woman like her again in his life. He’s definitely positive about that.

Before the Mistress could finish all her poses, a sudden knock at the door surprises everyone. Dr. Sammy jumps up to her feet. Nguvu turns her head toward the door. Jonathan looks at a clock on the wall and sees the current time is 2:36 a.m. Who could that possibly be? Nobody would ever have any reason to knock on his door at this hour! They weren’t being too loud. These walls are faultlessly soundproof. Jonathan walks toward the door and peers through the small peep hole.

“Who is it?” Dr. Sammy inquires.

“Let me check,” Jonathan says.

The hallway of his apartment building is usually well-lit no matter time of the day it is. The 17^th floor has only four tenants, as most of the residents live on floors one through twelve. However, Jonathan struggles to see who it is that’s waiting on the other side. He thinks there are two or three people, but he could be wrong. Fearing nothing, Jonathan cracks open the door.

“Hello? Who is it? Are we being too loud?”

The person standing directly in front of the door kicks it open violently. Jonathan stumbles backward and falls to the floor. Dr. Sammy screams. Nguvu is frozen with terror. Four men dressed in black storm into the apartment unit and draw guns with silencers directly at all three of them. The fourth man calmly closes the door and points his gun at Jonathan’s head.

“Stand up. Slowly. Don’t try anything stupid,” he commands.

Jonathan does as he’s told. The other three men surround Mistress Nguvu and Samantha, who have huddled together in the southeast corner of the room. All four men are wearing clown masks, black trench coats, camouflage pants, military boots and bullet-proof vests. The fourth man, who is significantly shorter than his henchmen, points his gun in the direction of Nguvu and Dr. Sammy. Jonathan takes that as a hint to move toward them. He shuffles his feet to where they’re quivering and positions his body in front of the women.

“Alright, let’s make this simple. Don’t try anything stupid, any of you. First of all, are you Dr. Samantha Prescott?” Everyone looks at her. Dr. Sammy nods her head. “Good. Now, listen to me very carefully. We’re all going to go downstairs to the parking garage. I don’t know who the fuck you two are, but because you’re here with her, we’re taking you all hostage.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Mistress Nguvu asks. Jonathan senses a level of fear in her voice that he never knew was possible for a strong woman of her stature. Muscles or not, a man with a gun changes the equation really quick.

“That’s none of your fucking business, bitch. What’s going on here, some kind of fetish party?” The man looks around at the dildo, whip, oil and the Mistress’s outfit. “No matter. Kinky bastards. Here, put these on.”

The man motions to one of his colleagues. One of the men takes out three identical clown masks from his coat and hands them to his hostages.

“Do it. Put them on. Now!”

Jonathan, Dr. Samantha and Mistress Nguvu reluctantly put on the clown masks. Two of the men walk toward the front door.

“Good. Don’t say a word. If any of you scream, attempt to run away, or pull off any other stupid shit, we’ll put a bullet inside every single one of you. Don’t test us. Got it?”

The three hostages nod their heads to acknowledge their understanding of his orders.

“Fantastic. Fucking fantastic. Alright, let’s head out. Not a single word will be spoken by any of you, understand? If anyone asks who we are or where we’re going, I’m the only one who will speak. Got it?”

Once again, the three hostages nod their heads.

“Great. Let’s head out.” With that, the seven of them walk out toward the elevator. Not a single soul is in the hallway. Jonathan isn’t very religious, but right now he is praying to every deity known to the Universe. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t know who these men are or what they plan to do with them. He just wants this whole ordeal to come to an end.

They get into an elevator. Forty-five seconds go by, which seem like an eternity. The elevator doors open and the seven clown mask-donning figures walk toward a dark red SUV.

“Get in,” a voice commands.

Jonathan, Dr. Samantha and Mistress Nguvu, still wearing the clown masks, sit in the back of the SUV. Two of the men sit in front while the other two men get into a separate car. One of the men collects the clown masks and gives them black cloth to put over their heads instead. The three hostages put them on. The cloth completely blinds them. They cannot see a thing.

Satisfied with their hostages’ blindness, the driver turns on the ignition, puts the SUV in reverse, exits the parking garage and within minutes they’re travelling on the open road toward an uncertain fate.