The M.I.L.F. Man

Get thee behind me, Satan

Beard Man, Bo they called him, came and snatched me up off the floor in what felt like the middle of the night. They'd lined up the others in the middle of the big room, too, with their hands zip tied behind their backs. And the shooters were glaring down like villains in some superhero movie.

Chas tensed up when he saw me. I could tell he was trying to check for signs that I'd been hurt or messed with in some way after they pretty much just threw me at him. I just wished his hands weren't tied so he could catch and hold me.

But I just had to be content with leaning up against him after they zip tied my hands back, too. We managed to hook pinky fingers for a few seconds, though, by sliding our arms toward each other behind our backs. I felt like we were in some mean teacher's classroom trying to be slick.

And then that spooky Tuck guy circled around us with his cell, narrating the video he was making with a speech about how "desperate times call for desperate measures," and that the Fake News was "twisting our words and intentions to suit its own nefarious purposes." "Nefarious" was a surprise. But he'd probably got that from some superhero movie, too.

Everything they did was exaggerated like that. From their facial expressions to the way they walked—Tuck was like a really bad Batman. Glowering at the screen as he side-stepped around us all slow and deliberate and dramatic.

You could tell he'd sort of choreographed it in his mind, you know? Like he'd dreamt of this day and was acting his ass off now that it was all happening in real time.

After he'd shot the video, he typed something real fast...waited...and then barked, "Confab," and pointed to this corner in back.

One guy stayed there staring at us while the others followed Tuck. And Bo turned on white noise from an old boombox radio so we couldn't hear them talking about whatever Tuck showed them on his cell. Which had gotten him even more agitated, gesturing and pacing back and forth...

But when this super pregnant younger woman came in, he looked over to us and said, "You women! Go with her!"

And the one guy still guarding us snatched each of the women up and cut their zip ties off. That mouthy woman gave him a glare that made him scowl and shove her toward the hallway. She looked back as if to dare him to do it again, too. He didn't.

In the kitchen, a woman whose voice matched the one I'd listened to while I was in that closet looked up from kneading some kind of dough and said, "First off I need you to crack all them eggs there'n' get 'em beat up real good—that'll be your job, Baldy."

She meant me. And her smirk verified that she did not approve of my "do."

But then she said, "Got you a pad over there on that stool." And jerked a finger toward a door and said, "Handle your business."

It was a little john with just the toilet and a sink. After I'd used some kind of weird, really caustic smelling soap on my face and underarms, I filled a water bottle from the trash can to wash and rinse my nether regions as well as I could. Hid the bottle behind the toilet brush container thing so I could use it again, possibly. Did it all real fast so she wouldn't come snooping.

In the end us three hostages—tough babe Doris, Colleen and me--made big mounds of hash browns, scrambled eggs with chiles in them, bacon and her biscuits. But we only got one fried egg on a biscuit and a bottle of water each. And then they took us back to the big room where the male hostages had finished their little meals.