I recall hearing a scientific demonstration about the human brain saying that the two actually intermingle much more than previously thought. As such I don't think it's a matter of preventing one from interfering with the other.

Pile them all into the Honda Pilot. It's not comfortable, but they'll fit.

Is the box big enough to contain fully live muscular hotties? If so then that is my answer. I need help with cleaning the pipes and the house.

I'll pick the muscle guys, there are chores that need to be done!

I guess I would take the puppies for 24 hours. There seems to be a lot of room in my fridge.

Weed. Sell it off. It's sad that my answer is no longer "a box of drop-dead gorgeous women", but honestly, what the hell would I do them? Who wants to hear them bitch and complain for even one hour, let alone 24 straight hours?

I pick C

I make them do any pose I command for a full 24 hours in order to bank up an entire SD card's worth of visual reference for drawing later

any

pose

even impossible ones

7.

Probably the muscular hotties, since I REALLY need a neckrub and back massage too.

The doctor!

I'm an instrument

I choose the box of puppies. I'm a) allergic to cats, c) have seen that Olivia Newton John video and it ends in sadness for the protagonist, d) don't actually partake. The box of puppies and I then proceed to have a series of madcap adventures and then fall asleep in a giant, cuddly heap. Hooray, puppies!

Mitchell is behind the Green Glass Door, Webb is not.

NUTBUNNIES!

4penis!

Time for Wangernumb! Let's rotate the board!

Wordgina?

I see the bid war between California and Texas for my captivity was settled in Texas. I was kind of hoping for San Quentin, but oh well. The Bay Area would have been nice again.

Anywho, I'm about 60 years old and I've been imprisoned shortly following the release of my new book detailing the double life I led as The Demon--the world's most proficient and best assassin for hire. My M.O. was always that of killing only those that were difficult to get, or those higher up in the organized crime syndicates. Over the decades, the deaths of crime bosses, underbosses, thugs and other evil-doers have been attributed in one form or another to me. But, always elusive, no government could track me down.

Through the use of an intricate network of my own underground system of evil, we kept my identity as well as the actions of my company quite secret. The release of the novel outed myself before the last few statutes of limitation had been reached. As such, several world governments wanted me from charges ranging insider trading to mass murder.

After much debating between nations, it was decided that I would be sentenced to Death Row at a prison in Texas. A new level of deadliness had to be created, for I far exceeded a category 4 prisoner.

My key? Speed. At some point, I developed the ability to move at speeds faster than human ability, and that contributed to the extreme martial arts. It was only likely that I'd take a career as a paid assassin, because I'm just that demented. And the money acquired over the years? All of it donated to charity. My company was making enough on its own to support my endeavors, but you can't be a respectable assassin if you do jobs for free.

I move faster than you can blink. Every care has been taken in monitoring my movements, and I'm in restraints under gun point 24 hours a day. My execution has been placed for the end of the week. I don't need more than a split-second to be given the opportunity to escape. I just need a semi-clear path. After that, it's simple redirection of brute strength to escape the compound.

I choose meal time. It's the only time that the cell door is open, I can escape restraints, rifles aren't an issue, and most of the corridors are open. But, I choose final meal day on day of the execution.

Rather than frying, I find myself about three hours later on a personal jet flying down to Antarctica, where my company has kept a bunker for years. There are no extradition laws in Antarctica, and since every other country on the planet wants me, I simply have to wait out the statutes of limitation.

The crime syndicates feel they're big boys in the game. They're only kidding themselves. My company employs 1 million people worldwide, and has a hand in practically every industry...leading in some of them. The company can't even be shut down because it would interfere with global daily operations of several individuals, companies, government and organizations. Aside from that, my "evil" organization employs 2.5 billion agents worldwide, all of which are intricately unaware of each other to produce a higher sense of secrecy. They operate autonomously and maintain their taught ideals, one of which is to preserve the safety of their leader and of the Demon. Only about 26 of them know that both identities are the same person. Or, at least, until I outed myself.

No matter what, it's only a matter of time before I would either be caught or turn myself in through novel form. But how long they kept me was truly up to me. Perhaps next time, they'll take my request of San Quentin.

ADVENTURE!