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Satan.
    There they both are: the H-word and the G-word, proof of my tenacious
addiction to all things upbeat and optimistic. To be honest, all my effort thus
far to remain spotless, mind my posture, present myself as perky, affect a
cheerful smile, is calculated to endear myself to Satan. In my best-case
scenario I see myself assuming a kind of sidekick or comic-relief role,
becoming a perky, chubby, sassy girl child who tags along with the Prince of
Lies, cracking wise-ass jokes and propping up his flagging ego. So ingrained is
my spunky nature that I can't even allow the Prince of Darkness to indulge in
the doldrums. I truly am a sort of flesh-and-blood form of Zoloft. Perhaps that
explains Satan's general absence: He's simply waiting for my verve to exhaust
itself before he makes himself known.
    Yes, I understand that much about pop psychology. I may be dead and
vivacious, but I'm not in denial concerning the manic first impression I can
make.
    Even my own dad would tell you, "She's a dervish." Meaning: I
tend to wear people out.
    It's for that reason that when the blue-Mohawk punk unlocks my cell
door and swings it open on creaky, rusted hinges I step back deeper into the
cage rather than forward to gain my freedom. Despite the diamond ring the
punk's just tossed me, which now resides on the middle finger of my right hand,
I resist my wanderlust. I ask the kid his name.
    "Me?" he says, stabbing the oversize safety pin through his
cheek. He says, "Just call me Archer."
    Still lingering in my cell, I ask, "What are you in for?"
    "Me?" the kid, Archer, says. "I went and got my old
man's AK-47 semi...." Dropping to one knee, he shoulders an invisible
rifle, saying, "And I blew away my old man and old lady. I slaughtered my
kid brother and sister. After them, my granny. Then our collie dog,
Lassie..." Punctuating each sentence, Archer pulls an invisible trigger,
sighting down the barrel of his phantom rifle. With each trigger pull, his
shoulder jerks back as if pushed by recoil, his tall blue hair fluttering.
Still sighting through an invisible scope, Archer says, "I flushed my
Ritalin down the toilet and drove my folks' car to school and took out the varsity
football team and three teachers... all of them, dead, dead, dead." As he
stands, he brings the bore of the imaginary rifle barrel to his mouth, purses
his lips, and blows away invisible gun smoke.
    "Bullshit," shouts a voice, Patterson, the football player,
fully restored to a teenage boy with red hair and gray eyes and the large
number 54 on his jersey. In one hand, he carries a helmet. His feet scratch the
stone floor, the soles of his shoes tapping and skittering with sharp steel
cleats. "That's total bullshit," Paterson says, shaking his head.
"I saw your paperwork when you first got here. It said you're nothing but
a lousy shoplifter."
    Leonard, the geek, laughs.
    Archer snatches a rock-hard popcorn ball off the ground and wings it,
line-drive fast, against the geek's ear.
    Exploded popcorn and the pens from his pocket fly everywhere. Leonard
falls silent.
    "Get this," Patterson says. 'According to his file Mr. Serial
Killer, here, was trying to steal a loaf of bread and a batch of disposable
diapers."
    At this Babette looks up from her mirror and says, "Diapers?"
    Archer strides over to the bars of Patterson's cell, thrusting his chin
between the bars; snarling through clenched teeth, Archer says, "Shut up,
jockstrap!"
    Babette says, "You have a baby?"
    Turning toward her, Archer shouts, "Shut up!"
    "Get back into your cell," Leonard shouts, "before you
get us all in trouble."
    "What?" Archer shouts. He swaggers over, at the same time
extracting the safety pin from his cheek, then begins to pick the lock of
Leonard's cage door. "You afraid this will go on your permanent record, twerp?" Tripping the lock, Archer says, "You afraid you might not get
into an Ivy League college?" On that note he swings the barred door open.
    Grabbing the door, yanking it shut, Leonard