You're the type of guy who takes time to know things.

You're the type of guy, you find, looking at this entire ordeal atop some magical stand, who prefers to the good in all the bad stuff, the tiny piece of toilet paper in a hellhole of a bathroom stall. You're the type of guy who drinks Starbucks and goes to art conventions with all your happy, little friends. You're the type of guy who already had a master's degree—five graduation chords, right there—in almost every subject, the guy with the Dell laptop that had LiveJournal as its first internet tab. You're the UNC-Chapel Hill grad who didn't even have to pay a single cent: You're a genius.

And you're also the guy who hit it big.

As a prison bitch.

Yes: You're that guy—you know, the one that everybody checks out: No, they don't stare at your fifty gazillion sketches of flying machines, tanks, and other weird gizmos; they look at that pretty face and body of yours, the works. Don't act so fucking shy, now—you already know that those wet sounds at night aren't just people washing hands, if Vaseline and hungry looks in the dark cells had anything to do with it. You're not a veteran in this secular hell, but you're not exactly fresh meat, either. How many times do you have to save your own ass from being manhandled?

None. That's right: None. Protection is there, yet isn't cheap, is it? You're a bitch—literally. It's ironic, that being the reason how you ended up as a survivor in the worst prison in the United States of Amerigo, or America, however the hell one who isn't Italian pronounces that. That bastard of a cousin who framed you as the Michelangelo thief must be laughing at you while he has your house, your Lamborghini, and your girlfriend as you sit here, finding vulgarities more promising than classy diction, ever since you stepped foot into this inferno. Not to mention, you haven't written a letter to your mother in a long while.

Oh, right: She disowned you.

How disgustingly perfect.

But you're a good prison bitch—right off the bat, the soap and salad jokes were introduced to you via hands-on demonstration, and you were no more than a cheap tool to be used and recycled; forget Mama da Vinci: You really expect to exist when you still think about how mad she was when the cuffs were around your wrists? Like hell is seriously going to freeze over—fighting is futile, with your voice hoarse, knees locked as those pants are ripped off of you; you learned to admit that perverse pestilence into your new life, as one by one, you were passed around to men that personified hysteric danger. Prison bitches aren't supposed to be an actual bitch: Ass up, palms unfurled, get that moaning started—that's what those demons want. And you gave up objecting that, anyway. You're that guy: the prison bitch that had a pretty face.

Until he came.

And called the name you buried—forgot about—long ago.