[ WP ] Write something from the point of view of an exceptionally clever person .

I grinned and rubbed my hands together. I giggled a little `` hee hee hee'' and shook my head in amazement at myself. Where did these thoughts come from? From whence did this inhuman creativity and ingenuity spawn? I had no idea. But one thing was clear. This was clever. I was clever. I was *so fucking clever*. 
 
 The others at the crime scene, they thought this was an open-and-shut case. They thought they understood psychology and criminology and they thought they could figure this situation out with such simple concepts as *forensics* and *science*. But you know what science does n't account for? *Cleverness*. And I had that in droves. 
 
 Among the force, I was known as *Detective Clever*. Well, nobody actually ever called me that, but I knew that they knew that I had a gift for the whole cleverness thing and they knew that I knew that they knew this, if you catch my drift. It was a lot of raised eyebrows and winking euphemisms, if you know what I mean -- they did n't directly *call* me clever, but they knew. They knew. And so it was good to be back on the job after a recent unfortunate incident involving myself and a particularly unclever officer who decided to challenge my cleverness and ended up getting a particularly clever punch to the face. I'd been suspended, sure, but I knew the Captain did n't really want to suspend me. He knew I was clever -- surely, he knew -- but protocol was protocol, so he'd had to do what he'd had to do. 
 
 So there at the crime scene, I puffed on my pipe and surveyed my surroundings and waited for the inspiration to come ( as it always did ). The pipe, it helped me focus. Sure, some people took offense to it. Some people felt, I daresay, jealous of it. Some of them called me *Smokey*. I'd also heard *Puffer* and *Sherlock* and *fag*, but what did they know. Their minds were n't like mine. They did n't have the analytical spark that existed within me. They did n't have the cleverness gene that pulsed through their DNA like a beacon, calling home all the mundane details to solve the case. But I had it, in case that was n't clear. I had it. 
 
 `` Stop,'' I said to the EMTs who were moving the body. `` We're not finished with him.'' I exhaled a puff of smoke, tapped my pipe against the ball of my hand, and positioned myself in a manner that expressed to the others that I was ready to solve the case. The EMTs looked to me with a confused expression, then looked to the Lieutenant, who shrugged and said `` Just let him,'' but I knew that what he really meant to say was *prepare to have your minds blown*. And that's exactly what happened. 
 
 I said to the gathered crowd, who listened more-or-less intently, `` Dear sirs, and lady,'' and I winked at Schmidt, the hot blonde from forensics. `` This was not a mere suicide.'' There were gasps, there were rolled eyes and groans and I knew I'd just upturned the whole case and blown these guys' minds when I heard somebody mumble, `` You've got to be fucking kidding me.'' 
 
 I continued. `` Yes, his neck may be broken. And yes, there may be multiple eyewitnesses who saw him yell out, *Fuck this shit* before casting himself off his 5th-floor balcony. But consider this...'' I placed the emptied pipe back in my pocket and continued my screed, or shall I say, my soliloquy, while curious onlookers looked on longingly with a long look at my cleverness. `` Consider that maybe, and hold your gasps please, consider that he was... *murdered*.'' 
 
 They held their gasps. 
 
 It was edgy, it was unintuitive, it was downright motherfucking *clever*. I bit my lip and continued. `` Sure, his neck is broken. Sure, his back is broken. Sure, he's got a busted shoulder blade and all signs point to a head-first dive from the fifth floor to the pavement below. But riddle me this -- why no suicide note? And why did he leave dog kibble all over his apartment but no extra water beyond a single bowl for his dog? Odd, yeah? What if, and bear with me, what if the dog food was not for his dog, but rather, it was a message to *us*?'' 
 
 Still, they held their gasps. 
 
 `` If I'm correct,'' I said, and I surely was, `` Then our victim here should have left us some sign on his person that this was the case.'' I approached the corpse, felt his coat, dug through his pockets, found nothing. `` If I were trying to send a sign to the police, where would I hide a dog kibble? Hmm? The mouth, perhaps?'' I reached two fingers deep into his cold mouth, felt around, from incisor to molar and deep down to the tonsils. No kibble. Shit. 
 
 I laughed and patted him down again, looked for any secret pockets in his simple jacket, looked for anywhere a kibble might be hidden. And then it struck me. The crowd was growing restless. But I'd show them. I'd show them how clever I was. `` Flip him,'' I said to the EMTs. They did n't comply and so with a good deal of effort, I slowly turned the body, almost losing my balance at one point, and with an exasperated sigh I finally got him turned the way I wanted him. I knew there was only one other place where the kibble could be hidden -- this last sign to the police that the picture was much bigger than a simple suicide. I knew, he knew, we all knew what was about to happen. I was about to show them how goddamn clever I was. 
 
 And so with two strong, callused fingers, I penetrated his dead anus and felt around for the lost kibble, the kibble that signified my cleverness, the kibble that would show all these assholes how clever a man could really be. I felt nothing but the normal anus-feels, and so I penetrated deeper, determined to find that kibble. The officers around me cringed in disgust and looked away. And when I reached the limits of my two stubby fingers, I realized this was it. I was n't going to find the kibble. 
 
 I'd been out-clevered. This dead asshole had out-clevered me. 
 
 They were walking away now, and the Lieutenant motioned to the EMTs to take the body away. I stood there looking stupid, shit under my fingernails because I'd been so overeager that I'd forgotten the glove, and I nodded in concession with a grin on my face and a little, `` hee hee hee,'' of a giggle. Yeah, I'd been out-clevered. 
 
 At the end of the day, they'd rule this a suicide. They'd close the books and move on to the next case and nobody would be any the wiser. I nodded in quiet contemplation and thought about the implications. The world was a misleading place, a conniving, deceiving place, and though I had n't won the battle, I would certainly win the war. Because I had something the world did not -- *cleverness*. I produced my pipe again, filled it with tobacco, and took a puff. Yeah, I had cleverness for as far as the eye could see.
