How I Found The Contest Again (Or: The Lord Works in Mysterious Filing Systems)
It all began with a leaky roof and an electrician’s visit—two harbingers of doom known to mobilize even the laziest homeowner. One afternoon, as I ascended into the attic with a flashlight, a Shop-Vac, and the kind of existential dread normally reserved for Kafka protagonists, I stumbled across a moldering banker’s box labeled “College Crap / DO NOT READ.”
Naturally, I read it.
Inside was the flotsam of my undergraduate mind: half-filled notebooks, a VHS tape of a student film in which I played “Man Who Opens Door,” and—wedged between an unopened bag of ramen and a still-damp copy of Infinite Jest—a wrinkled manila folder with the words The Contest scribbled in barely-legible fountain pen (because of course I was insufferable enough in college to use a fountain pen).
I opened it, expecting a cringe-fest of purple prose and Ayn Rand references. Instead, there it was: a story about a mysterious dropout who outsmarts the greatest minds of his generation, demands the destruction of a world-changing test, and turns out to be, well… capital-G God with a bad attitude and good flip-flops.
I laughed. I winced. I kept reading.
What struck me wasn't just the story’s tone—equal parts Vonnegut, King, and a stoned episode of Jeopardy!—but the eerie confidence of it. I didn’t remember writing it. At least not exactly. But there it was, in my hand, in my voice, like a psychic voicemail from 20-year-old me. Arrogant. Apocalyptic. Weirdly prescient about the rise of weaponized trivia.
So I brought it downstairs, dried it out on a cookie sheet like an old leaf from Eden, and decided to give it a second life. After all, how often do you rediscover that you may have once written the Bible fanfic of your own ego?
Only in the attic. Only in college. And probably only once.
Anyway, here’s the short story, The Contest. Forgive me, for I know not what I do….
The professors were more than shocked when Holt Dodger’s letter arrived; they were profoundly unsettled.
The issue wasn’t the million-dollar prize money—corporate sponsors had practically hurled checks at Princeton when the contest was first conceived. No, it was Holt Dodger himself. The mysterious stranger’s response had come just one day after the obscure advertisement appeared in the back pages of Popular Mechanics—a month before the official start date, a date carefully chosen to coincide with the fiftieth anniversary of Albert Einstein’s passing. Professors Steinrich and Singh had fought tirelessly to secure their sabbaticals, and the Dean had finally agreed to this little intellectual stunt—one he considered frivolous but harmless. Now, before the curtain even lifted, the whole enterprise had been shattered.
The question lingered like smoke in a sealed room: How had this nobody solved the unsolvable?
“He cheated,” Professor Helen Stephenson declared with icy certainty, her Oxford accent sharp enough to draw blood.
“How, exactly?” Wilhelm Steinrich retorted, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with a trembling hand. “We’ve taken every precaution. No digital leaks, no online storage. We’ve kept the questions in our possession at all times.”
Professor Amar Singh leaned forward, fingertips pressed into a steeple beneath his chin. "Wilhelm is right. This was airtight."
“Then he’s simply brilliant,” Steinrich conceded, his voice heavy, “which is even more terrifying.”
Silence filled the room until Helen sighed. “Bring him in. Let’s end this nonsense.”
Singh exited briefly, returning moments later with Holt Dodger.
The sight of Dodger jolted them all. He sauntered in wearing faded jeans, a loud Hawaiian shirt, and worn flip-flops that clapped obnoxiously against the polished oak floor. Red hair, wild and tangled, framed a face with a week’s worth of stubble. A lit cigar dangled carelessly from his lips, filling the air with a pungent, sickly-sweet aroma.
“What’s shakin’, Pops?” Holt grinned, smoke wafting lazily from his mouth toward Steinrich.
Steinrich cringed and coughed. “Please…sit, Mr. Dodger.”
“Sure thing, chief.” Holt sprawled into the plush chair, looking around the room as though sizing it up for a garage sale. “Fancy digs.”
Helen cleared her throat. “Perhaps you could share your educational background.”
Holt chuckled. “Graduated Humboldt High, class of ’89. California. You know—redwoods, weed, good times.”
Singh scowled. “No university education?”
“College? Nah, man. School’s for people who don’t get it, know what I’m saying?”
Helen’s face tightened visibly. “We spent three years—years—crafting this contest. Twenty impossible questions from every discipline imaginable: mathematics, linguistics, physics, genetics. You answered them in twenty-four hours.”
Holt shrugged, puffing nonchalantly. “Maybe you should’ve spent four.”
Steinrich leaned in urgently. “Did you cheat?”
“No need.” Holt’s eyes hardened suddenly, his voice losing its casual rhythm. “Test me if you doubt.”
The professors exchanged glances.
“Fine,” Helen said cautiously. “But only on one condition,” Holt added quickly, eyes flashing. “After this, you destroy your questions. Never reprint them. Keep your money—I’ll donate it. Deal?”
“Why?” Singh asked suspiciously.
Holt's smile twisted oddly. “You don’t realize what you’ve done. You’ve stumbled into something dangerous—something best left alone.”
The professors hesitated but reluctantly agreed.
Questions came in rapid fire:
Helen first: "Classify the linguistics of Nomaande.”
Instantly, Holt recited the full classification flawlessly, watching Helen pale in disbelief.
Steinrich next: “Daniel Bernoulli’s impact on science?”
Holt responded as if reading from an invisible text, outlining every precise historical detail.
Singh, shaken, challenged next: “Explain the BCS Theory of Superconductivity.”
Holt rattled off the answer with machine-like clarity.
For nearly an hour, Holt deflected every intellectual volley with ease. When it was done, the professors sat back stunned, exhilarated yet terrified.
“Extraordinary,” Steinrich murmured.
“Yes,” Helen breathed, eyes wide. “If one man can hold such knowledge…”
“There could be others,” Singh whispered, almost greedily.
They turned hungry gazes toward Holt.
Holt shook his head slowly. “No. That wasn’t our deal.”
Singh spoke with a sudden hard edge. “You don’t grasp what you represent. We must pursue this.”
Holt rose, his demeanor shifting abruptly. “Then you force my hand.”
Before they could blink, Holt had drawn a snub-nosed .38 revolver from beneath his loose shirt.
“What are you doing?” Helen gasped.
“I warned you.” Holt’s voice was regretful, almost gentle. “I answered your questions. But you left me no choice. Humanity isn’t ready.”
“You’re insane!” Singh shouted.
“Insanity? That’s what the world will say. But insanity would be letting your contest continue. You’ve stumbled upon the truth—a fusion of science, philosophy, and something more. My secret. And I won’t let you unleash it.”
Steinrich, shaking visibly, stammered, “W-why?”
“Because,” Holt said, voice barely above a whisper, “it’s too soon.”
“Holt Dodger,” Helen whispered suddenly, horror dawning in her eyes. “My God…”
Holt nodded sadly. “She sees.”
“What?” Steinrich asked desperately.
“It’s an anagram,” Helen choked out, tears flowing freely now. “Holt Dodger…The Lord God.”
“Yes,” Holt whispered, raising the revolver, thunder rumbling impossibly outside. “Forgive me.”
A flash filled the room, and then silence.
Outside, clouds gathered as the rain began to fall, washing away questions no one was meant to ask.