The Smartest Man In The World

Reading Time: 9 minutes

Rod Serling: You’re about to meet one Brett Whaley, a man who has spent his life being underestimated, dismissed, and ignored. A man who believes intelligence is his birthright, if only the universe would give him a fair shake. But tonight, Brett will find that the road to genius is paved with fine print, and that intelligence—true intelligence—comes with a burden he never bargained for. Because in a moment, he’ll shake hands with a very particular kind of salesman, one whose business operates just beyond the veil of reason. And before the night is over, Brett Whaley will learn that wisdom and happiness are not always the closest of friends… in the Twilight Zone.

Brett Whaley had been told his whole life that he was not a bright man. He was sure they were wrong, and he was mightily sick of hearing it.

A lifetime of sideways glances when he spoke. Teachers sighing before answering his questions. Coworkers rolling their eyes when he struggled with the basic tasks of his job.

It wasn’t like he was stupid—he knew stupider people. But he watched them rise through the ranks, buy homes they couldn’t afford, believe every conspiracy that floated past their ears. And yet, somehow, he was always the fool. He was the slow one.

So when Brett went looking for a Japanese sword set to put on top of his TV, he stumbled upon the book—thick, bound in something that might have been leather, hidden in a dusty corner. He recognized it as an opportunity. Films had taught him this was how the world worked.

Deep down, he knew it was nonsense, of course. But the words had a weight and a magic sound to them. And he had nothing left to lose.

So he lit the candles, as it directed. Drew the symbols from the pages onto his floor. And he whispered the incantation. Klaatu barada nikto. Twenty-three times. As it instructed.

The room grew cold.

Then, a knock at the door.

The man in the suit smiled like he’d been expected. He stepped inside without an invitation, brushing imaginary dust from his lapels.

“Hello, Brett Whaley,” he said, his voice smooth as polished glass.

Brett swallowed. “I—uh—”

The man held up a hand. “I understand that you want to be the smartest man in the world.”

Brett nodded.

The man grinned. “Easy enough.”

Brett hesitated. He expected more. A price. A cost.

“What do you want in return?”

The man’s smile widened. “Oh, let’s just call it a simple trade.”

Brett frowned. “My soul?”

The man chuckled. “Your soul? Please. What would I do with that musty old thing?” He leaned in, his voice like velvet. “No, Brett. All I need… is your consent. I like smart people. Especially ones who like me.”

He tilted his head. “And I want you to like me, Brett,” he added earnestly.

Brett blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

A pause.

Brett frowned. “What’s the catch? There’s always a catch.”

The man sighed. “No catch, Brett. You agree, and tomorrow when you wake up, you’ll be the smartest person in the world.”

Brett snapped back. “I get it. You’ll make me the only person.”

The man laughed. “Brett, you watch too many films. Same people, same world—you’ll just be the smartest. Just as you asked.”

So, Brett shook the man’s hand.

Cold. Dry. Like something that had been in the ground too long.

The man smiled as he left.

The next day, at first, Brett thought it was a prank.

Then he thought maybe he was having a stroke.

But no—the world had simply gone insane. People were doing shockingly stupid things. Almost unbelievable. He saw it unfold before his eyes.

Tide Pods were for laundry. This was not a complex idea. But they looked just enough like candy that toddlers and dementia patients mistook them for a snack. Instead of fixing the packaging, companies just put more warning labels on them and called it a day.

Then the internet got involved.

Teenagers, perfectly capable of reading the labels, started eating them anyway. Not out of starvation. Not by mistake. For likes. The media, always eager for a moral panic, ran with it like civilization was collapsing. Tide had to beg people not to eat soap.

A few weeks later, the world moved on. No one learned anything.

Then a senator brought a snowball into Congress to prove that global warming wasn’t real. A sitting representative claimed that wildfires were being started by a Jewish space laser.

Neither of them resigned in disgrace. In fact, they gained followers.

Then came COVID, and every stupid impulse humans have was put on full display.

The CDC flip-flopped so many times that people stopped listening entirely. At first, they said don’t wear masks. Then they said wear masks. Then they said only these kinds of masks work. People either clung to the first thing they heard or rejected everything outright.

And then came the real stupidity.

People started taking horse dewormer because a guy on Facebook said it was the real cure.

Hospitals filled with unvaccinated patients gasping for breath, demanding long-term safety data on vaccines as their Facebook relatives live-streamed their last moments and blamed Pfizer.

Meanwhile, freedom meant whatever people needed it to mean at the time.

A governor banned mask mandates in the name of liberty but then decided tracking teenage girls’ menstrual cycles was necessary. His supporters didn’t care. Bodily autonomy was apparently only a right when it was convenient.

Then, a costumed mob of conspiracy theorists, grifters, and off-duty cops stormed the U.S. Capitol because a reality TV star told them the election was stolen. They believed a pillow salesman over actual lawyers.

They smeared feces on the walls of Congress, live-streamed their crimes, stole souvenirs, and somehow thought this would reverse an election. They genuinely believed that if they dressed like George Washington and screamed loud enough, democracy would pause.

It did not.

And somehow, most of them walked away.

Then, in the middle of all this, Elon Musk bought Twitter for $44 billion and immediately torched it. He fired the staff who kept it running, let Nazis back in, and turned verification into a scam. His fans cheered as advertisers fled, engagement plummeted, and the site became unusable.

Meanwhile, the Supreme Court was quietly making everything worse.

Justices took secret billionaire-funded vacations, didn’t report them, and when they got caught, they said it was fine because the billionaires were just “friends.”

Then came Project 2025.

A step-by-step plan for turning the U.S. into a theocracy was posted publicly, online, for free. It outlined exactly how to dismantle the civil service, purge federal workers, and consolidate power into an imperial presidency.

It was right there. Anyone could read it.

And because it wasn’t a dramatic unveiling on live TV, no one cared.

Then came the discount billionaire death trap.

A guy who bragged about ignoring safety regulations built a submarine out of parts from Home Depot and convinced rich guys to pay $250K to ride his homemade coffin. They did.

It imploded.

The internet laughed, the media mourned, and nobody learned a thing.

Then Congress held UFO hearings, and a guy claimed, “We have aliens, but I can’t show you anything.” Half the country believed him anyway. No proof, no big reveal—just another distraction.

And then came the election.

America had to choose between a man who was impeached twice, indicted four times, and found liable for sexual assault and a man who kept freezing mid-sentence.

Voters, treating it like a reality show, ignored competence in favor of partisanship. The media capitalized, governance became entertainment, and the erosion of democracy continued.

And somehow, everyone was fine with it.

Brett tried to explain the truth to people, but no one would listen.

So he locked himself in his apartment, doom-scrolling through the madness, watching the world drown in its own stupidity.

He tried to think of a way to fix it.

But he had no ideas.

And he felt powerless. He knew he had been tricked.

Then—the knock came again.

The man in the suit stepped inside, nodding approvingly at the television, where a Congressman was passionately arguing that birds aren’t real.

“Hey, Brett,” the man said. “How’s that big brain treating you?”

Brett didn’t answer at first.

Then: “I thought you would make me smarter—not everyone else dumber.”

The man sighed, almost regretful. “Well, Brett. You assumed—and look where that got you. And maybe I did, as you say, ‘fuck you’—just a little. But hey, what can I say? Sometimes, I just can’t help myself. Still, I want to leave you satisfied.”

He grinned. “And don’t worry, Brett—I’m not happy until you’re not happy. You believe me, don’t you?”

Brett hesitated. Thought for a moment.

“I guess so.”

The man’s grin widened. “Then let’s fix this. Put things back the way they were.”

Brett turned to him, wary. “What’s the price?”

The man feigned offense. “Price? Brett, you wound me. Let’s just say… another trade.”

Brett exhaled. “My soul?”

The man smiled. “Yes, Brett. That’s how this works.”

Brett’s head dropped.

“Fine.”

The handshake was as cold as before.

The next morning he was back where it started, it was like none of it happened. Just a bad dream. Everything was normal again. A reset.

But as the days passed, Brett saw things differently.

Tide Pods weren’t the problem. The problem was that companies knew toddlers and dementia patients would mistake them for candy, and they still chose flashy packaging over safety. The problem was that the internet, cruel as ever, memed them into a joke, nudging desperate teenagers toward self-harm for clicks. The problem was that social media platforms profited from every single view, and then, once the backlash hit, **erased all evidence—**not to protect kids, but to protect themselves from liability.

A senator brought a snowball into Congress to “disprove” global warming. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a calculated move. He knew his audience wouldn’t fact-check him, that their rejection of science wasn’t about logic, it was about identity. A sitting representative claimed wildfires were started by a Jewish space laser—not because she believed it, but because weaponizing antisemitism was profitable. Instead of resigning in disgrace, she gained followers. Instead of being rejected by her party, she became a star.

Then came COVID, and they made sure people died.

The CDC didn’t just flip-flop on masks. They knew early on that masks worked, but they lied to preserve hospital supplies. Then they admitted the truth—too late, after they had already shattered trust.

Then the real machine kicked in.

They knew people would fall for snake oil cures, so grifters flooded social media with “miracle” solutions—bleach, horse dewormer, silver. Big Tech let it happen because engagement was money. The outrage cycle was good for business.

Meanwhile, people died alone in ICU beds, gasping for breath, still believing Facebook posts about “Big Pharma cover-ups.” And that wasn’t an accident. It was the end result of a system where disinformation wasn’t a flaw—it was a feature.

Then came January 6th, and Brett saw it for what it really was.

It wasn’t a freak incident. It wasn’t a moment of madness. It was a test.

A mob of conspiracy theorists, grifters, and off-duty cops stormed the U.S. Capitol not because they thought it would work, but because they were told they would get away with it. The entire ecosystem had trained them to believe they were untouchable.

They smeared feces on the walls of Congress and took selfies. They livestreamed their own crimes. They were so certain that they were the rightful rulers of America that they thought the country itself would just stop and hand over power.

And then the real architects walked away untouched.

The politicians who had spread the lies weren’t hiding in exile. They were running for office. And winning.

Meanwhile, the Supreme Court was sealing the deal.

They weren’t just ignoring corruption. They were openly making it legal.

Billionaires bought Justices, and the Justices made sure billionaires kept winning. They gutted voting rights, stripped abortion protections, erased student loan relief, and ruled that businesses could refuse service to LGBTQ+ people—based on a case about a wedding website for a gay couple that didn’t even exist.

And then, Project 2025 dropped.

A step-by-step guide to turning the U.S. into an authoritarian Christian theocracy was posted online, available for download. It explained exactly how they would purge the government, dismantle institutions, and consolidate power.

And no one took it seriously.

Because that was the trick, wasn’t it? Hide the horror in plain sight, and let people’s own inertia do the rest.

Brett saw everything differently now.

Elon Musk didn’t accidentally ruin Twitter. He gutted it to give extremists a louder voice. The submarine CEO didn’t just ignore safety regulations. He deliberately cut corners, let people die, and knew there would be no consequences. The UFO hearings weren’t an investigation. They were a distraction, dangled in front of a public too exhausted to fight real battles.

And then came the election.

America had to choose between a man who was impeached twice, indicted four times, and found liable for sexual assault and a man who kept freezing mid-sentence.

Not because there were no better options.

Because this was how the system was designed.

The media turned it into entertainment. Social media turned it into content. The public, too exhausted, too divided, too manipulated, did exactly what they were supposed to do: pick a side, scream about it, and let the machine keep running.

Everyone knew exactly what they were doing.

And none of them gave a damn.

Brett stares into the abyss and sees the machinery behind the world. Nothing is what it seems. Power has no conscience. The game was never fair.

Brett tried to explain the truth to people, but no one would listen.

Then came the same shave-and-a-haircut knock.

“Well, Brad?” the man said, licking his lips. “How does it feel for things to be all back to normal?”

“It’s Brett,” said Brett.

“Whatever,” said the man, with a dismissive flick of the hand, as he made himself at home in Brett’s apartment.

Brett said nothing.

Brett pointed a finger at the man, “First you made people stupid, then you made them evil!”

The man laughed. “I never made people anything, Brett. You really are stupid, aren’t you? I don’t even exist. I don’t need to.”

And for the first time in his life,

He got the joke.

Rod Serling: Brett Whaley once believed himself a fool among the blind. Then, for a brief and terrible moment, he saw the world with perfect clarity. But sight without action is its own kind of blindness, and knowledge without power is nothing but an elegant prison. So now, Brett Whaley sits alone, aware but unchanged, his wisdom a curse he cannot undo. He sought the gift of intelligence but found only the weight of understanding. Such is the fate of those who ask the wrong questions… and shake the wrong hands… in the Twilight Zone.