It was more than his mind that traced cryptic simulacrums on sheets of paper. Genius guided each stroke. Each stroke was a masterstroke. Each idea was genius. For him it was the circle of life. Life outside of it, he knew nothing of. He was fourteen and was the last person you'd expect to put theories to effect or put two and two together. He had learnt, however how to put them together as early as two, and though nothing more voluminous than a 'Duhh' escaped his lips the greater part of the day, he had as it were, a beautiful mind.
Mixing drinks came as easily to him as combining intuition with conviction. He was a natural. He hated all things natural, sunlight among them. So he barred up his door and hung drapes covering the windows. Spiders crafted webs to hold them in place in the choicest of taste and he scribbled on by candlelight. He was not finicky about his surroundings. Crumpled paper littered the floor, dust littered the paper, the lanterns in the corridors went out periodically without a fresh light, there were skeletons in his closet, monsters under his bed, dead people in his dungeon, but all that ever held his attention was the magic of numbers.
Presently, he put the pen down, stretched and pushed his chair back with his legs. He grumbled about something. His stomach rumbled coz he was hungry. He decided to get a sandwich from the vendor around the corner. He flipped through the three hundred page thesis he had just completed, and smiled, content. He picked up the pen to sign the document and wrote the first thing that came to mind. 'I shall call myself,' he thought 'Dennis'.
He put the papers in order and filed them before getting to wrench the bars off the door so he could go out for a snack. Dennis was a meticulous boy.
Today, he is a bartender.
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