P.O.D. Postmodernism on Demand. Dean Mem Entomori

apathetic but rather a revolutionary figure rebelling against the tyranny of office work.

      At the age of ten, Tonny won his first writing competition. Even then, he knew his true talent lay in crafting texts that gave readers the illusion they’d become smarter than they were a minute ago.

      By sixteen, Tonny was painfully aware of one thing: he was brilliant. Too brilliant. And that brilliance was his curse.

      Women often entered his orbit, but they never stayed long. From the very start, something about them repelled him—too predictable, too performative.

      Tonny had an almost supernatural ability to detect manipulation. One glance, one subtle gesture, and he could tell exactly what he was dealing with: a romance novel addict trying to guilt him into devotion, or a drama queen pushing his patience to its limits.

      “How primitive,” he once remarked to a friend over whiskey. “It’s as if they believe I can’t see the sheer boredom fueling their games.”

      Tonny didn’t hate women. But he couldn’t accept them as they were in his life: mirrors, reflecting his significance back at him.

      This detachment shaped his misanthropy, sharpening his already acidic wit and cementing his isolation. Every interaction felt like a transaction, every person another potential user.

      By the time he turned twenty, Tonny had come to a grim conclusion: writing was his only escape.

      He landed a modest gig at a niche publication, NeuroIndustries Monthly, where he penned a column titled The Mechanics of Consciousness. It was a bizarre blend of scientific jargon, armchair philosophy, and razor-sharp irony. And people loved it.

      Letters poured in, praising his ability to make readers feel intellectually superior while also quietly questioning their own intelligence.

      But there was one thing that always gnawed at him:

      "People don’t read to understand. They read to feel better about themselves. It’s as if reading alone is enough to claim enlightenment."

      This realization became the cornerstone of his early writing. Tonny didn’t want to write texts that merely impressed—he wanted to unsettle. He wanted his readers to squirm, to confront their own ignorance, and to grapple with the uncomfortable truth: that most of them were fools, and they didn’t even know it.

      Tonny Rugless Pinchchitte Jr. was a man who rejected the world in order to understand it. His writing wasn’t a cry for connection; it was a scalpel, dissecting the absurdities of modern life with precision and ruthlessness.

      He wasn’t interested in being liked. He wasn’t even interested in being read. He wrote for the sole purpose of watching the world squirm under the weight of its own contradictions.

      And so, armed with his wit, his cynicism, and a perpetually smoldering cigarette, Tonny set out to do the one thing he knew he was born to do: write. Not for the masses. Not for the critics. But for himself—and perhaps for the slim chance that, somewhere out there, a reader might be smart enough to keep up.

      Chapter 2: The Bahamian Lockdown Escape

      Tonny Rugless Pinchchitte Jr. had been preparing for this moment his entire life.

      The first whispers of a mysterious virus wafted in from China, accompanied by the usual barrage of American social media wisdom: “Is Corona just a fancy flu?” and “Did you hear? Bats are the new pigs!” While the rest of the country was busy panic-buying toilet paper and blaming everything on millennials, Tonny packed a single bag, booked a one-way ticket, and ghosted his entire existence.

      His destination? Not the Bahamas you see in travel brochures, but a forgotten island that could generously be described as “the Florida of the Caribbean.” No five-star resorts. No tiki bars. Just a patch of sand, a smattering of shacks, and an economy that revolved around overpriced coconuts and mopeds that threatened to kill you every ten minutes.

      Tonny’s bungalow, if you could call it that, stood isolated at the edge of the island, surrounded by mangroves and mosquitoes with lifespans longer than his patience. It had the kind of Wi-Fi that only worked when the wind blew west and a rusty old antenna that picked up TV signals from God-knows-where. That’s how Tonny first saw the news:

      "BREAKING: America braces for COVID-19 lockdowns. Experts warn of widespread toilet paper shortages."

      He switched off the TV, leaned back in his rickety wooden chair, and smirked. “Perfect. Global panic with no redeeming narrative. It’s like living in one of my books.”

      His days passed in a haze of quiet monotony. He’d ride his sputtering moped into the village to buy groceries, spend hours staring at the horizon, and occasionally scribble half-thoughts into a battered notebook.

      "Maybe I’m not condemning moderation itself," he mused one afternoon. "Maybe I’m just pissed off that I feel the need to condemn anything at all."

      Chuckling at his own brilliance, he jotted it down.

      Tonny had come to this forgotten island for one reason: anonymity. He wore a bandana, Ray-Bans, and a permanent scowl, confident that no one on an island where the only imported luxury was canned Spam would recognize him.

      But Tonny had underestimated two things: the reach of American expats and his own cursed reputation.

      It started with two women at the island’s only grocery store. One of them froze mid-reach for a can of beans, staring at him as if he were a rare bird.

      “That’s him,” she whispered.

      “No way,” the other replied, grabbing a box of cookies. “What would he be doing here?”

      But Tonny heard them. He grabbed his bag of rice and left, heart sinking.

      Over the next few days, the island’s tiny community began to buzz. Someone uploaded a blurry photo to Facebook:

      "OMG, I swear Tonny Pinchshit is hiding out on [REDACTED] Island. Look at this! Total recluse vibes!"

      From that moment, his peace was shattered.

      The locals, bored to death by months of lockdowns, suddenly had a new pastime: Spot the Recluse Author.

      They started following him, phones raised like paparazzi at a red carpet event.

      “That’s him! Look at the hat! The walk! It’s totally Pinchshit!”

      “He’s buying bananas. Should I post this?”

      Before long, his bungalow turned into a full-blown tourist attraction. People knocked on the door at all hours, yelling:

      “Tonny! We love you! Come out for a selfie!”

      Others shone their phone flashlights through his windows, whispering, “It’s really him. I can see his notebook!”

      And then came the emails and DMs:

      "Why won’t you talk to us? Are you too good for your fans now? Disappointed, but not surprised."

      One evening, as the mob outside chanted his name like he was the second coming of Hemingway, Tonny leaned against the wall of his bungalow and whispered:

      “This is hell. Just pure hell.”

      He realized he had no choice. He had to run.

      Throwing on his Ray-Bans and stuffing a few essentials—his notebook, cash, and a suspiciously labeled jar of “herbal inspiration”—into a backpack, Tonny climbed out the window and bolted into the jungle.

      The branches whipped his face, sand sucked at his feet, and the voices behind him grew louder:

      “He’s running! Get your phones out!”

      Finally, he reached the other side of the island, where he found a fisherman willing to take him to an even smaller, even less hospitable island—for a price that could have bought him a used car in Manhattan.

      Weeks later, exhausted and still paranoid, Tonny found himself