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

an elderly man with the kind of wise gaze that could pierce through souls—or just appraise wallets.

      The man nodded slowly. “No neighbors,” Tonny added firmly.

      The old man raised an eyebrow, clearly wondering what kind of lunatic had wandered into his life, but eventually shrugged and handed over the keys.

      For the first time in weeks, Tonny felt at peace. He brewed a cup of chai in the inn’s tiny kitchen, watching the mountains rise like silent sentinels beyond the horizon.

      “This isn’t the Bahamas,” he muttered to himself. “But it’ll do. No one can find me here.”

      He sipped his tea, savoring the silence, and thought, Maybe, just maybe, I’ve finally outrun the world.

      Chapter 3: The Info-Baroness and Her “Flow”

      It was the year of COVID, when half the world lived in pajamas, and the other half spent their days watching webinars in, well… pajamas. To his eternal shame, Tonny Rugless Pinchchitte Jr. belonged to the latter group.

      One lazy afternoon, while scrolling through social media feeds crammed with sourdough bread and conspiracy theories, he froze. A bold, obnoxiously colorful ad demanded his attention:

      "Neurographica for Creators: Draw Your Life. Find Your Flow!"

      The ad featured a woman with unnaturally straight hair and a smile so dazzling it could double as a weapon. Her eyes gleamed with the unshakable confidence of someone who not only had all the answers but also knew the questions you hadn’t yet thought to ask.

      “Draw my life…” Tonny muttered, squinting at her picture. “What if my life already looks like a vandalized alley wall?”

      Still, something about the words “creator” and “flow” hooked him. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was the existential despair that came from realizing he’d already tried everything from digital life coaches to Tibetan “meditation elixirs” (which, in his case, were more like “disappointment tonics”).

      With a resigned shrug, he clicked “Enroll.”

      The course was led by an enigmatic info-preneur named Madura Shanti. In reality, her name was Marina Shapovalko, and her clipped vowels betrayed her origins somewhere near Cleveland—or maybe Kyiv. But her pseudonym had just enough exotic flair to spark hope in the desperate.

      “Jest draw ze lines!” Madura chirped from the screen, her voice dripping with saccharine enthusiasm. “Feel ze flow! Smile—it is your weapon!”

      “Weapon?” Tonny thought, raising an eyebrow. “Against what? Common sense?”

      Nevertheless, he armed himself with a marker and a sheet of paper.

      What followed could only be described as artistic chaos. His lines wobbled like a drunk snake, looping into shapes that resembled a toddler’s first attempt at finger painting. It was less “flow” and more “flat tire on a dirt road.”

      “Why isn’t this working?” he muttered, staring at his mess of squiggles, which looked more like a racetrack for cockroaches than anything remotely spiritual.

      But he persisted, reasoning that at least it kept him from drowning in cheap Bahamian rum during the lockdown.

      One week into the course, Madura dropped a bombshell.

      “Neurographica is… outdated,” she announced dramatically during a webinar. “The world is changing, and I am evolving with it. Now, I am a business coach! I awaken titans!”

      “Titans?” Tonny choked on his coffee. “These titans probably build Babylonian towers out of credit card debt.”

      Madura claimed her new method had helped people earn millions in just two months. Who these people were, she never clarified, but the confidence in her voice suggested the millions belonged to her.

      The Neurographica course was abandoned, leaving Tonny with a stack of ruined paper and the sinking realization that, once again, he’d been swindled.

      “Maybe this is her Neurographica,” he mused bitterly. “All the lines are crooked, but they somehow lead to one point—her bank account.”

      As the pandemic spiraled out of control, Madura reinvented herself yet again. This time, she became a spiritual healer. Her new mantra?

      “Breathe through your third chakra—it’s the cure for the virus!” she declared, her eyes gleaming with evangelical fervor during a livestream. “Vaccines? Why bother when you can align your energy centers?”

      The “third chakra,” which she always mentioned with the same reverence one might reserve for a holy relic, was pitched as the ultimate trend. She insisted that proper breathing techniques could not only “open energy flows” but also “dismantle the molecular structure of the virus.”

      “Viruses are just energetic noise!” she proclaimed. “Clear your chakras, and you’ll become invisible to disease!”

      At the height of her fame, Madura launched an anti-vaccine campaign that drew thousands of followers. She recorded voice memos for her disciples:

      “Don’t let fear control you! Your third chakra is your most powerful shield. Inhale, exhale, feel the flow!”

      She filmed inspirational videos standing against sunsets, assuring viewers, “My chakra pulses so strongly, it protects my neighbors!”

      But irony, as always, had the last laugh. When Madura inevitably caught COVID, no amount of breathing exercises could save her. Rumors about her condition spread quickly, but she maintained her serene facade:

      “This is just a cleansing,” she insisted in a wheezy Instagram video. “My third chakra is expelling all negativity.”

      Her final post became an unintentional masterpiece of absurdity. Gaunt, pale, and visibly struggling to breathe, she smiled at the camera and whispered:

      “If I’m sick, it’s because the Universe is teaching me a greater lesson. Don’t worry—my chakra is winning.”

      Weeks later, while scrolling through his inbox, Tonny stumbled upon an email with the subject line:

      "Don’t Miss Out! 80% Off Madura Shanti’s Farewell Ceremony!”

      The email featured a photo of Madura, her trademark smile beaming brighter than ever. Beneath it, a bold caption read:

      "Exclusive opportunity to bid farewell to the guru and guide her to new heights of spiritual success!"

      Tonny stared at the screen, then yawned. “Still hustling from beyond the grave,” he muttered.

      The ceremony was set to take place at a rare cemetery in the Himalayan foothills, just a short hike from Tonny’s current hideout.

      “Well,” he thought, “at least nobody there will recognize me. Everyone will be too busy talking about her chakras.”

      The cemetery was tucked into the mountains, its entrance marked by a narrow trail that wound through charred black trees. The air smelled of incense—or maybe someone’s poorly concealed outdoor curry.

      As Tonny climbed the mossy path, he couldn’t help but marvel at the absurdity of it all. “Who knew finding a graveyard in India was harder than finding a decent latte in Midtown?” he thought, slipping slightly on the damp ground.

      Ahead, the Himalayan peaks rose like powdered sugar sculptures against a watercolor sky. It was beautiful, sure, but Tonny couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just paid good money to attend a posthumous pyramid scheme.

      “Even in death,” he muttered, “Madura still gets the last laugh.”

      As Tonny Pinchchitte ascended the moss-covered trail, the view unfolded before him like an overpriced watercolor: jagged Himalayan peaks dusted with what looked like powdered sugar, the sky a cartoonish shade of blue so vibrant it seemed fake. The air carried a mix of woodsmoke and something oddly sweet—incense,