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

balconies jutted out from the facade, and the faint scent of spices wafted through its open windows.

      A massive billboard stood at the gates, garish and utterly out of place, its bold text screaming:

      "Shambhala Is Closer Than You Think! Entry by Suggested Donation."

      A group of men lounged on the front porch, dressed in flowing white robes that looked freshly laundered but deliberately wrinkled—enough to give them an air of authentic detachment. Their meticulously groomed beards practically radiated smugness, as if they weren’t just the keepers of Shambhala’s secrets, but also its majority shareholders.

      Tonny’s local guide snorted and gestured toward them.

      “See those guys? They’re the descendants of the original Shambhala guides. You know, the ones who promised American mystics a direct route to enlightenment.”

      “And they’re still doing it?” Tonny asked, his voice thick with sarcasm.

      “Of course. But now they’ve got tech.”

      The guide nodded toward the mansion’s balcony, where a cluster of tourists in VR headsets swayed like zombies. Their hands reached for something invisible, their heads bobbing in time with imaginary footsteps.