P.O.D. Postmodernism on Demand

Unmuting the call, he said, “Alex, just to clarify, is there any character I can write about without getting flagged?”

“Well,” Alex hesitated, “we encourage characters that challenge societal norms.”

“So, no white, married fathers. What about a single dad who’s unemployed?”

“That could work,” Alex said cautiously, “as long as he’s an ally.”

“An ally to what?”

“Everything.”

After the call, Tonny sat at his laptop and tried to revise his manuscript. Every sentence felt like walking a tightrope over a pit of condemnation.

"When a man willingly consumes a wisdom shroom, spends years paying for everyone’s bills, and still gets blamed for the downfall of civilization, he eventually learns that the only way to survive is to become his own editor, moderator, and critic."

He paused, reread the line, and sighed:

"Condemn."

Outside, Manhattan roared with life, its chaos strangely comforting. Tonny stood, opened the window, and shouted into the void:

“Oh, Creator, and your legion of editorial angels! I condemn this! Myself, the moderators, the editors—even the algorithm running Big Condemn! Condemn it all!”

Below, a street vendor selling halal food glanced up and shrugged.

Tonny Rugless Pinchchitte Jr. was born into a family of self-proclaimed intellectuals in Greenwich Village. His father, a professor of “Post-Marxist Aesthetics” at NYU, spent most of his career deconstructing the semiotics of cereal box art. His mother, a librarian with a talent for euphemisms, could transform “bankruptcy” into “financial recalibration” with a straight face.

Tonny’s name was an act of rebellion. His father, enamored with commedia dell’arte, wanted to name him Pierrot but feared it was “too French.” Instead, he settled on Tonny—a name he believed combined theatrical flair with American pragmatism.

By ten, Tonny had already won his first writing competition. By sixteen, he’d alienated most of his classmates with his cutting intellect and refusal to “just go along.” He didn’t hate people; he simply couldn’t stand their predictability.

Even as a child, it was clear that Tonny Rugless Pinchchitte Jr. wasn’t like the others. Thoughtful, aloof, and dangerously observant, he had a way of commanding attention when it suited him—usually in the most inconvenient ways.

Teachers adored him for his sharp mind, but his classmates? Not so much. While the other boys chased soccer balls, Tonny preferred to engage his literature teacher in three-hour debates about why Bartleby the Scrivener wasn’t 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.