P.O.D. Postmodernism on Demand - страница 2

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: