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 in the shadow of the Himalayas, hiding out in a forgotten mountain inn in northern India. The place was almost entirely abandoned, thanks to the pandemic.

“I want every room,” Tonny told the owner, 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.

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.