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.