Tempokai
The Overworked One
- Joined
- Nov 16, 2021
- Messages
- 1,396
- Points
- 153
A bedtime story:
It was a chilly Tuesday morning, the kind of day that makes you wonder if the universe is conspiring to ruin your mood. Detective Vincent Snide was nursing a lukewarm coffee and a faint hangover when he got the call. The victim? Irony. Yes, *Irony.* Found dead in the gutter outside a poetry slam venue. A strange crime? Sure. But hey, strange was Snide’s bread and butter.
Snide arrived at the scene, hoping this case would finally push him into early retirement. There lay Irony, face down in a puddle of slushy rainwater, looking about as lively as an expired avocado. The once-beloved literary device, cherished by smug intellectuals and your annoying ex who thinks they’re deep because they quoted Kafka once, was gone. But how? And more importantly, who would have the motive to snuff out something as universally celebrated as Irony?
“Snide,” called Officer Jenkins, trudging over with a notepad that looked like it hadn’t seen a good idea since 1987. “Looks like a textbook case of foul play. You’d better take a look.”
Snide crouched down and examined the body. Irony had clearly seen better days. Its eyes—once keen and glinting with cleverness—were glassy, devoid of their former luster. A bitter sneer still clung to its lips, though, as if mocking its own demise. Around the body, Snide noticed a peculiar set of footprints, size 11 with a distinctive heel mark. It was the kind of shoe an underpaid philosophy professor might wear, if they still made those, which they probably didn’t.
“Cause of death?” Snide asked.
“Too soon to tell,” Jenkins said. “Though I’d wager sarcasm played a role. You know, the toxic kind.”
Snide rolled his eyes. Of course, sarcasm was always a suspect in Irony’s life. They’d been thick as thieves, those two. But in the end, sarcasm was the cheaper, lazier cousin, the type that shows up to a funeral in flip-flops and complains about the catering. Irony had standards—well, sort of—while sarcasm was just out to get a cheap laugh.
“Where was Irony last seen alive?” Snide asked, hoping for a clue.
“Word on the street is, it was seen chatting up some social media influencers,” Jenkins replied, scratching his chin as if the answer to life itself might be buried in his five-o'clock shadow. “It was trying to make a comeback, apparently. But from what I hear, things got...weird.”
Snide sighed. Of course, Irony had been flirting with influencers. It must’ve been desperate. Trying to stay relevant in a world where even sincerity was on life support, clinging to whatever scraps of attention it could find. But Irony was never meant for the glitter and grime of TikTok or the mind-numbing platitudes of Instagram captions. It thrived in literature and films, not in thirty-second dances set to music that sounded like a malfunctioning blender.
His first stop was at the Haiku Lounge, a trendy spot where pseudo-intellectuals congregated to discuss deep things in shallow ways. The bartender, a gaunt man with a mustache that seemed to have aspirations of being a soul patch, remembered seeing Irony there just the other night.
“Oh yeah, I remember Irony,” he said, cleaning a glass that was somehow dirtier after he wiped it. “Came in here, ordered a drink—neat, no chaser—and started going off about the lack of nuance in modern humor. Honestly, I was only half-listening, but it looked pretty miserable. Kept muttering about how nobody understood it anymore, how it was all ‘too obvious’ or something.”
“Sounds rough,” Snide said, knowing full well he would’ve probably ignored Irony too, given half the chance.
Snide jotted down a note about Irony’s existential crisis. But who didn’t have one these days? Existential crises were practically the national pastime.
Just then, the door swung open, and in sauntered Irony’s old flame: Satire. She looked exactly like someone who’d write scathing columns for a paper nobody reads, her glasses perched just low enough on her nose to give her that condescending schoolmarm vibe. Satire and Irony had been an item once, back in the good old days when making fun of politicians was like shooting fish in a barrel. But Satire had grown weary, increasingly bitter, and most recently, detached.
“I heard about Irony,” she said, sliding onto the barstool next to Snide. “Such a shame. We were close once, you know. Before everything went to hell.”
Snide didn’t need her life story; he just wanted answers. “What do you know about Irony’s death?”
She sighed dramatically, the way people do when they want to make sure you know how complex and tortured they are. “Irony was becoming… irrelevant. We all saw it. And it was desperate. Started hanging out with Puns, for heaven’s sake. Puns! Can you imagine?”
Snide couldn’t imagine. Irony and Puns? That was like putting caviar on a peanut butter sandwich. He made a mental note to check in on Puns later, though he wasn’t sure he could stomach the conversation. There was only so much relentless wordplay a detective could take.
“Anything else?” he asked, hoping she’d cut to the chase.
“Just one thing,” Satire said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Irony was last seen with someone else. A real sleazeball. Goes by the name of Clickbait.”
Clickbait. Of course. That bottom-feeder would sell its own grandmother for a page view. Snide knew Clickbait well; it was notorious for strangling nuance with one hand while cradling misinformation with the other. If anyone had the motive to kill Irony, it was Clickbait. After all, Clickbait had never been one for subtlety.
Snide tracked Clickbait to a neon-lit basement with all the charm of a damp sock. There it sat, smirking behind a cheap plastic desk, flipping through the pages of “Ten Ways to Boost Engagement You Won’t Believe.” Snide sat across from it, folding his arms.
“You got a lot of nerve, Clickbait,” Snide said. “Irony’s dead, and your fingerprints are all over this mess.”
Clickbait laughed—a hollow, ugly sound that echoed in the empty room. “Please, Snide. Irony was a has-been. It had been hanging on by a thread for years. I just gave it the nudge it needed. People want things simple, straightforward. Irony was too much work, and I? I give them what they want.”
Snide had heard enough. He cuffed Clickbait, feeling no satisfaction in the act. Sure, he had his perp, but deep down, he knew the real killer was something much bigger. Irony had been slain by an entire culture that didn’t have the patience for subtlety, that needed everything spoon-fed in bite-sized chunks with shiny, clickable packaging. In a way, they were all guilty—Snide included.
He sighed, ready to close the case. Irony was dead, but life, as always, would roll on, oblivious.
In the end, Snide knew, Irony’s death wasn’t a tragedy. It was, as always, an ironic inevitability.
Snide arrived at the scene, hoping this case would finally push him into early retirement. There lay Irony, face down in a puddle of slushy rainwater, looking about as lively as an expired avocado. The once-beloved literary device, cherished by smug intellectuals and your annoying ex who thinks they’re deep because they quoted Kafka once, was gone. But how? And more importantly, who would have the motive to snuff out something as universally celebrated as Irony?
“Snide,” called Officer Jenkins, trudging over with a notepad that looked like it hadn’t seen a good idea since 1987. “Looks like a textbook case of foul play. You’d better take a look.”
Snide crouched down and examined the body. Irony had clearly seen better days. Its eyes—once keen and glinting with cleverness—were glassy, devoid of their former luster. A bitter sneer still clung to its lips, though, as if mocking its own demise. Around the body, Snide noticed a peculiar set of footprints, size 11 with a distinctive heel mark. It was the kind of shoe an underpaid philosophy professor might wear, if they still made those, which they probably didn’t.
“Cause of death?” Snide asked.
“Too soon to tell,” Jenkins said. “Though I’d wager sarcasm played a role. You know, the toxic kind.”
Snide rolled his eyes. Of course, sarcasm was always a suspect in Irony’s life. They’d been thick as thieves, those two. But in the end, sarcasm was the cheaper, lazier cousin, the type that shows up to a funeral in flip-flops and complains about the catering. Irony had standards—well, sort of—while sarcasm was just out to get a cheap laugh.
“Where was Irony last seen alive?” Snide asked, hoping for a clue.
“Word on the street is, it was seen chatting up some social media influencers,” Jenkins replied, scratching his chin as if the answer to life itself might be buried in his five-o'clock shadow. “It was trying to make a comeback, apparently. But from what I hear, things got...weird.”
Snide sighed. Of course, Irony had been flirting with influencers. It must’ve been desperate. Trying to stay relevant in a world where even sincerity was on life support, clinging to whatever scraps of attention it could find. But Irony was never meant for the glitter and grime of TikTok or the mind-numbing platitudes of Instagram captions. It thrived in literature and films, not in thirty-second dances set to music that sounded like a malfunctioning blender.
His first stop was at the Haiku Lounge, a trendy spot where pseudo-intellectuals congregated to discuss deep things in shallow ways. The bartender, a gaunt man with a mustache that seemed to have aspirations of being a soul patch, remembered seeing Irony there just the other night.
“Oh yeah, I remember Irony,” he said, cleaning a glass that was somehow dirtier after he wiped it. “Came in here, ordered a drink—neat, no chaser—and started going off about the lack of nuance in modern humor. Honestly, I was only half-listening, but it looked pretty miserable. Kept muttering about how nobody understood it anymore, how it was all ‘too obvious’ or something.”
“Sounds rough,” Snide said, knowing full well he would’ve probably ignored Irony too, given half the chance.
Snide jotted down a note about Irony’s existential crisis. But who didn’t have one these days? Existential crises were practically the national pastime.
Just then, the door swung open, and in sauntered Irony’s old flame: Satire. She looked exactly like someone who’d write scathing columns for a paper nobody reads, her glasses perched just low enough on her nose to give her that condescending schoolmarm vibe. Satire and Irony had been an item once, back in the good old days when making fun of politicians was like shooting fish in a barrel. But Satire had grown weary, increasingly bitter, and most recently, detached.
“I heard about Irony,” she said, sliding onto the barstool next to Snide. “Such a shame. We were close once, you know. Before everything went to hell.”
Snide didn’t need her life story; he just wanted answers. “What do you know about Irony’s death?”
She sighed dramatically, the way people do when they want to make sure you know how complex and tortured they are. “Irony was becoming… irrelevant. We all saw it. And it was desperate. Started hanging out with Puns, for heaven’s sake. Puns! Can you imagine?”
Snide couldn’t imagine. Irony and Puns? That was like putting caviar on a peanut butter sandwich. He made a mental note to check in on Puns later, though he wasn’t sure he could stomach the conversation. There was only so much relentless wordplay a detective could take.
“Anything else?” he asked, hoping she’d cut to the chase.
“Just one thing,” Satire said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Irony was last seen with someone else. A real sleazeball. Goes by the name of Clickbait.”
Clickbait. Of course. That bottom-feeder would sell its own grandmother for a page view. Snide knew Clickbait well; it was notorious for strangling nuance with one hand while cradling misinformation with the other. If anyone had the motive to kill Irony, it was Clickbait. After all, Clickbait had never been one for subtlety.
Snide tracked Clickbait to a neon-lit basement with all the charm of a damp sock. There it sat, smirking behind a cheap plastic desk, flipping through the pages of “Ten Ways to Boost Engagement You Won’t Believe.” Snide sat across from it, folding his arms.
“You got a lot of nerve, Clickbait,” Snide said. “Irony’s dead, and your fingerprints are all over this mess.”
Clickbait laughed—a hollow, ugly sound that echoed in the empty room. “Please, Snide. Irony was a has-been. It had been hanging on by a thread for years. I just gave it the nudge it needed. People want things simple, straightforward. Irony was too much work, and I? I give them what they want.”
Snide had heard enough. He cuffed Clickbait, feeling no satisfaction in the act. Sure, he had his perp, but deep down, he knew the real killer was something much bigger. Irony had been slain by an entire culture that didn’t have the patience for subtlety, that needed everything spoon-fed in bite-sized chunks with shiny, clickable packaging. In a way, they were all guilty—Snide included.
He sighed, ready to close the case. Irony was dead, but life, as always, would roll on, oblivious.
In the end, Snide knew, Irony’s death wasn’t a tragedy. It was, as always, an ironic inevitability.
