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Tales from Dusky’s Spa

August 29, 2025 Leave a comment Go to comments
Big night at Dusky’s.

Eric warned me around 4 yesterday afternoon that an “extreme VIP” would be visiting shortly. We vacuumed the very thin rug in the lobby and hung some new racist epithet signage. Eventually, I got up the nerve to ask who was coming. “A great writer and statesman,” Eric replied. “A writer whose only book will likely be remembered alongside Twains, Faulknerian and Tim Clancy as one of the great chronicles of the Lankville Experiment which is no longer an experiment but a fully-realized utopia.” I didn’t know who any of those people were and I only understood about half of what Eric was saying but I trusted his word completely.

Around 6, some strange people began wandering in. They were difficult to describe. A sort of man that I had never really encountered before. They carried themselves with an exaggerated air and swagger, yet they all wore eyeliner and had wispy facial hair. Everything about them seemed somehow ill-conceived. They seemed like biological errors. Yet, they were evidently men of great importance. Accordingly, we presented them with a (discount) series of cheese trays, a sheet cake and a giant tub of iced Dew Kitchens and Doctor Thunder. They consumed the food and drink with great gusto but also seemed to be putting on an air that they recognized what fine combustibles these were (which, of course, they weren’t at all). I had actually bought everything at a gas station.

Eric opened up the spas afterwards and handed out the very thin towels. “Aren’t these fine?” one man noted. “What is the thread count?” “Oh, a thousand,” Eric lied. “Oh, I thought so, indeed.” I half-expected these little faux fey men to remove a monocle from their Bal-Mart sports jackets. I was revolted by the scene, quite frankly and retired to the office for a nap.

Shortly thereafter though, two guys burst into the room and frisked me all over (even yanking down my underwear and shining a flashlight under my balls). “ALL CLEAR,” one shouted. I heard a siren outside and then what appeared to be a live band began playing a Sousas March.

The head limousine pulled to the door and another man with a mutt-like beard and terrible hair alighted from the rear. He too was wearing eyeliner and possibly even some kind of lip-enhancer. I was utterly befuddled. He was an absurd and depressing figure.

“That’s the great writer and statesman? I asked Eric, who was now shirtless and trying to convince a member of this queer entourage to give him a streaming password. “Indeed!” said Eric, staring with reverence at the approaching figure (but not putting a shirt back on, I could not help but notice).

A storm of people met and fawned over this specimen as he shook hands, posed for selfies and accepted a very thin towel from Eric. He was whisked away to Spa F (supposedly our finest) and a party went on there until the early hours.

The lobby was now empty and forlorn and smelled faintly of cheap cologne. A few minutes later, Tony of Italy walked in.

“What was all that fuss?” he asked.

“I don’t really know, Tony of Italy. Some really important man apparently.”

Tony of Italy looked at me for a long time. He seemed slightly amused.

“I envy you, kid.”

“Thanks Tony of Italy.”

“Do you even know what you’s thanking me for?”

“No, Tony of Italy.”

He laughed and handed me a pizza which seemed to emerge from nowhere.

“Abbondanza!”

“I like you, Tony of Italy. I don’t like those guys back there,” I said.

Tony smiled. “Well, kid, they’re kind of an aberration. A temporary blight. Know what any of that means?”

“No, I don’t, Tony of Italy.”

“Eat your pizza, kid.”

I did. It was delicious.

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