Posted on March 10, 2020 at 8:40 pm by Cancer Jiles

Quiy Nei Phock Hair and Nail Spa

Small size, exceptional quality.

That’s their motto.

Also, half off on Tuesdays.

The Quiy Nei Phock Hair and Nail Spa is a family owned establishment that has been servicing the community for the past thirty years. They have a small number of nail, hair, and massage stations that are in need of a dire update. There’s also a steam room. Unfortunately, said steam room matches the drapes, and is unlike the one you’d find in the guest quarters aboard Hollywood Nine. Rather, it’s a cell size room located in the back of the store with a carefully exposed pipe that billows hot steam.

Works just the same when the door is shut.

The spa is also home to an abnormally low popcorn ceiling. Sadly, it does nothing but exacerbate the pungent aroma emitted from the various herbs and spices used by the Phock family to help relax one’s body and mind. 

There is a holistic Cat Hair and Kidney Bean Candle treatment they offer.

Usually, the Spa is closed at such a late hour.


Despite the drawn shades and dim lights, a grown man wearing only sunglasses and a silk, golden bathrobe, comfortably sits inside while receiving a deep tissue manicure combo package at 1 o’clock in the morning.

Which, is where this portion of the tale begins.

“…and then there was Old Doozy. I don’t know how he did it, but somehow he reached down and flipped a ladder with two people on it like Bobby flips a stack of chocolate chip, mayonnaise slathered pancakes. Honestly, I thought Dooze shit himself— ya know, like those extreme weight lifter freaks! Guy probably has a hernia as big as my head right now. But that wasn’t even the best part, Quiy Nei. THEN, the Dirty Old Bostonian Sock was like, how do you like your eggs, Cecil? And before the champ could sputter back an answer, Splat!” 


You guessed it.

That’s him.





The Mongoloid Slayer. 

The High Chief of COOL. 

The only descendant of COOLYMPUS.

The Egg Don.

The one you don’t fuck with.

Lanceur d’Oeufs; as he prefers to be called when getting pampered at Quiy Nei’s. Yeah, he’s a regular. He’s even got himself a prized, Quiy Nei’s black card which affords him these private, late night sessions.

As for the person working over The Egg Don so meticulously, Quiy Nei is, as you might have safely assumed by now, the owner of the Spa. She’s an older woman quite frail in stature. Don’t let her pull a Doozy on you, though. Her hands are long time torturous.

Ya see, the only descendant of COOLYMPUS scheduled red alert appointments out to March 29th at the Phock Spa after catching word that the winner of the eGG Bandits upcoming match will compete for TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP GOLD AT MARCH 2 GLORY.

The last session is the deluxe champion package. 

He is a confident one, that Cancer.

“Yeah, we egged them nice and good, Quiy Nei. Nice and good.”

If you were wondering where the other Bandit’s are, Doozer, being an old fart and not so fond of the Late Night Hair and Nail Spa scene, is home sleeping. Bobby, though, with the determination of the Roaring Twenties, has found refuge inside the Spa’s luxurious sauna. Lose weight while sitting down at the same time? Needless to say, there was no way he wasn’t joining his COOL counterpart.

“Very good, Mr. Jiles. Very good. Thank you again. Now please, I think we are don—” 

As the tired manicurist desperately tries to wrap up the nearing three hour procedure that was only scheduled for two, a reflectful Lord COOL proudly boasts, “And what was our prize for such a glorious accomplishment? Well, I’ll tell you. A golden opportunity! One, that us Bandits aren’t taking lightly.”

As evidenced by the emergency Spa Night.

“Gold, Quiy Nei. It’s the only way to the top of the mountain in the wrestling game. Shit, it’s the only thing that looks better on me than my own hair!”


Quiy Nei forces a fake smile and nods.

“Once you got it, you never want to lose it. And once you lose it, you instantly realize that there isn’t anything you won’t do in order to get it back.” A posterious pause. “And I MEAN ANYTHING.”

Silence. Eerie, suddenly awkward, has-he-killed-before?, massage stopping silence. 

Fear not, Quiy Nei. Cancer Jiles is no vampire hunting sniper with covert ties to the Vietnam War.

No, those shenanigans are reserved for the people who pin him.

“That is the true cost of gold, Q. Anything.” Jiles motions for the manicurist to continue with the rubbing. She does. “If you have to cheat, so be it. If you have to cut a corner, get the sharpest scissors possible. If you have to stomp on a dream, find yourself the finest pair of space dominating reptilian leather cowboy boots, put your foot on whoever’s dream needs suffocating, and don’t move until the last thing that dream does is take a shit.”

“Yes. Very good, Mr. Jiles. Your nails are–” 

Poor, Quiy Nei.

Cancer quickly chimes back, giving his most educated guess to completing Quiy Nei’s sentence. “Let me guess, ready and willing to do anything to win back what was once mine? Yes, it appears you’d be right about that, Quiy Nei. Eggceptional intuition, as always. Sadly, though, I know what must be done in order to achieve such a goal. Believe me when I say, it will not be this… nice.”

A stoic King COOL admires his freshly manicured hands. All the while, the thoughts of blood, destruction, pain, agony, misery, and elation that come with a title chase race through his mind.

“Thank you, Quiy Nei. I know it’s late, but you saw all that yolk under my nails. Needed a proper cleaning after training all day.”

Take that, Sal Monella.

Elated, Jiles stands from his seat and walks toward the changing area. From behind the curtain, he calls out to Quiy Nei, “Oh, and I’m fairly certain Bobby has passed out by now. Probably best to just turn everything off and leave him in there. He doesn’t wake too easily, and to try moving him would just be a bad idea.”

Soon thereafter, and amongst the awkward silence that had returned from before, The Mongo Slayer had an epiphany.

“Ya know, Quiy Nei, you could lure Bobby out with food. He talks in his sleep about what he would be eating if he weren’t sleeping. Just throw whatever he says at him. Make sure to spray yourself with Elk repellant first though. It’s the only thing his nose can’t smell, and he gets grabby when he’s blind with hunger. Thanks again! See ya tomorrow!”

Like I said before. 

Poor, Quiy Nei.




Spa Hell


I’m Bobby Dean.

Soon to be Bobby Dead.

Here’s why.

I usually like the backroom in these kind of places.

Not this one though.

No sir.

I’m not really sure, but I’m beginning to think the sauna was originally created by the Nazis to torture their enemies. I thought, hey, sweat my ass off while sitting down, what could be better!?! What a fantastic idea! But no, fuck this, I’m covered in sweat to the point that I can’t tell if I’ve shat my shorts, or if it’s just an over abundance of sweat running down my crack like Niagra Falls. It smells like I shat myself, but that can also be Quiy Nei Phock Hair and Nail Spa.

Argh! Pure. Utter. Misery. I’m forced to sit in the room with six 33.8 fl. oz. bottles of Essential water next to me to help keep me hydrated. My thought running amok, my brain unable to shut down as all the doubts that fill this 335 lbs frame come screaming to the forefront.

Why am I here?

Why do I even care?

I could go to countless other places and be the happy jolly fat man that everyone expects of me.

Why do I sit here, sweating, miserable, and in pain?

I suddenly erupt to my feet, running to the door as I scream out, “Cancer! LET ME OUT!”

Reaching down to push the door forward I find that it’s still locked firmly shut. Banging on the door, screaming until my voice is hoarse. I can’t believe I’ve been locked in this sweat box for the past three hours!

Sinking down to the floor as tears begin to flow from my eyes, my mind still runs wild as now flashes of some of my favorite foods begin to play before me.



Pancakes with maple syrup.

Flapper pies.

Nanaimo bars.

The door to the sweat box suddenly opens, causing me to lose my balance and fall forward a bit. Looking up, I see the disproving visage of my friend Cancer Jiles. Well, I’m assuming it’s diproval, as all I can really see is my pathetic face looking back at me from his mirror sunglasses.

“It’s been seven minutes,” Cancer says after taking a look at his watch. “Bobby, I don’t ask much from you. In fact, if it were truly up to me, I wouldn’t change a thing on that Beautifully large exterior of yours. But you know what’s at stake here, so please, please my friend, sit back on the bench. Sweat that overly large ass of yours off. And please, do it a little more quietly, I’m trying to talk to Quiy Nei out here and I’m afraid she can’t hear me over your incessant crying.”

Now I feel shame. Shame to go along with misery. Reluctantly I nod my head, which causes Cancer to smile brightly. Unable to rise to my feet, I simply crawl my way back into the heart of the room and collapse on the floor as Cancer begins to slowly close the door behind me.

Oh boy, I think Cancer went with the combo package.

It’s gonna be a long one.

Who knows?

Maybe I’ll never emerge from this hot box of hell.

Maybe I’ll evaporate, and then this insanity will all be over? If that is to be the case of Robert Dean, The Beautiful man from Honalee, then hello there, Army of Darkness. I’m here to sleep in your shitty car while we jam out to power ballads.