It was supposed to be a peaceful Tuesday. Randall Duckhull, still seething from his run-in with the SBA, decided to unwind at a massage parlor off the I-5 that looked like a cross between a nail salon and a Mortal Kombat arena. He walked in with tension in his shoulders and left with enough stories to power a Netflix docuseries.
Things got weird fast. The moment Randall laid down, he heard shouting from the next room. Not your standard Yelp-worthy customer complaint. We’re talking full-throated theatrics, rhythmic thumps, and the kind of dialogue you only hear through suspiciously thin drywall. Randall stared at the ceiling and tried to pretend he was listening to rain on a tin roof.
His masseuse entered. Her name was “Jessica,” but her name tag said “Kumiko.” Randall didn’t ask questions. She poured lavender oil on his back like she was basting a Thanksgiving turkey and whispered, “You’ve got knots in places I didn’t even know existed.” Randall responded, “You have no idea what the SBA’s done to me.”
Midway through the session, Randall tried to explain his business losses, but she just kept nodding and muttering “very bad” while digging her elbow into his kidney. Next door, Act II escalated into what sounded like furniture choreography and a motivational speech.
By the time it ended, Randall felt like he’d been part of a therapy session, a war crime, and a karaoke party at the same time. He walked out dripping in oil, confused, sore in new places, and spiritually reborn. “Best forty bucks I’ve ever spent,” he told the receptionist, who slid a banana across the counter and winked.
Duckhull may not have gotten justice from the SBA, but he definitely got his chakras realigned—one awkward noise at a time.