Nothing beats a great pair of legs, or so Norman assumed all his time at the laundry mat. He gazed through a misted window and contemplated the tubed contours of a backward neon sign that read "SUDS".
Nothing beats a great pair of legs he thought again, and as the washing machine hustled into its spin cycle while creating a vertigo blur of orbiting hues forged together in accelerated clockwise movement he percieved through the door's window, Norman considered all his previous ideas about what were the apex formations of things in this world and now regarded the washing machine as magnificence that couldn't be matched by anything.
Not even the best grilled ear kabob could top this phenomena. It would worth noting that this at night in a place called Landslide, an old mining town nestled in a barely wide enough crevice in the Arizona Rocky Mountains. The bars were letting out and the local drunks were making their way to the twenty four laundry mat. Two sotted fellows appeared in the doorway and immediately tore the "Suds" sign out of the window. Glass and sparks everywhere. Norman went back to staring at the spinning clothes in the washing machine window.
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