It was not some sort of anthropomorphic, ambulatory, crime-fighting laundromat. No, Coates' Laundry was a laundromat in which just acts, and only just acts, took place. Nary a sock was lost there. The dryers never left a single article moist, or even damp.
In this laundromat bad people became good. Upon entering the building selfish people became generous, adulterers became faithful, liars became paragons of truth, felonious tortfeasors became ACLU lawyers, and utterly depraved, lecherous, fetishistic perverts became born-again virgins. And, perhaps most importantly of all, they all repented.
Unfortunately, once they left the laundromat they reverted to their lives of lies, theft, debauchery, and sadism, but the important thing, what really matters here, people, is that in this laundromat nobody ever stole anyone else's laundry. People with ample detergent shared with the less-detergent-fortunate. Pirates who brought their laptops to the laundromat for entertainment while waiting for their clothes to be clean and dry inexplicably and unquestioningly found themselves deleting all their pirated media and software. Adulterous married men, attending the laundromat with their wives, admitted their infidelity, apologized sincerely, hated themselves for it, and their wives, though hurt, accepted the news with grace, poise, and understanding. Pro-life and pro-choice persons, meeting by chance in this laundromat, came to an agreement on the issue of abortion on fourteen separate occasions. An Israeli and a Palestinian, even though neither of those peoples were ever in the laundromat at the same time, once embraced each other just outside it's front door.
Some folk even say Ruth Bader Ginsberg was born right there in that laundromat.
But then, one fateful night, that laundromat got bit by a coyote, and came down with the hydrophobie; and well; Ol' Travis, he did what he had to do.
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