Chad was buried deep under worn wet Speedos, so he only felt the bin tossing and tumbling him. He didn't realize that he'd left the school until he was dumped into a huge washing machine with the other used Speedos. As he tumbled out of the bin, Chad saw a warehouse lined with laundry machines.
The churning antibacterial suds left a bad taste in his mouth. He felt like he had been repeatedly tackled and drowned by the time the cycles ended, and the final spin cycle plastered him to the steel drum of the washer.
Damp dried unidentified hands bundled Chad and his fellow Speedos into a huge dryer. Chad had always heard you were not supposed to put Speedos in a dryer, but with the volume of Speedos that the linen company processed for Chad's school, other area schools, and various athletic clubs, it was a necessity.
The dryer heat reminded Chad of a sauna, if you put a sauna inside a Carnival ride. Then more hands unceremoniously loaded the contents of Chad's dryer into a cart. He was again buried for hours. Then hands dumped him on a table. He looked up into the high warehouse ceiling. He had no idea where he was. Then hands started pulling the suits away from near him. Of course, the Speedos were being sorted and stacked. If he was individually held, perhaps he could communicate with the sorter. He didn't know what to say or do if they heard him, but coach had heard him while there was skin contact.
Suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed him. He looked up into a familiar face as his holder checked the size on his waistband. Chad blurted out as he rehearsed in his mind, "please, help me! I'm human, my name is Chad, Coach Sinclair turned me into a Speedo."