There's a little place off exit 460 and Highway 75 near the end of Florida and the beginning of Georgia. It's a little shop of horrors next to a package store, across the street from Shell. It could be Hamilton county, but don't quote me on that; the Georgia state sign used to have a welcome from governor Zell Miller.
I had drive sixteen hours straight; my co-driver was an alcoholic, so I thought to myself "He wasn't that helpful, but I'm tired so we could use a massage." The door to the glass storefront was ajar, badly in need of WD40, although lube probably wasn't going to get it to open all the way. The unused children's toys in the makeshift lobby was straight out of "here's Johnny." The bank teller-sized hole was big enough to fit your ATM, if you were brave enough to use it. And on the other side was the pleasant, androgynous face of Chu.
Little Foot Massage a two-woman show run by Chu and her mom. It had the distinct smell of fried rice and feral cat piss, but the shower worked and it looked newly installed by Home Depot. One of the felines sat nervously on my clothes as I washed off the five-hundred miles between Tampa and Atlanta. Once I got dry, I could not wait to find out what Chu had in store for a weary traveler.