One of the weirdest and most interesting phenomena in the universe constantly occurs in New York City, a problem that has time and again baffled everyone from historians, to sociologists, to inebriated college students for decades. And it has to do with a pizzeria.
Trying to understand Ray's Pizza and its history is a gargantuan and fruitless task, mostly because no matter what you think, to a New Yorker, you're fuckin' wrong.
With over forty different locations and names, ranging from the classic Ray's Pizza, to Ray' Famous Pizza, Ray's Original Pizza, Original-Flavored Ray's Pizza, Word-Famous Ray's Original Pizza, and our favorite, Not Ray's Pizza, each and every one of them claiming to be the original and the best, it's no wonder why everyone has a different take on which one is the best.
Tah'Utha the Wise once tried to unravel the mystery and figure out once and for all which Ray's Pizza was objectively the best. After tasting each and every one of them, he concluded that New Yorkers are perhaps one of the most mentally challenged individuals in the known universe to be fighting over ¢99 slices of pizza instead of investing all that effort into solving poverty or figuring out a cure for cancer.
He was immediately stabbed in the belly by a Mets fan and thrown into Central Park to be picked apart by angry ducks, creating a Galactic diplomatic disaster. Fortunately for us, he was known to be quite a prick, so he was not particularly missed.
Still, the mystery persists, and even though everyone has their preferences, Ray's is still one of the most popular venues for two underlying reasons.
First, it's dirt cheap. At ¢99 a slice with free pepperoncino and oregano, it's the perfect snack for the rich and homeless alike. Second, and most importantly, is that they're open 24/7. So if you had a hit of your Puff the Magic Dragon and want to crush those munchies, the cheapest and tastiest solution is often a cheap slice of New York dough pie.
As such, you can always find a gaggle of oddballs, potheads and general weirdos milling in and around any Ray's pizzeria at all times. They're a safe haven for those trying to live at the fringe of society, or in this particular case, an excellent place to hide from a homicidal cyclops.
"How can you eat at a time like this?" asked a very disgusted Sarah. Not only by the situation but also because of the very obese Man with a tinfoil hat sitting behind them who smelled like sadness and lemon cake and was muttering something about chemtrails and homosexual frogs.
"Easy," said Peter, grabbing two shakers from the table. "First, you put the oregano, and then the parmesan."
"That's not what I meant," she said, scooting closer to the table.
"Then the pepper," said Peter. "You want it to mix with the parmesan."
"Mr. Katz, I-"
"I think it's not even cheese," Peter interrupted. "Tastes more like grated cardboard."
Sarah had enough. She slammed her hands on the table, making the condiments jump one inch to the right. An action which, unbeknownst to her, would eventually cause an earthquake in Chile.
"A man just died, Mr. Katz," she said. "This is no laughing matter."
Peter took a bite of his pizza, and not to his surprise, he indeed discovered that the cheese was actually just grated cardboard. "I told him he was dying," he said with his mouth full. "He tried to deny it."
"He was killed," added Sarah. "He wasn't dying."
"Semantics, shmantics. Doesn't matter, now," said Peter, adding more grated cardboard to his pizza. He liked a little fiber in his diet.
"What am I gonna tell his wife?" said Sarah, placing both hands on her forehead for support.
"That he was killed in the line of duty," said Peter. "Are you gonna eat that?"
He then took the plate from under Sarah's nose, like the prick he was.
"He's not a cop," said Sarah.
"Was," corrected Peter. "Was not a cop. And it's better than to tell her he was skewered by a seven-fingered bowling ball."
"Bowling ball, bowling ball," began to mutter the tinfoiled man behind them. "That's how they getcha. Not me. Not putting my finger in satan's round a-holes."
Sarah scooted even closer to the table. "Who was that guy, anyways? You seem to know him."
"That?" he said as he pointed at the tinfoiled man. "That's just Wonky Wally. He thinks the Russians are trying to control his mind using potatoes and EDM music. He's harmless."
"The man with one eye, Mr. Katz!" she yelled, making Wonky Wally piss himself a little.
Peter took a bite of pizza, cleaning his greasy mouth with his sleeve. "Ya know, we just escaped death together. You can call me Peter, Sarah. Or Daddy, if you prefer."
"And you can call me Ms. McGuffin," she said.
"So, no Mr. McGuffin?" said Peter with his most charming smile. Of course, his mouth was filled with cheap grease, so it was more of an "I have to stay away from high schools and bus stops according to New York laws" kind of smile.
"The man, Mr. Katz," she said. "Explain."
Peter cleaned his fingers with a napkin, tossing it aside with disgust. "I'm surprised you agreed to come all the way here to ask that question. Very plot convenient."
"Speaking of, are we safe here? Shouldn't we like, go to the police?"
"As long as we're in public, he's not gonna try to kill me," he said. "He doesn't wanna attract attention to himself. Only cops and gang-members can kill in broad daylight. Besides, that guy's only after me, so you don't have to worry about yourself."
"I'm sure Dr. George didn't have to worry about himself," commented Sarah. "That didn't stop him from dying."
"Jesus, Sarah," said Peter with a concerned voice.
"Ms. McGuffin," she corrected.
"The man was killed. Have some respect."
Sarah was a pretty patient woman, especially since she dealt with patients all the time. Patients, she learned through the years, are not very patient. But there was a fine line between being patient and being a punching bag, usually when push comes to shove. And Sarah could shove.
"You know which were Dr. George's last words?" she asked.
"I guess something between a gurgle and a gasp?"
"He asked me to be kind and patient!" she said as she stood up in a hurry, making Wonky Wally's heart to skip a beat. He had crippling arrhythmia.
"He told me that nobody is truly bad and that we only need the patience to bring the best in people."
"Even Hitler?" asked Peter, leaning back on his chair. Or Mussolini? What about Stalin? Do they have some good in them? What about that guy who took all those poor rich people and sent them to a festival in the middle of nowhere while they suffered in FEMA tents?"
Sarah took a deep breath, which served as a silent prayer for Kali, the Hindu goddess of compassion. Sadly, Kali was also the Hindu goddess of death, which is something that often followed compassionate people. See Christ, Jesus for more information.
"Goodbye," Mr. Katz.
"I hello you, Mr. Katz," said a goofy, vaguely Eastern European voice from the door of the pizzeria. It was a cop. A bald, seven-fingered cop with a bloodied uniform and a googly eye taped to where his right eye should be.
"It's the cops!" Wonky Wally yelled, throwing a can of pepper into the ground to serve as a smoke bomb of the sort. It backfired horribly, as not only did the pepper just stand in the ground unceremoniously, but it also made him slip and fall headfirst into a trash bin, losing his tinfoil hat in the process
"Is you're good?" asked the cop.
Wonky Wally stood up almost immediately, wide eyed and totally upright. "Yes," he said in a monotone. "I am okay. I only slip in black powder. No problem. Now I will move my fat capitalist legs and go to the place where nation leader is to shake hands."
He proceeded to walk out robotically and not-at-all suspicious in any way.
"That was a lot of weird," said the cop. "Having very weird of a day. Anywho, nobody else leaves with robot man. Official police matter!"
Of course, everyone proceeded to bolt out of there, except for Peter, who smelled a good lawsuit coming if the man tried to even lay a finger on him.
"What can I do for you, officer?" said Peter with his best smug grin.
"The name is Officer..." said the Cop, looking at the nametag of his own uniform, "Davidson Dryclean Only."
"Indeed you are, officer," said Peter. "Who else would be using that uniform, if not you? What can I do for you this evening?"
"Looking for lawyer and gypsy secretary," said the cop.
"Ahem!" Sarah said comically while clearing her throat, making both men jump in a startle. Nobody knew she was there. Well, we knew, but it would've spoiled the joke if we have told you. The lesson here is never to trust the narrator.
"Gypsy woman secretary is silent like danger noodle," said the cop as he clenched his chest. "Silent, and deadly. Very slithery! Would make fine wallet."
"What do you want with us, officer?" said Sarah. "And I'm an Administrative Assistant, mind you."
"Got a report of lawyer and gypsy woman running from death scene in hospital," the cop said, awkwardly putting his hands on his waist despite his belt and gun getting on the way. "Officer Davidson Dryclean Only needs you to go with him to make the interrogations."
Peter stood up from his seat and fixed up his necktie. Old habits die hard. Old hobbits, however, are very easy to kill. "This is harassment. We have done nothing wrong. Are you planning to arrest everyone who has left the hospital since the incident in question?"
"Only lawyer and gypsy," said the cop.
"Then I will see you in court," said Peter.
"Tennis or Rugby?" said the officer. "Not good at basketball. Knees are weak like wet breadstick from the Panera. Go good with cheese sauce."
"Mr. Katz," said Sarah, scooting closer to Peter. "Don't you find it odd that this 'officer' only has seven fingers, no hair, full of scars and a blood-soaked uniform?"
"He's a veteran, I know," he whispered. "It will be hard to fool him. But I can do it."
German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer once said that every person is driven by a will-to-life, a blinding and self-destructing attachment to the pleasures of everyday life, such as love, procreation, and children. The only way to exist is to reject existence and the will-to-life, cut human attachment as much as possible, and realize that being born is perhaps the worst mistake someone can make in life, simply because we are thrown at the wicked will of the universe.
He died alone in his couch, which is something we believe must not be said, as one could have easily deduced it by now.
Were he be alive today, he would've deduced that Peter's blind stupidity towards danger and life is simply a rejection of his will-to-life, embracing the end as a means to escape the clutches of suffering.
Or, and perhaps it's more fitting, he would've said that Peter was a dumbass.
Sarah, however, was quite sharp, as her will-to-life was as dead as Dr. George. She grabbed a slice of pizza from the table and slapped it against the cop's name tag.
With the name tag obscured, Peter finally managed to see who it was.
"Massimo!" said Peter.
"It's I, Massimo!" said Massimo, pulling out his gun on him. "Time to give you the death. And then Massimo kill gypsy woman!"
"Why me?" said Sarah, clenching her fist at the ready.
Massimo turned his gun at Sarah, cocking the primer. "Gypsy assistant woman uses gypsy powers to watch through Massimo's disguise. Cannot afford you having said how Massimo looks to authorities. Very expensive for Massimo."
"Whoa, whoa. I'm not paying you to kill innocent people," said Peter, putting his hands up and moving slowly in between Sarah and Massimo. "You only want me, remember?"
"Wait, you paid him?" asked Sarah.
"Long story," said Peter. "Look, can't you just let it go?"
"No, will not do. Time to give the death. Massimo thank you for lining up with gypsy," said Massimo. "Will make this easy. Kill two bird with one rock. If rock made of bullet."
And with that, he pulled the trigger.
He missed by more than a foot.
"This is why Massimo don't use the guns," he said. "No perception of the depth. Also why Massimo does not drive car. Bus okay, though. Very expensive insurance. Knife is best, but lost."
"You mean," said Sarah, taking out the knife she took from the hospital. "This knife?"
Massimo wanted to articulate his thanks towards Sarah for helping him find his knife. It was a very special knife, given to him by the only woman he ever loved. A beautiful Italian stiletto, made out of Damascus steel, and with the initials of the young English duchess he had a brief affair with. He is said to have stabbed said duchess with that knife, just to test how it felt.
His gratitude was short-lived, mainly because instead of handing him the blade, Sarah shortened the distance between them and stuck the knife right on his arm. Before he could scream, Sarah punched him right on the Adam's apple.
"You are a snake!" commented Peter. "Where did you learn those moves?"
"Funk Dance self-defense class down at the community center," she said. "Let's go."
Famous Russian playwright Anton Chekhov was a man who, if anything, knew a thing or two about dying with style.
He died peacefully in his sleep after a bout of tuberculosis wrecked his body, but not before enjoying a glass of champagne and yelling "I'm dying!" as loudly as he could. He said it in German, even though he knew almost no German. His body was then transported to Moscow in a refrigerated train car made for transporting oysters.
His funeral procession got mixed up with the procession of a general that very same day, which meant he was escorted to his final resting place by a military band by accident. Truly, he knew how to die.
He also knew how to write, a fact evident by his numerous classics, short stories, and plays. One of the biggest contributions to literary art was the Chekhov's Gun principle, which states, and we quote: "If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise, don't put it there."
Basically, it means that every element must serve a purpose, and every unnecessary element should be discarded. If we say that Peter stole a pencil from Dr. George in chapter one, then we must mention it again in other chapters as an important element, or even to mention as an example of something bigger.
Peter knew nothing of Chekhov's Gun, or what it represented in his life. Frankly, he didn't care, to be honest. Had he cared to even read the blurb, he would know that he would need to run for his life quite soon, and one doesn't run from his life in the comfort of his own home.
Had he cared a little more, he would've read that there was an incredibly deadly scorpion running around in his apartment. And what a scorpion it was! Huge, hairy, and aggressively multicolored.
If Peter had cared about knowing what Chekhov's Gun had in store for him, he wouldn't have gone to his apartment. But he was, as Schopenhauer would've said, a dumbass.
"So, an assassin hired by you, to kill you before cancer does, and his contract runs out in one month," said Sarah as Peter wrestled with his keys.
"That's about it," said Peter, supplexing his keychain to submission. He managed to open up his apartment where, sure enough, the mess Mr. Trash made the day before was still raging.
"Do you still want to die?" asked Sarah, trying to find a seat not filled with trash.
Peter grabbed a glass, filling it with water. He wasn't particularly thirsty; he just wanted to have something in his hand. "I don't know, maybe? I just wanted to die fast so that I don't have to suffer. But..."
"But you have a chance of survival now. As slim as it sounds."
"Exactly," said Peter.
Sarah stood up, placing herself next to him, speaking almost in a whisper. "Look, I won't pretend to know what you're going through. But a man died today because of you."
"Pretty sure that cop was dead, too," said Peter. "But I understand. Is that opening in Boston still, you know, open?"
"It is," she said. "I'll help you. I don't want to. You don't deserve it. But Dr. George would want me to."
"Thanks, I guess," he said. "But that doesn't fix my issue with Massimo. I can't call it off. I can only run."
"We have to run," she said, jumping straight to the middle of the room. "He also wants to kill me. Thanks for that, by the way."
"It wasn't me who Karate Kidded him in the throat! But yes. I suppose you're right. We go away until this whole thing cools down."
"Temperature is hardly the issue here," she said, "but I agree. Let me run to my apartment, grab some stuff, and meet you back here."
"Sounds like a plan," Peter said. "Go there, we rendezvous here, and we work out the rest later."
Both went their separate ways, with Peter grabbing several stuff from around the house and haphazardly throwing them inside a duffle bag. He thoroughly ignored Mr. Trash's wailings, which roughly translated to: "A huge beast has just crawled into your bag, master, and it smells dangerous. Only the cleansing power of fire will destroy that foul beast."
But it fell on deaf ears.
Eventually, he had a duffle bag filled with essentials—mostly underwear and Jack Daniel's—and he was ready to leave. He only had to wait for Sarah. And wait he did.
And he waited.
And waited some more.
Finally, he waited.
It wasn't until almost midnight where he heard a knock on the door.
"Password!" he yelled, placing his ear on the door.
"We never set up a password," the voice said. "Let me in, Mr. Katz!"
"How do I know you are who you say you are?"
"I haven't said who I was!" the voice said.
"True. Who are you?"
"Sarah. Sarah McGuffin," said the voice.
"Oh, why didn't you say so?" said Peter. "C'mon in!"
Sarah quickly stormed inside the room, hauling a suitcase behind her. "We have a problem."
"Yeah, we didn't set up a password," he commented. "I propose 'Gargantuan Jellybeans'."
Sarah didn't have time to try and decide on the inner machinations of Peter's mind. Instead, she shoved her phone into his hands.
On it, there was a video.
A video of a one-eyed man.