Running With Scissors

Chekhov's Scorpion

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.