Who was Mrs. Ray?

Gladys Ray was this strung-out hophead who lived below me. Strung-out is likely a redundant term when it comes to hopheads, but not with Gladys. She was the Picasso of hopheads.

Last Xmas we had this huge party, and Gladys, of course, showed up with a handful of my least favorite people in the world . . . Snaggletooth, Wiley Willy, and Monday Moonie. I don’t think those are their real names. Anyway, she and the rest of her cohorts took off immediately to the bathroom and proceeded to start shooting up amphetamine, which bothered me. Not shooting amphetamine, what do I care, but shooting amphetamine in my bathroom ... it’s my personal sanctuary, and besides—it was a party. People needed to use the bathroom. I know I’m not the only one who gets the trots from Labatt 50. 

At any rate, long story short, Monday Moonie—that rat bastard—had been trying to knock Gladys off for the better part of a year, to no avail. She was a hophead, but no fool; she and Moonie had some sort of deficient Batman/Joker relationship, although I have no idea which each considered the other. I'm sure in each of their minds they were Batman, but you never know with those two. It all started with a bad wet-willy one April Fools Day—let that be a lesson to anyone interested: wet willys can open a door to all sorts of shenanigans you don’t want to get involved with ... anyway, where was I? Right, how Moonie knocked her off ... he got her to shoot this combination of pixie sticks and pop rocks which can be apparently rather lethal when mainlined. In this particular case it certainly was. Gladys Ray exploded. 

I couldn't think of anything else to say except, “Well, that is certainly going to stain the rug.” 

Of course, none of them cared about that, they were too busy taking a run for the door. Every single one of those putzes took off, leaving me to clean up the bits and pieces of an exploded A-head. I pieced her back together as best I could, wrapped her in a garbage bag, draped some tinsel around it, and left her on the curb. She was gone the next morning. 

I’ve only thought of her once since then, and that was when my friend Slappy shook up a can of Dr. Pepper, which exploded directly into my face. I thought of Gladys, and for the first time I found it funny. I guess time really does heal all wounds.