GLUE by Laszlo Tamasfi

GLUE

by Laszlo Tamasfi

His name was Pins.

He was the only one David remembered from before, and it was easy to see why. Pins wasn’t the kinda guy you forget. He used to have dozens of safety pins in his eyebrows, and when they got infected he was left with scars that made him look like one of those mutants working at the power plant.

“Just trust me, alright?” he said, and gestured for David to sit down.

They were all headed to the same music festival in Budapest. They were high school dropouts from Tolna county, and they had the entire cabin to themselves. Well, if you didn’t count that synthetic couple, although David was pretty sure they were turned off. That, or they were so scared that they pretended to be turned off.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Everyone was scared of them.

“Anytime now would be great.”

“Sorry,” said David, and he sat down on the floor. He was the new kid in the group, and that’s why he was going first.

The train was shaking pretty badly, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t going to be a masterpiece anyway. It just had to be good enough to last through the weekend.

“You can forget about this hairspray shit. This will only last you a day, and by tomorrow morning you will look like a limp rooster,” said Pins. “Especially if you get into the mosh pit.”

He did this thing when he smoked his cigarette without taking it out of his mouth, and the ash was now almost as long as the cigarette itself.

“I know some kids who use egg whites, which is better, but who the fuck wants to carry eggs with them, right?” He opened his beat up military bag and took out a can. “This is the shit you want.”

He set it down on the seat next to him.

It was wallpaper glue.

He pried its lid off, and the entire cabin filled up with fumes. Up until now, David didn’t even know that glue could go bad. But it clearly could, because this one smelled toxic. Like, no way anybody would use this in their house if this was normal.

Somebody cracked open one of the windows.

A girl named Witch Hazel (or maybe she was in a band called Witch Hazel?) volunteered to help keep David’s mohawk straight while they worked the glue in. Pins was using a comically wide brush, something he probably stole from a construction site. It wasn’t an easy task. The glue was thick, and chunky, and for a while David wasn’t sure if they were pranking him or not. But then it was somebody else’s turn, and by the time the train arrived at South Station they all had glue in their hair. It was mustard yellow, but Pins swore that it would turn clear as it dried.

They gathered their bags and jumped off right before they pulled up to the platforms. They didn’t have tickets, and this was much easier than arguing with the guards. They’ve done this a thousand times before. The train slowed down when it got to the migrant field, and if you timed it right it was a relatively safe jump.

Legend says that a bunch of migrants were buried here back in the European Union days.

“It’s not true, you know.” said Witch Hazel. Apparently she could tell that David was thinking about the mass graves. “There was a rumor that the refugees smuggled drugs by swallowing condoms full of cocaine, and some dipshit did the math on how far decomposed their bodies would be by now. Turns out, that ideally nature already did most of the work, so they wouldn’t have to be gutted or anything.”

She had a Daddy Stitch patch on her jacket, which David appreciated. It was a deep cut.

“So, these assholes came out and dug up this whole place. They found nothing. No bodies, no shoes or clothes, and definitely no fuckin’ drugs.”

“That’s good, I guess.” he said, but he doubted her story. Everything was covered in a steady layer of trash, and there was no sign of any digging.

“It just means that the mass graves are somewhere else.” she said indifferently.

They had a couple hours of walking ahead of them. The subway tunnels were still flooded, and the trolleys were reserved for government officials and their families. There was still a functioning bus system, but their group was too large to sneak on board without paying. If they were going solo, maybe, but they were already drawing eyes wherever they went.

So, for better or worse, they were on foot.

David didn’t mind. It was a beautiful, breezy summer day, and they were going to see the Ramones. This was their first concert in Eastern Europe since all the original members were reanimated. He heard that they put on a pretty good show, all things considered.

They came up the chain linked fences surrounding the station, but Pins had the wire cutter ready and they passed through in no time.

Now they were in Budapest proper.

Graffiti warned them of long extinct gangs, and campaign ads were urging them to vote in elections already lost many years ago. Rats were scattering out of their way as they crossed the overpass.

And that’s when things started to turn to shit.

“Do you mind if I tag along?” The voice came from what appeared to be a pile of urine stained cardboard and garbage on the ground. “I could use the company.”

The garbage started to shift around, and soon enough a man emerged from underneath it. He was talking to Pins. Everybody assumed that he was the leader of the group, and they were not wrong. At least David assumed the same thing.

Pins reached his hand out and helped the man to his feet. He was a synthetic. An early model, for sure. David’s never seen one like him before, despite living in Tolna county, where everything was outdated by decades.

“Where are you headin’, mate?” asked Pins, while looking him up and down.

“Anywhere downtown. I’m not picky.” he said.

The synthetic was in a bad shape. His skin might have been convincing at one point, but it was now sun-bleached and brittle, with cracks all over it. He only had one hand left, and the knob on the other arm had a plastic bag taped around it as protection from the elements. He stunk, too, like old plastic that’s been left out in the sun for too long.

“Sure, you can come with us, as long as you can keep up.” said Pins “What’s your name?”

“I’m Mark.” he said “Full disclosure, it’s short for M-R-346-K-96. My model number. Don’t really have a name.”

At that point they all kinda knew that he was bad news.

The rule of thumb was that none of the synthetics from the old days were made for a good reason. They were often designed to scout the population for foreign genes: to spot migrants who might have came into the country from other parts of Europe, where the asylum laws were much more forgiving.

In those days, Hungary’s number one mission was to remain a white, Christian nation. Which was, it goes without saying, a total disaster.

“I’m Pins. We’re headed to the festival, so you can cut through District Two with us if you want.”

“Sounds great!” said Mark, and he picked up his cardboard sign.

It read:

Homeless

Fidesz Coup Veteran

God Bless

“So, you were in the coup?” asked one of the guys.

Mark rolled his eyes.

“Of course not. I would’ve been killed on sight.” He looked at his sign.

“But this keeps the pocket change coming... Everyone loves remembering those good ol’ days. Apparently watching Orban get executed on TV is a warm childhood memory for a lot of people.”

He smiled, but the skin at the edge of his lips was separating from his face, and he ended up with a menacing grin. It was not intentional, just a side effect of poor maintenance.

“Fucked up world we live in, right?”

“Right.” said Pins. “Let’s roll.”

They headed north, towards the watchtower. There were clouds gathering on the horizon.

“What’s up with the hair?” asked Mark.

He ended up walking alongside David, right after he handed out a half a pack of cigarettes. It was probably his way of trying to earn his place: walking in a group meant safety, especially if you looked like him. Totally worth a dozen filterless Kossuths.

“It’s glue.” answered David “It will turn clear once it dries.”

Mark looked around, and saw that almost all of them had it.

“Hopefully.” he said.

He glanced at Witch Hazel: her hair was short and spiky. No glue.

“You’re the smart one, I see.” he smiled.

His teeth were beautiful white. Whatever they were made out of really stood the test of time.

“I try.” She returned the smile, although it wasn't exactly friendly.

He kept staring at her. It was one, two, then three moments too long. She noticed.

“Anything else I can do for you?!” she asked.

“Did you know you’re four point two percent Turkish?”

Witch Hazel flicked away her cigarette and raised her fists, ready to punch him.

“I’m joking, I’m joking!” he said, waving his one hand in defense “My scanner hasn’t been calibrated in three decades, it’s complete junk! It was just a shitty joke!”

She lowered her fists.

“You should work on your sense of humor. We might be young,” she paused to pick a piece of tobacco off her tongue, “but a lot of us still had to put up with that crap growing up.”

“Sorry. I meant nothing by it.”

“It’s okay.”

Mark awkwardly slowed his pace and drifted to the guys who were walking behind them, which was fine by David.

“What a douche.” he said, once Mark was out of earshot.

“To be honest, I kinda wish he stuck with us,” said Witch Hazel, as she looked back at him.

“Why?!”

“Because he’s harmless. He’s just off his game, he’s not used to interacting with people.” She sighed. “But those guys… They’ll eat him alive.”

David looked, too.

“Who are they?”

Witch Hazel shrugged.

“Don’t know. They’re not with us.”

They were beefcakes. The kind of guys who do push ups before shows just to get their testosterone flowing. Angry punks. They wore work boots, the kind with the metal toe cap, and the chains around their waists were way too heavy to be simple fashion accessories. They were going to the festival to fight.

One of them was even rocking an old-Hungary tattoo on his forearm, and that was the ultimate red flag for David. He believed that patriotism and punk had no business mixing, and he was right. If you took away their mohawks and piercings, these guys were just your run-of-the-mill skinheads.

Mark, of course, had no idea. He was just strolling along, with his anti-Fidesz cardboard sign, like everything was great. He was giving them Kossuths. That was clearly his thing.

“Should we rescue him?” asked David.

“You’re totally welcome, but I’m not getting involved.” said Witch Hazel “I’m not his babysitter.”

They were coming up on the Danube.

While David wasn’t all that familiar with Budapest, even he could tell from the smell. The water was upwind from them, and it reeked like the old recycle plant back home, or like that wallpaper glue in the train cabin. It was toxic.

His mom used to tell him that when she was a kid, the river would sometimes freeze in the middle of summer. Well, not freeze, but... stop. Apparently, back in the day, the super-algae used to get bad enough to solidify the water. He remembered seeing old pictures - in simple 2D - and it looked like the river was made out of snot. It wasn't flowing. Somebody was even walking across its surface wearing bright red galoshes. That image really stuck in his memory.

The super-algae hasn’t been quite that bad since he’s been alive, although it would’ve been cool to walk across the Danube at least once in his life.

They reached Main Street. There were junkies nesting under a doorway, and a group of synthetics were charging themselves at the bus stop. A stray dog was eating out of a fast food container.

There was no sign of the festival crowd, which told David that they were still quite a long walk away.

“Fuck.” said Pins, as he wrinkled up an empty box in his hand “Any chance I can bum a cigarette off of...”

He turned around.

“Where’s Mark?!”

They all looked. He was gone, and so were the angry punks. The only thing left was his ragged cardboard sign, laying on the concrete at the end of the alleyway.

“I guess he split.” said someone.

Nobody really cared.

Somebody else gave Pins a cigarette, and they kept going. But David couldn't shake this feeling that something terrible had happened.

And of course he was right.

A few blocks later he noticed something strange on the ground. Tiny white beads, scattered all across the cracked asphalt. First he thought that they were pearls, like in the movies, when someone tries to snatch a pearl necklace off and the sting snaps.

He knelt down and saw that they were Mark's teeth.

“Guys!” he yelled.

They all stopped.

“The hell happened here?!” asked Pins, but they all kinda knew...

And then they actually saw it.

“Jesus.” said Witch Hazel, and she honest to god crossed herself.

Mark was only a few steps away, lying in a puddle of synthetic blood, which was just the same shade of dark red as the real one. His face was bashed in: one of his eyes was popped out of its socket, and was now dangling on a wire, off to the side. The top of his skull was shattered.

There was a bent pipe lying next to him.

David’s never seen a dead body before... Although, technically, Mark wasn’t dead. He wasn't really a person, at least not in Hungary.

But if he lived anywhere else in Europe he would’ve been considered a citizen, and there would’ve been a police report, and an arrest, and the whole nine yards. Here, in the eye of the Hungarian government, this was just littering. Not any different than a broken vacuum cleaner left out in the alley.

They stood there for a second, and finally Witch Hazel asked to have him covered up. Someone ran back and got his cardboard sign, which was large enough to at least hide his upper body, where most of the damage was done.

There was no moment of silence. They didn't know the guy, and apparently this was life in the big city. He probably said something that got him in trouble.

But it still managed to crap on the rest of the day.

David wasn't sure if Mark jinxed him, or if he was just a natural shit-magnet, but nothing seemed to work out in his favor. What should've been the best weekend of his summer turned out to be a drag.

He ended up paying full price for his wristband, while everyone else got to snuck in. The free food at the Krishna tent made his stomach turn. There was not one, but two downpours of acid rain. He lost his group for half a day, and by the time he met up with them again Witch Hazel was holding somebody else's hand.

The glue in his hair never dried, and he kept walking around looking like he had mustard in his mohawk.

Oh, and to add insult to injury, the Ramones sucked!

This story was previously included in the print version of Issue #4. Purchase the full issue here: https://www.etsy.com/listing/639457118/the-rock-n-roll-horror-zine-4

See more of Laszlo Tamasfi's work here: http://www.laszlotamasfi.com/