The School for Bullies

     Most people know his real name, the name emblazoned across his mother's incestuous heart.  But everyone calls him Butch.

      Butch is an antiquated name, a name from the fifties.  If you knew your son would grow up to be a bully, if you counted on it, Butch was the name you gave him during that famous decade of conformity.   But at The School for Bullies you can't tell Butch he is old fashion.  You can't tell him he is any part of antiquated.  You can't tell him anything.

      "Lesson number one," Butch begins.  "Don't ask questions." He has not introduced himself other than to scratch his name across the entire blackboard. In a bowling shirt and shaved head, he looks like a gang leader from a farm economy.   I notice his dirty running shoes have Velcro. He makes each of his students wear a stupid nametag because it belittles them.  He comes prepared with no syllabus.  He simply glares at each one of his five students. The class continues to sit at attention, so far.   From what I can see, he hasn't managed to intimidate anyone yet.

    "You are a bully from birth," Butch continues. "Don't let anyone try to shrink you on that issue.  You're the real thing. And when you graduate today from The School for Bullies, I guarantee this or your money back: you'll never hurt for anyone again."

    I suppose I should confess here that I am one of the bullies, and that I am breaking my vow of silence "upon punishment of death," which is a quote from our confidentiality clause.   But five minutes into this class I hate Butch and I can't stand the other four students.

    For instance Lyle, who is small and rodent, raises his hand right after Butch finishes saying 'no questions'.  Lyle keeps his hand raised over his head like an arm on the Statue of Liberty.   When Butch won't acknowledge him, he butts in anyway. 

     "I think," says Lyle, "that the teacher should use bullets to clarify each point.  A real teacher would use bullets.  You look completely bogus up there."

     "Case in point," says Butch, for Lyle has said all that in the time it took Butch to exhale.  "You have your Nit-Pick-Bullies, often smallish people.  They're not clever, but don't tell them that.   They pretend to be helpers, but it's a con job, calculated to make you look stupid.   It's like the way my mother asks me every day if I've changed my underpants. They're trivial, yes, irrelevant, certainly, but don't let that fool you.   By shear force of persistence, they can and will reduce you to a speck of dust."

     Here is where I should confess the type of bully I am.  I'm a silent bully.  Everyone thinks I'm shy. The fact is, I have a secret diary of all the stupid things you've every done in your life.    

    "Lesson number two," says Butch "is to shut your mouth before I shove it down your pie hole.  You signed the confidentiality clause, Lyle."

     "Lesson number three," continues Butch," is about the Hair-Trigger-Bully.  If you think they're gender specific, you just flunked the class."

     "I'm not gay," says Magnus in a matter of fact voice, as if to correct a misunderstanding of a misunderstanding.  He looks just like one of those swell headed, sweaty, rubberized wrestling champs from The Friday Night Smack Down.  I suddenly realize he is not wearing pants.  He has come to class in those Calvin Klein briefs, like an underwear model. I'm thinking his agent signed him up for this.  Each leg is the size of a tree trunk.

   Thomas, sitting behind Magnus, mutters sarcastically.  Thomas has scarecrow hair, and he's probably a homeless drunk.  We know nothing about him, but a guess would tell you he lunges at strangers.   When he pretends to fall forward in his chair, no one is fooled; it's an excuse to butt heads with Magnus, who is too dumb for subterfuge.

     So Magnus stands up, glistening, and smashes a chair over Thomas' head just as if he is smacking Thomas down on TV. 

     Thomas floats onto his back, unconscious, and the blood oozes like a blossom around his ragged crest of hair.

      "Here is a fine example of your Kick and Run Bully," says Butch as he cracks his knuckles over his head. "When Magnus gets incarcerated for this, Thomas will jack off like a marathon sex offender.   He'll probably do it in public.  There is an anti-social element to your Kick and Run Bully."

      "But what kind of bully is Magnus?" I dare to ask.

      "He's just a bully," says Butch

     "Is that true, Magnus?" I ask.

     "What the fuck are you talking about?" says Magnus.

      "As I was saying," says Butch, "Your Kick and Run Bully is very specific about what he does.  Later he'll beg forgiveness, claiming some chemical imbalance. In addition, if you're not a bully, if you don't pass my class, you'll be dumb enough to forgive him, and he'll stick it to you harder the next time.   And that, people, is worth the price of admission, so don't even think of walking out of here with a full refund."

    "But shouldn't we call the paramedics?" I ask to make Butch look stupid.

    "Already done.  They're on stand by for this class.  Don't interrupt again.  Listen.  You have your humiliation bullies, your psychotic bullies, your mother fucking bullies—they're complicated.   You have your mind-fuck bullies, a lot of them are woman.  Then you have your ecclesiastical bullies--always primping in the mirror, those ones.  They're Cadillacs are paid for by a bogus account of your sins.   No one even believes them anymore.  Still, they make you feel like shit.  You pay through your teeth."  

      "What kind of bully are you?" sounds the accusing voice of a woman, plain looking.  Her voice rips into our frontal lobes like a psychic intruder. She looks up at Butch over her bifocals, her eyes like raisons scrunched into dough. She appears to be knitting something patriotic. She knits electricity.   The electricity reaches out like the arm of an octopus and slaps each one of us across the face with a zinger. She sits in the corner with a look of granite judgment on her face, like if Abe Lincoln had an evil sister, or like Andrew Johnson who, succeeding Abe, ruled out of spite and ignorance, thus becoming a model for many presidents to come.   Everyone is surprised to see her.  No one expected the town librarian.  Everyone is scared, even Butch.

     "My mother calls me Rex," Butch begins to blubber.  "Like a dog.  A stud dog."

      "Sometimes I'm almost sorry," says Lyle.

Gretchen Van Lente’s shorty story publications are as follows: Midnight Lullabies, an Anthology of horror stories, The People from Juarez, upcoming; Bullfight, Pancho Villa Goes to Heaven, upcoming; Harrow, an Anthology of Horror Stories, Satan in Paradise, Winter, 2006;  Thieves’ Jargon, Hyena Girl, Summer 2005; storySouth, More and More Perfect, Winter 2004; The Mangrove Review, Maps to the Stars’ Homes, 2004; The Mangrove Review, The Face Lift, 2003; Rosebud, How I Solved Crime in L.A. and Saved the Universe, 1997; The Seattle Review, Lena’s Generation, 1992; Writers’ Forum, Before This Thing Happened to Me, 1992; The Jacaranda, We Understand Each Other, 1990.