The Bully

Marty walked into the office. He held his hands down at his sides, and his eyes were cast downwards as well. His rumpled clothing seemed to add to his normal shortness and overweight appearance. “So, Mr. Macintyre,” Dean Halsey growled. “We didn’t learn from the last time, eh?” Marty remained silent. “Sit.” It was an order. Not a request, not a suggestion. Spoken with an authority born out of maliciousness. However, Marty did not move. Halsey narrowed his eyes as his own move to sit was stalled by the other man’s inaction. His head cocked and one corner of his mouth twitched. He was unaccustomed to his orders not being followed immediately. Stepping from behind his desk, the tall, lanky administrator attempted to use his physical presence to force the reluctant man into his seat. “I – said – sit.” There was a slight, almost imperceptible to most, twitch of Marty’s left pinky. Halsey only noticed it because the air had suddenly fallen flat and it was the only movement in the room. The shock of it nearly made the older man flinch. Nearly. His eyes grew dark as he inclined his head to look directly at Marty. “Now see hear, Mac . . .” Halsey never finished his sentence. The sound stopped in his throat as no air escaped. His eyes grew wide in the realization that Marty Macintyre, the office patsy, now stood taller, was staring directly into Halsey’s eyes with a malevolence that belied his usual subdued demeanor. And his hands were grasped tightly around Halsey’s throat, which was the reason no air was escaping. Nor was it getting in either. The smaller man spoke no words. He simply stared. And squeezed. Then he left. Halsey did not see him leave. He had no acerbic barbs to shoot at Marty’s departure. And he would have none. The last thing the bully of a man ever saw was Marty’s grey, angry eyes staring deep into his soul. And then nothingness.