Bullies Of A Feather Fly Together Poem by Ron Stock

This is the story of two young bullies. One big, strong. The other, bigger, stronger. The location, a small Mexican seaside pueblo. Our first bully is shaped like a big ox, but somewhat better looking, and not as dark. He's carmel-skinned, with a broad head, wide engaging eyes, traditional black hair, huge hands, and shoulders like Muhammed Ali. He was a bully even as a little boy, taught by his padre to use his size to take whatever he wanted. A hand-me-down bully law, as his padre was taught by his padre. The women of la casa, both grandmothers, the mother, and several sisters, were large as well. I have no personal reason to believe they were bullies except in the capacity of enablers. Such is the complex nature of the Hispanic culture. Family oriented. Macho dominated.
This first young bully, Jose, worked for me as a peon one morning shoveling fill dirt inside the foundation of my current house. I'd been warned about Jose's family, but was desperate to finish the prep work before the steel and concrete hombres arrived the next day. Jose didn't work very hard, in fact, Jose didn't work at all. For some reason, he brought along a compañero, and the two men chatted all morning as Jose leaned over the wooden handle of his steel rake. I paid him at noon and let him go, wondering, if at some point I might endure his wrath. When Jose left, he said, "No hay problema, Señor."
The "no hay problema" part didn't turn out to be quite true. One week later, at a festival on the square, I bumped into Jose and two of his amigoes. I stuck out my open right hand as a gesture of continued friendship. Jose took my hand in his right hand. Squeezed tightly. He wrapped his left hand around my wrist, then removed his right hand from my handshake, grabbed my four fingers tightly, and pressed them back on my wrist at a 90 degree angle. Jose then said in perfect English, "I could break your hand right now and you would remember me for the rest of your life." Terrified. I was terrified, at the prospect of living with four mangled fingers and a broken, deformed wrist. I laughed.
"Jose, why would you want to do that? I thought we were friends? " Jose looked me in the eye. We both knew this could be a decision that would severely change my life. And possibly his. He smiled, let go of my hand, and walked away. I remember that moment.
I don't know what the second bully looks like. I don't even know his name. No one will tell me. Rumor is, he's affiliated with some organization. He bought an empty lot in town. His next door neighbors had been parking vehicles on that lot for years. The new bully asked them to move the vehicles. They did, then started parking on the lot again. On a Saturday night, two pickups were torched, then towed to a schoolyard the next day.
A month later, these two bullies had an altercation on a Saturday afternoon at a nearby Festival de Toros. It turned nasty. A second disagreement erupted two nights later on our square, near the spot where Jose threatened to break my hand. The next day, a Tuesday, Jose disappeared. A day after that, Jose's entire family packed up and left town. Two weeks later, they found Jose's body, in small pieces, neatly packed inside a large suitcase on the outskirts of a distant city. La policia, were told, not, to look too hard, for the killer.
For most of us, nothing has changed, except we have a new bully, and less petty theft.