Preview of Don't Feed The Bully Don't Feed The Bully

Praise for Don't Feed the Bully, sample chapters. (You can purchase an Ebook for $3.00 here!)

"If you're tired of the bully who's making school unbearable for your child, you might want to heed the words of author/comedian Brad Tassell:Don't Feed the Bully." Rebecca Courdret, Evansville Courier-Journal.

“I finally got the chance to read Don’t Feed the Bully. I loved it. I will be looking for venues for you. I will review it for IMAGES.” Ginney Burney, President Indiana Assoc. for the Gifted

"Reading just a few pages will get you hooked. It's about a gifted kid using he great thinking skills to get to the bottom of a bully mystery." IMAGES magazine, Ginney Burney review

"...Hannibal Greatneck III might just be the next Encyclopedia Brown." JMC, flamingnet student reviewer.

"...Brad presents an important message in a very engaging and entertaining way. Kids will easily identify with the characters in the story. Teachers and parents will
readily find points for discussion with their young charges. I highly
recommend this book for use as part of any anti-bullying education
program."

Robert Moore, School Safety Specialist, North Spencer County School Corporation

"This is the first book I ever read that I couldn't put down. Literally, it was taped to my hands." Aubrie Cook, 14, Oak Hill Middle School

My greatest case started as no case at all. The case I call “Don’t Feed the Bully” started on my first day as a transfer student at William B. Travis elementary school. Bells should have rung in my head immediately, but it wasn’t until weeks later I realized the connection. Colonel William B. Travis was the commander of the Alamo in 1836 where he and 187 other men fought off Santa Anna and 2999 other bullies for ten days before being over run like a golf cart in a demolition derby.

I should have figured it. Any school with such a namesake could have a warped sense of dealing with bullies and make sure to stop any present day Santa Annas from overrunning them.

Ending my elementary school career at William Travis in Mrs. Austin’s sixth grade class was not my plan. Dad was changing jobs and I needed to follow my meal ticket as eleven-year-old detectives don’t rake in the kind of dough one needs to satisfy a root beer and Cheeto habit that kept my dentist on his toes and my fingertips consistently pale orange.

It didn’t take a master sleuth to spot the first major difference in Mrs. Austin’s classroom than any other in my previous elementary career. I am not talking about the pair of hard hazel eyes, tight curly red hair, pasty white skin, and serious pre-pubescent acne standing directly in front of me like a pint size border guard as I walked through the door.

“I am Kurt Pesterman,” he said in a tone that stunk of superiority, as if judging people was Kurt’s hobby and I was a new project. “I welcome you to William Travis Elementary,” the welcome was as empty as a free milk bowl in Cat Town.

“I am president of the WBT Agitator Awareness Society, and you are?”

I figured being new I shouldn’t make waves in the first thirty seconds in a classroom I’d be spending the next 132 weekdays with time off for Christmas, spring break, and a possible two day stomach flu I was planning for late January during the 48 hour Sam Spade marathon on the Sleuth Channel. I calmly gave my name, “Hannibal Greatneck III, friends call me Handy.”

“Well, Mr. Greatneck,” he said as if only what he said was important and being friends was a condition of me knowing that importance. “You aren’t big enough to be a physical threat, so I will just let you know we also don’t tolerate verbal bullying either.”

Kurt smiled a row of pickled yellow teeth that seemed to flinch when exposed as if they rarely saw the light.

“There are severe penalties for breaking the code of respectful conduct in this class, and the school.”

All of this explained the observation which I had not finished before I was confronted by WBT’s agitator welcoming committee.

A CAGE!

An actual cage was sitting in the middle of the classroom. A desk sat in the center, and all the other desks were around the outside mocking the virus that they found a way to tolerate.

“That is where Ralphie sits,” Kurt said as if the Agitator Awareness Society was also dabbling in mind reading.

“Ralphie, a chimpanzee?”

“More like a Gorilla,” Kurt Pesterman said in a smirking tone as if he’d made a joke, but laughing was beneath him. “Ralphie has strong bullying tendencies.”

From Chapter 6

They came out of the shower as I picked my notebook off the bench in the middle of the room nowhere near my usual spot, subtle as a sledgehammer to a thumbtack.

“Forget something?” cackled Number One.

A cackle that was immediately recognizable to anyone who has ever been in a school or watched an after-school special. A mix of degrading mockery and threatening humor, and there is always more than one.

“Yeah, looks like Goofyneck is forgetful,” Number Two chimed in. I didn’t know these two any more than their faces on the playground or in the hall, but someone wanted them to know me. Every sign told me they were about as bright as a flashlight after three years in a junk drawer. They had not come up with this plan themselves. They were enjoying it though. My job now was to stop their enjoyment without escalating them to violence.

They were from the other sixth grade class and one was a half a head taller and only using half of his brain, and the other was more than a head taller and borrowing at least a third of first one’s brain. I didn’t know their names but if Crabbe and Goyle were to quit Hogwarts, these two could find spots in Slytherin.

They moved into the classic intimidation positions on either side and in front of me. My back was to the row of lockers. Bully radar has tracked on me before, and I keep a few tricks up my sleeve and some cards in my hand, at least until I bluff my way out of this situation:

1. Stay calm.

2. Assess the likelihood of violence.

3. Have a thick skin and a sense of humor.

4. Collect evidence. (Turn to the first appendix to read each of these steps spelled out in detail.)

***

“Goofyneck, that’s funny,” I replied. “I can see you guys have done this act before.” They were momentarily confused by my comeback and lack of emotion.

“Yeah, well,” said Number One, who was a big enough jerk to be up to the challenge of pushing around someone half his size, but his brain lacked the capacity to send the right words to his mouth without instructions from somebody else. He was a 56K modem in a cable modem world. My response had thrown them off the script and these two were not quick enough for improvisation.

“We got a message for you, Sissy Boy,” Number Two chimed in getting the festivities back on track.

“Sissy Boy?” I said. “Is that the message that I’m a Sissy Boy?”

“Yeah, what are you gonna do, Sissy Boy,” Number One threw in, feeling a little left out and needing to get his bully points in for the judges.

“About what?” I asked.

“No,” Number Two who clearly was working with 2/3 of their collective brain. “The message is: If you want to get along stop doing what you’re doing.”

“I thought bullying was strictly forbidden at William B. Travis? What if I report you two to the Agitator Awareness Society?” I asked changing the subject. Their laughter brought back the stab of fear that had waned since I began to take control of the situation. These boys had no fear of the Society or its corrections. Did the Society have no real power in stopping bullies, or were they from the Society?

They laughed like Hyenas another half minute leaving me to wonder if they actually need me here to witness this performance. I suddenly noticed a clue the size of a treasure chest. Hanging halfway out of Number Two’s pocket was a hall pass. I needed that little bit of evidence and its information. It had his name, time, and who authorized this little jaunt. The hall pass also said where they were supposed to be going. I was already kicking myself for leaving my digital pen recorder at Grandma’s house when I went over there to download old Sam Spade radio shows. Bullies turn on each other in a second when they hear their attacks played back in their own voices. I needed to do something stupid, and against any anti-bullying rule on the books.

“Been nice seeing you girls,” I said as I moved in toward my new pals as if I was going to leave. Number One was thrilled with his chance to be a bigger part of this project and pushed me up against the lockers. I bounced off the locker, which was a lot louder than it hurt. Number Two picked up the dialogue, “You want to act tough, Goofyneck?”

“Yeah, we’re not girls, Goofyneck,” said Two. “You’re a girl!”

Great comeback genius I thought as I pretended the slam against the locker hurt more than it did.

“You go when we say,” Two sniffed, “and do what we say Sissy Boy.”

Sissy Boy again – was this guy twelve or six? I could think of about 3000 crueler and more disgusting things to call someone. I bet their parents never even let them near a PG 13 movie.

I made my final stupid move by stepping over the bench at Number Two, who grabbed me. I kept my arms at my sides and Number Two bear hugged me awkwardly for a second while, I pulled the slip from his pocket. Two pushed me away, stuck his knuckle out of his fist, and punched it into my arm. That was going to leave a bruise. I showed no pain this time though as a reaction was just what they were looking needed. I said nothing.