Hey everybody.

I know I haven't been to class in forever, I had the LSATS one day then the Jewish holidays came in, I'm sure you all missed me. Anyway, I started writing a manuscript one day and I just kept going with it. I think it could work as a short novel. So far it is only a few chapters long but if you can give me some tips about what i should fix or anything you know like constructive criticism I would really appreciate it. Here it is.


Untitled Manuscript
By Jacob Kutnicki


Chapter 1


“I hate the way your face moves. I don’t know why. What’s the point? You’re so inconsequential; a shit stain on the underwear of life. I sit here across from you and your fat, stupid, round fucking face and I want to hit you. I want to punch you in the face with all my strength. Just beat you till your face stops moving the way it does. Til’ your ugly mouth stops vomiting out your disgusting voice. I FUCKING HATE YOU!”
The group looked around at each other and they started clapping. They started to cheer like rabid sports fans.
“What a breakthrough for you Robert” Dr. Ronson said. “You are really taking a huge step to better your life as well as your relationships with your friends and family”
She gave me a big smile, then turned and looked at everyone so they could see her super bright fake teeth. I can’t even tell you how many times I wanted to kill Dr. Ronson. I hate her. I hate the Group. I hate people.
This was my fifth one hour group session. Five hours of my life lost listening to stories of road rage or baby shaking. I can barely get through the sessions, my leg shakes faster as the time drags on. Sometimes I just stare at my black Converse moving up and down, over and over, till they become a blur.
I sometimes feel it creeping its way up my spine. Its pierces my conscious like an ice pick to the brain. The rage, the blinding anger at people for being incompetent and useless. Everything irritates me.
After everyone finished their applause, I stood up from my chair and walked out of the gym, sprinted down the street, got in my car, checked if I had enough bullets, loaded my gun, and finally felt the air leave my lungs.

Chapter 2

“It’s the only thing that makes me happy. I am an independent contractor. I don’t have a boss; I don’t work for the mob or the fucking government. I charge different rates for different jobs. Want a witness wiped out? $5,000 cash. Cop? $10,000. A senator or congressman? $100,000 etc… I will shoot, stab, strangle, burn, poison, or bludgeon, whatever you prefer. I can make it look like an accident or I can make it look like it was a random act of violence. I can make them disappear forever or I can dump them without fingertips or teeth so I.D. will be more difficult. Personally, I favor a bullet to the back of the head. It is quick, easy, painless, and cheap (For me anyway. The cost of one bullet hardly puts a dent in my yearly profits). I make a very good living doing what I do. Just like drugs, the price of a hit never goes down. I have killed 67 people in 14 different countries since I began working in this business 5 years ago. My name is Robert Irving Poloski and I am a contract killer. I even have a business card”
That is what I had dreamt of saying, making myself seem like this personable, stylish hitman who sprinkles his conversation with bits of wit and dark humor. This would have been my ideal introduction to the group. The group…God I hate these fucking people.
It had never occurred to me before that I had anger issues. I had a very normal upbringing. Loving parents, a good education, even some stocks that my grandmother gave to me on my fourteenth birthday. Actually, the way my anger was brought to my attention is quite a humorous story, if I tell it accurately. There was a school chancellor in a small town who had hired me to kill one of the teachers in his district because the teacher was, to put it in Shakespearean terms, ‘making the beast with two backs’ with the chancellors wife. So, I have the teacher tied up to a chair, and I am beating the living shit out of him. The chancellor paid extra for me to beat him before I killed him. As I beat him, his face began to bleed everywhere. During a break between blows, the teacher looked up at me and said:
“Please… just kill me. Don’t fucking toy with me, just fucking kill me” His request had made me think of a cat playing with a mouse before he ate it.
“I was paid extra to beat you” I said.
“How much extra?”
“$1,000”
“$1,000? That’s it? How much to kill me?”
“$5,000”
“Five grand? Goddammit, I’m worth at least twenty. Fuck. Well your getting paid either way so just fucking kill me and tell whoever hired you that you also beat the shit out of me”
“I don’t know. I’ve never thought of that”
“Killing for money I can respect, but beating a dead man is just wrong. Why would put so much extra energy into this job if you could just shoot me and get away with it?”
“I guess your right”
“Maybe it’s a psychological thing”
“Are you saying that I am crazy?”
“No… No I’m not saying that, I’m saying that maybe you have some issues. You seem a bit stressed”
“Well… it’s a stressful job. You have to pick the right moment to grab the target, and you have to find a place to take them that is far enough away so people don’t hear them scream. Then there is the clean up. I always hate the clean up”
“The killing isn’t the stressful part, it’s the clean-up huh.” I could tell he was enjoying this a bit too much.
“Fuck this” I took out my gun and screwed on the silencer. I pointed it at his head.
“Wait” he said as he strained to move his head as far away from the tip of my gun as possible. “Maybe you have some anger in you” It struck my as very strange that the last words this man might say would be about my mental state. It seemed incredibly un-selfish to me. He wasn’t crying for mommy as most of them do (as cliché as that may sound). Through the tears and snot and blood they are always whining for their fucking mother as if she could put her tit back in their mouth and cradle them to keep them safe and warm.
I lowered my gun and looked down at the floor. Maybe this fool had a point. I don’t enjoy inflicting pain. This is not the way I do business. I like to do it quick and painless. Why do I take money to inflict needless pain? I must have some deep seated issue. I noticed I was grinding my teeth.
I looked at the teacher. He slowly turned his face back to mine and stared at me through the blood. I leaned into him, I came in close till we were nearly nose to nose and I stared him straight in the eyes.
“Do not speak…Listen” I said. “I can kill you. I woke up today planning on killing you. I like to kill ignorant people, people who disrespect others for no reason, people who have bad ethics. You have bad ethics. But, you have really opened my eyes and helped me to see that I might have a problem. To thank you for this milestone in my psychological development, I will let you live.” I reached into my pocket and took out a key. “This is a key to a shoe locker at the bowling alley. It is the bowling alley that is closest to this location; I’m not quite sure what the exact address is. In the locker is a blue gym bag with $5,000 in it. You are going to take that money and leave this town. If you come back here and show my client that I had in fact not killed you and my reputation becomes tarnished as a result of that, I will track you down and cut out your eyes. Do you understand me?”
He shook his head yes.
“Good, in that case, I want to thank you for helping me see that I might have a problem. This little talk we had has truly been a revelation”
I untied him and told him that once he sees me walk out the door to count to five hundred. He nodded that he understood. I began walking toward the exit.
“Wait” he said. “I thought you got paid the extra $1,000 to beat me. How come there is only $5,000 in the bag”
I turned around and looked at him for moment.
“Like I said, thank you for helping me see that I have a problem”
With that, I turned and walked out the door. I went to my first meeting next week.








Unknown Chapter
Session six. The group was particularly boring today. Vicky, a 40-ish housewife, was talking about how she had cut up all the curtains in her house with a butcher knife because she said “I really hate magenta. The curtains were magenta”. The gun strapped to my ankle flashed through my mind but I did some breathing exercises and tried to control myself.
I had to get my mind off killing so I decided to scan the faces around the room and look for features I liked, a little game Dr. Ronson had recommended. I recognized face after face, but then I came to one that I did not recognize.
His head was enormous, it reminded of the statues on Easter Island. He was short, maybe 5’5 or 5’6, a stocky build with light brown hair and a wide nose that he would very conspicuously pick every once in a while. Currently, he was biting the nail of the pinky on his right hand while texting on his phone with his left. He laughed to himself, as if he was telling a joke only he could hear (upon which, I would place good money that this was indeed the case).
After Vicky finished it was Sam’s turn. Sam was an attorney who would deride his clients if they asked him stupid questions. He claims he almost stabbed one particularly poorly educated client with a letter opener when the client inquired if Sam was a “Lawyer or an Attorney”. I, like Sam, have zero patience for stupidity, so I identified with his dilemma.
Several people spoke after Sam the attorney and then group ended. Dr. Ronson flashed those nuclear white teeth and wished us all a happy weekend. I felt like having a cup of coffee so I wandered over to the snack table to fix myself some.
“You angry?” a voice said. I turned to my left and saw it was the new, enormous head from group.
“Not at the moment, but I am beginning to think that the potentiality for such an occurrence is increasing as the seconds tick by” I received nothing but a blank look.
“So you angry or not?” I sensed a little annoyance in his voice.
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
“This is anger management”
“Is that what it was? Thanks for bringing that to my attention”
“I’m Dave” he put out his hand.
“Hi Dave” I took it and shook it. “Are you angry Dave?” it occurred to me that I hadn’t said my name. “Oh, my name is Robert”
“Hi Bobby, good to meet you. Ahh… no I’m not angry, I just got here early before my quit smoking group starts….”
“You mean smoking cessation?”
“Yeah whatever the fuck. Anyway I figured I would pop my head into another group, you know, see how the other half lives”
I shook my head.“That is not what that means”
“That’s not what what means” Dave said, obviously confused.
“How the other…” I realize that my correction was futile. “Nevermind Dave. Listen Dave, I need some fresh air, I’m just going to go out side”
“Oh great I’ll join you. Fresh air will do me good, I need a cigarette anyway”.
He kept talking the whole walk from the gym to the sidewalk, about what I couldn’t tell. I had tuned him out by that point.