Blood In My Pocket

Her face was disfigured by a line of blood that ran across one eye and she was covered in scratches and bruises."At home? I'm at home?" she stuttered with swollen, bloody lips. Jack Migol, troubleshooter for one of Hollywood's biggest studios, never heard his wife utter those words. He never heard her say anything that made sense again. That sent him on a path of revenge that would not be sated until a handful of tinseltown's elite were destroyed in ways equally as creative as the films they produced.