Sandy waited as Isis ate her food, and within fifteen minutes, Sandy's brother showed up. Sandy left before he could get her to explain what was going on. Sandy climbed back into the rig, buckled her seat belt, and took a deep breath, allowing herself a moment of reason. She started up the rig and cut on the radio. Betty Wright's song "The Clean Up Woman" played. It was at that moment that Sandy headed back to Brenda's house. She decided that she wasn't leaving until she had gotten some results. Once Brenda's house was in sight, Sandy focused in on it. How dare this bitch tell me to come and get my husband. A few seconds later, a wicked grin spread across Sandy's face. Ask, bitch, and you shall receive. Sandy gunned the engine and drove the rig smack through the middle of the house.

Bang! Crack! Rip! The house looked like a hurricane had torn through it. Cheap furniture got hooked onto the front fender and was dragged through the bathroom to the kitchen and then to the back porch. The toilet, which was caught under the truck, made a pipe burst, sending a small stream through the house. Luckily, Ice still wasn't going down on Brenda in the queen-size bed, because half of that was on the front lawn.

Everyone on the block was in an uproar, as they came out of their homes and filled the street, looking for the source of the noise. But Sandy didn't hear anything. It was as if someone had hit a mute button, silencing her world. Somehow she had blocked everything out, focusing only on one thing‚ getting some answers by any means necessary. She reached under the seat of the rig and grabbed the nine millimeter handgun that Ice kept for protection. Sandy opened up the door of the rig and hopped out. "Ice," she shouted. She was greeted by Brenda. "Betcha didn't think that I was going to come and get him, did ya?"

"Look, bitch . . ." Brenda, unfazed by Sandy or the big truck, was coming toward Sandy, but when she saw the pistol, she froze in her tracks. She changed her tune. "Look, let's work this out."

"This ain't about me and you, as I told you before. Now stay out of this." Sandy charged past Brenda, bumping her shoulder. Brenda could see the fire in Sandy's dark brown eyes. As Sandy continued to look for Ice, Brenda came up behind her and hit her with a pot. Sandy, who had never been in a fight in her life, hit Brenda with the nose of the gun and then picked up the pan and beat the shit out of her—literally.

"Ice!" Sandy screamed, and then shot the gun up in the air, bringing down another part of the already weakened house. "Motherfucker, where the fuck are you?"

"Look, let's talk," Sandy heard Ice call from outside. She headed outside, following the sound of his voice. "I can't believe you did this shit. Just what do you have to say for yourself?" Sandy said after laying eyes on Ice. Ice stood there, clad only in his boxers. He was breathing hard, with his chest poked out and his shoulders square, his dark brown, six-foot three-inch frame a pose of defiance. But his eyes didn't want any part of the charade he was putting on—they were filled with sadness, hurt, and shame.

"Do you know how this looks? Do you?" Ice yelled. "How does it look, Ice?"
"It makes me look bad. It makes me looks like I can't control my fucking wife. Yeah, so what, I had another child. So what? Shit happens. We could have handled this shit on the home front . . . not in front of every-fuckin'-body else's home." She glared at Ice and repeated his excuse. " 'Shit happens'?
'Shit happens,' huh?"