When the beloved husband of Betty Trubble's best friend Wilma was blown up in that tragic gravel mine explosion, she feared her friend would never recover. For weeks Betty sat on Wilma’s couch, passing her tissues as she numbed her grief watching afternoon talk shows and drowning her tears in cartons of rocky road ice cream.  But no amount of well-intentioned comforting seemed to help.  Betty watched in horror as Wilma gained 100 pounds and remained catatonic except for brief exclamations of “You go girl!” 

One day, after signing the papers that would commit her best friend to a home for the chronically grieving, Betty took the pick-axe from its hook in her garage. The ladies in the neighborhood association will never forget the sight of her as she shattered Wilma’s driveway with blow after ringing blow. When the whole thing was in pieces, she hauled the craggy blocks of concrete into the backyard, where she could occasionally be glimpsed over the top of the fence, lifting the massive chunks over her head like some kind of prehistoric bodybuilder. As her grunts of determination emanated across the lawns, some of her neighbors couldn't help but wish she'd just disappear.

Eventually that's just what Betty did. Some say she joined the Peace Corps and hunts sea turtle poachers for sport.  Others insist that she is spending time in a South American Prison.  Still others think she's remarried to the president of a small sub-Saharan country. They all agree it's unlike her not to at least send a postcard.

Betty Trubble is a Double Crosser now. And she's never going back to the suburbs again.