For an instant, Mrs. Benson was simply too stunned by the sight of her Freddie entwined with his freakish blonde tormentor to react, and the pair was blissfully ignorant of her presence at first.

Once the initial shock wore off, however, Mrs. Benson screamed, "WHAT THE —" followed by the longest and loudest stream of profanity ever unleashed upon the ears of any of Bushwell Plaza's residents. Or at least it would have been had the jackhammer in 8-C not roared to life again at the same instant.

The couple tore apart as Freddie incoherently shouted in fear while Sam stood her ground with a profoundly amused look on her face. The instant Mrs. Benson paused to catch her breath, Sam stepped right up to her and flashed a thumbs-up gesture of approval while grinning admiringly, "That's some quality cussin', Mrs. B! Didn't know you had it in ya!"

Mrs. Benson's face remained a portrait of horror mingled with confusion.

"I understand your surprise," Sam continued amusedly. "I don't totally get it myself, either, but your widdle Fweddie really gets me goin'. Makes my motor purr," she said, in a voice as closely approximating coquetteish as Sam Puckett was capable of mustering. "Guess what? The mere thought of your incredible son does things to me." Sam pulled in closer to Mrs. Benson's ear. "You know, things," she continued wickedly, shifting to a loud whisper, "in places!"

It was obvious Mrs. Benson's brain had completely seized up by this point as she stood immobile and speechless.

"Got any food? I haven't eaten in hours," Sam asked impassively as she calmly walked around Mrs. Benson, through the doorway and into 8-D.

Freddie and his mother exchanged looks of mutual dumbfounded confusion.

"Uh, Sam, where you going?" Freddie called after Sam and followed her inside. Mrs. Benson remained frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at nowhere in particular.

"What was that?" Freddie asked once he was in the apartment and gestured back to the hallway.

"A gentlewoman never speaks directly of items illegal for purchase in Alabama, Fredward . . . Besides, I figured if I came right at her with guns blazin' there'd be less chance of getting wailed on with your antibacterial underpants," Sam replied while nonchalantly sauntering to the kitchen, "'cause I ain't goin' anywhere tonight; I still gotta make sure your head's okay . . . Don't you have anything good in here?" she continued while tearing through the pantry.

"You know you don't have to do that if you don't really want to," Freddie told Sam as she disgustedly tossed a bag of beet chips to the floor. "I'm sure my mom'll be worried and overprotective enough to begin with," he continued, feeling the bump on his head. "Plus, I'm sure she'll try to make you feel as awkward as possible if you try to stay here."

"Three things," Sam replied, walking toward him. "One. I want to be here," she said, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Two. I still feel at least sorta responsible for this." She patted his head gently. "Three. When my uncle tells you to do something, believe me when I say it's a good idea to do it. Besides, didn't you see me out there?" She pointed to the doorway. "I can make your mom squirm in ways you, as a guy, can't fathom. If this turns into a contest to see who can make who feel the most uncomfortable, Mama wins in no time." Sam stuck her hands into the back pockets of Freddie's jeans. "Hands down.

"Oh, hey there again, Mrs. Benson!" Sam called pleasantly as Freddie's mom finally staggered in through the doorway, her mouth slightly ajar and her eyes fixed in a thousand-yard stare.

Without turning her head, closing her mouth, or moving her eyes, Mrs. Benson slowly sat herself down on the living room sofa. "I . . . I . . ." she stammered.

Sam crashed onto the sofa beside her and patted her knee with a smile. "Believe me Mrs. Benson, I know exactly how you feel right now. We've both been just as shocked by this over the last few days as you are.

"Sooooo," Sam continued, "we were out on our first date tonight," she flashed Mrs. Benson a quick grin, "and Freddie got a bit of a bump on his head, so I'm spendin' the night here 'till I'm sure he'll be okay, 'kay?"

That made Mrs. Benson snap out of her nightmarish reverie. "What? Oh no, young, um, lady; I'm sure you don't know the first thing about dealing with head injuries." Mrs. Benson said with a nervous laugh. She got up and made her way to her wheeled first aid cart in the corner of the room. "I bet you didn't even –"

"Shine a light in his eyes to make sure his pupils dilated and contracted properly? Done," Sam interrupted.

That statement may have shocked Marissa Benson more than anything Sam previously said. Regaining her composure once more, Mrs. Benson continued, "but I'm sure you haven't been –"

"Continuously checking to make sure he isn't feeling nauseous or acting groggy?" Sam interrupted once again. "Done and ongoing."

Marissa Benson began to wonder if that strange feeling in the pit of her stomach wasn't actually a growing twinge of admiration for and amazement at the yellow-headed freak. "Ahheh," she chuckled nervously, "but surely you haven't expected to –"

"Monitor how he falls asleep tonight and how he wakes up tomorrow morning, because if he falls asleep too easily or wakes up too slowly it means he probably has a concussion?" Sam interrupted once more. "Checkaroo."

"But I am certain you don't –"

"I've also got the phone number of a doctor on standby if there's any problem."

Mrs. Benson needed to sit down again.

"So, got any decent food around here?" Sam inquired.

"There's leftover boiled tofu in the refrigerator," Mrs. Benson answered defeatedly.

"That'll work," Sam replied as she got up, unzipped a pocket of her cargo pants and pulled out a bottle of Sriracha sauce while walking to the fridge. She emptied the tofu in a large pile onto a gigantic serving plate, grabbed a few forks, went back to the sofa and plopped down beside Mrs. Benson.

"Wad o' soy curd?" Sam offered, holding the plate under Mrs. Benson's face.

"Sure," Mrs. Benson replied weakly and picked up a fork with a cube on its tip.

"Cock sauce?" Sam offered, dangling the Vietnamese-labeled and rooster-bedecked bottle before Freddie's mom's nose.

"What is that?" she grimaced disgustedly.

"Squeezable enlightenment. Here, have some," and Sam squirted a large red glob onto Mrs. Benson's tofu the instant she was putting it into her mouth.

"Don't worry," Sam continued. "What you're experiencing right now is just fear leaving the body. You'll be better for it once you come out the other side." Sam proceeded to empty the bottle onto the rest of the tofu and begin scarfing down the plate's contents.

"Oops, where are my my manners?" Sam uttered with a mouth full of ruddy spiced tofu a minute later after the huge plate was half-devoured. She belched loudly and called across the room, "Ya want some o' this cocky tofu, Fredison?"

"Sure, a little. 'Fu me," Freddie replied. She tossed him a fork, and the first meal the Bensons had with Sam since their Thanksgiving fiasco began in earnest.

"Once you get past the burn, whatever this is is surprisingly addictive," Mrs. Benson said a few minutes later, helping herself to more sauce-drenched tofu.

By now it was getting late, and all three were yawning. Freddie went back to his room to change into a fresh pair of Galaxy Wars pajamas, and Sam unsuccessfully stifled a loud chortle when he emerged.

"Well, I guess it's time for bed," Sam yawned as she somehow picked up a recliner, carried it back to Freddie's room, and placed it alongside his bed.

"OH, NO! NO, NO, NO, NO, no, no, no, no, no!" Mrs. Benson called, running after her. "Just what do you think you're doing, missy? There's no way I'm letting you and your . . . hormones spend the night alone with my Freddie in his room!"

Sam, to Mrs. Benson's surprise, surveyed Freddie's room and said, "Well, there's plenty of room in here for another chair for you." Sam must have noticed the shock on her face, Mrs. Benson thought, because the next thing she said was, "Look, I'm serious about keepin' an eye on him tonight. So are you. Neither of us wanna see him get hurt, so why can't we both do it? It'll be a party or something." Sam looked around the room again and laughed. "Something about Post-It Notes stuck to Post-It Notes stuck to a message board just cracks me up!"

Marissa Benson suddenly found herself beginning to reevaluate everything she thought she knew about Sam Puckett.

After the two of them carefully watched Freddie Benson drift off to sleep without incident, Sam pulled a deck of cards out of her cargo pants. "Know howta play gin?" she asked offhandedly. It dawned on Mrs. Benson that in her own bizarre, abrasive manner, Sam had been going out of her way to be friendly to her tonight. She certainly wouldn't have felt like she needed to continue doing so once Freddie was asleep, yet here she was, offering to stay up with her while playing cards.

Mrs. Benson smiled. "Let's go," she said.

"I have to warn you," Sam said with a look of incredible intensity, "Mama plays to win."

"Understood." Marissa Benson paused. "So does this one."

"I know," Sam grinned.

Marissa Benson studied her carefully as Sam shuffled the cards with a degree of dexterity to which professional dealers in Las Vegas aspire. "I don't know why I never noticed it before," Mrs. Benson murmured.

"Noticed what?" Sam looked up from the cards.

"How protective and caring you are. Especially with Freddie. And how much that's always been the case in your own . . . unorthodox way, too."

"Well, somebody's gotta keep an eye out for the goob."

"I do that too, you know," Mrs. Benson said sternly. "And I'll always keep an eye out to make sure nobody hurts him."

"Well, yeah," Sam said, "you saw him first."

Mrs. Benson looked at Sam with a sense of new-found wonder. "I'm sorry I started a petition drive to banish you from Seattle last year."

"I'm sorry I emptied out your toothpaste tube and refilled it with hemorrhoid cream last year."

"That was you?"

"Yeah," Sam grinned. "Told ya Mama plays to win. Speaking of . . . gin!"

To say Marissa Benson's universe had suddenly gone totally sideways would be something of an understatement.

Disclaimer: And that, good people, is how the story ends. I don't own iCarly, and I don't own the characters. I do actually enjoy beet chips, though, and they pair surprisingly well with Sriracha.