Black Widow Meets Skank

Not all heroes have cool names and fancy outfits.

Natasha Romanov – Black Widow – checked the address. Yes, it was the right place, according to the information she had been given by the next person down in the hierarchy of the Russian crime cartel, East Coast/US branch. With the right persuasion, that person had assured her that Ugliovich played poker in this garage in Newark every Thursday night, with a gang of cronies, bodyguards, and assorted thugs. And Ugliovich, while a significant figure in a wide range of criminal activities – although Natasha was mainly interested in his role in the smuggling of advanced weaponry – could give her the name of the next person up the chain.

The only problem was that it was too calm. A gang of crooks, pimps, thieves and losers enjoying a quiet game of cards? No way. There should be drunken laughter, occasional gunfire, shouting and screaming. The lights were on but the place was looking much too honest.

Nevertheless, she was here and she hated wasting time. She revved the bike, and aimed for one of the big glass windows. When she was ten metres away, she drew her Black Widow pistols.

The big bike smashed through the window and she leaped off in mid-air, looking for targets to shoot before she hit the ground.

Expect there weren't any. Not on their feet, anyway. As she landed, she saw that there were several heavy-set men lying dead, and a number of others unconscious, hog-tied. Only Ugliovich was still conscious, and he was tied to a chair with a rag stuffed into his mouth.

And there was a woman. She had begun to move as soon as Natasha had come through the window, scooping up a crowbar and hurling it at her.

Natasha ducked as it whistled over her head. The woman had followed up the bar, and was aiming a kick with a heavy motorbike boot right at Natasha's head. Natasha dodged and, dropping one of her guns, grabbed the woman's leg, planning to use her own momentum to bring her down. But the woman was ready for the move, and launched another kick with her free leg. It caught Natasha on the chest, but Natasha was fast enough to use her grip on the woman's leg to send her spinning away.

They were both up again in a moment. Natasha lifted the gun she was holding as the woman drew one from behind her back. And then they were both holding a pistol a few inches from the other's face. They stared at each other.

"And who the fuck are you?" said the woman. She was wearing an extremely short skirt and black stockings that were mostly holes and ladders.

"Natasha Romanov," said Natasha. "Nice outfit."

The woman stiffened at the Russian name. "You with this guy?" she said, gesturing at Ugliovich.

"Only in the sense that he and I have things to talk about," said Natasha. "And just what are you doing here?"

The woman waved her arm at the assorted bodies. "Don't tell me you want to arrest him or something," she said. "Because then I would have to kill you."

"Arresting is for pussies," said Natasha. "No, I just want some information. After that, well, one less slimeball. Tell you what, let's both put our guns down. On three. One, two – "

On the other side of the garage, one of the tied-up crims managed to free himself. He reached out for a discarded shotgun a metre away from him.

Together, the two women turned and fired. It was not clear which bullet killed the guy. Both, probably.

"Three," said Natasha.

The two women holstered their guns. The woman picked up Natasha's other pistol from the floor and looked at it. "Pretty fancy," she said. "How much is it worth?"

"It's a SHIELD gun," said Natasha, taking it from the woman and holstering it. "I guess it would cost about a half-million."

"Whoa," said the woman. "That sort of money could make a difference around here, let me tell you." She held up her own gun. "Glock seven-mil," she said. "Retails for twenty-five bucks."

"Speaking of weapons," said Natasha, "my interest in Ugliovich is about his connection with hi-tech guns. Is that why you're here?"

"No, I'm here because he runs dope. No shortage of people around here doing that, of course, but he's started to specialise in persuading people who are trying to clean up that they would live longer as paying customers."

"Yeah, he's got dirty fingers in a lot of cruddy pies. So why, exactly, is he still alive?"

"He knows things that would it would be useful to know. Names and places."

"My feelings exactly."

"SHIELD, eh? Say, you're the Black Widow, aren't you? Saw you on TV, when there was that alien thing. You and those Avenger guys. We heard about that even here. Although my own view is that Newark would probably be improved by an invasion from outer space."

"Hey, I was born in Stalingrad. Sort of the Russian version of Jersey. So you don't have to tell me about crappy places. I assume you're trying to take out the garbage."

"More like staunching the bleeding. But, yeah, I do what I can."

"You got a name?"

The woman opened her jacket to reveal a stained, perilously low-cut t-shirt. On it was the word 'SKANK!' in faded lettering.

"Ta-dah!" said the woman.

Natasha laughed. "Your superhero name is Skank?" she said. "I have to say that it might not strike fear into the hearts of evildoers."

"Yeah, but I already had the shirt," said the woman. "Came from a strip club where I worked for a while. And my mother said that if someone calls you something, it might be an insult, but if you call yourself that, you own it."

Natasha nodded. "You got a name for friends?" she said.

"My friends call me Beth," said the woman. "Or they might if I had any friends."

"Well, you've got one now, Beth," said Natasha.

"Huh," said Beth. "Well, right now I've got to get paid." She walked over to a table, obviously where Ugliovich and his cronies had been playing poker. There were several piles of cash on the table. Beth found a bag and started to put the money into it.

"Girl's gotta eat," she said. "But some of this will go to some people around here who need it."

"Don't mind me," said Natasha. "Do what you have to do."

When Beth had finished, they went to Ugliovich. Natasha noticed that his shoes and socks had been removed.

"You're planning to start with the feet, eh?" said Natasha. "Yeah, that should work." She picked up a pair of bolt-cutters from a nearby work-table. "With this?"

"No," said Beth. "With this." She picked up a ball-peen hammer. "I'm not much of a one for subtlety."

"You think bolt-cutters are subtle?"

"Well, a hammer makes a statement."

They both looked at Ugliovich.

"Two feet, two gals," said Natasha. "Can't be just a coincidence."

"Race you to the ankles?"

"Yeah, sure, why not?"

Ugliovich began to struggle against the rag stuffed in his mouth.

"I think he wants to say something," said Natasha.

Beth sighed, and yanked the rag from his mouth.

"I'll tell you whatever you want to know," he said. "If you let me go."

"Can't really do that," said Natasha.

"Then I'll tell you nothing," said Ugliovich.

"You will," said Natasha. "But I admit it might take a bit of work. And there'll be screaming, blood, gooey stuff, I'll probably get some on my clothes – "

"Hmm," said Beth. She crossed to one of the dead henchmen, and pulled an old-fashioned six-shot revolver from his holster. "Make you a deal, fucker," she said. She took three bullets out and spun the chamber. "There, now you have a fifty-fifty chance. You tell us what we want to know, I'll put this to your head and pull the trigger. No bang, we walk away."

Ugliovich looked from one of them to the other.

"Haven't got all night," said Beth. "I do have a day job, you know."

"Speaking as a fellow Russian, I would say that this is the best deal you're going to get," said Natasha.

Finally, Ugliovich nodded.

So they asked their questions. Ugliovich answered. Sounded fairly true.

After an hour, the conversation was over.

"And now," said Beth, "we see what Fate decides." She put the revolver to Ugliovich's temple and pulled the trigger. There was a shot, and Ugliovich, still tied to the chair, toppled over, dead.

"Fate's a bitch," said Natasha.

"But not entirely trustworthy," said Beth.

"You put the other three bullets back in the gun, didn't you?"

Beth shrugged. "Tough place, Newark," she said.

Natasha righted her bike. "Can I give you a lift somewhere?" she said.

"No, I've got my own bike in the alley at the back," said Beth, shouldering the bag of money. "And my superhero lair isn't far away. Well, it's not really a lair. It's a couple of rooms in a condemned apartment block. Only good thing about it is that the neighbours don't ask any questions. Well, maybe they do, but damned if I can tell what language they speak."

"You ever get over to New York?" said Natasha, as she hauled the garage door open.

"Yeah, I buy all my clothes at a chic little place on Fifth Avenue."

"Huh. Well, next time you're doing some shopping, give me a call. I'd like to introduce you to some friends of mine."

She handed Beth a card. All that was on it was a cellphone number.

Natasha got onto the bike and started the engine. "Well, Skank," she said. "It's been a slice. See you, maybe." Then she was out the door and riding into the darkness.

"Yeah," said Beth, watching her go. "See you, maybe."

END