Title: Meth & Massage
Rating: PG-13 (themes - drugs, prostitution, assassination)
Wordcount: ~1000

Inspired by dictator_duck's call to write fics set in our hometowns. As I am from Conyers, GA, a suburb east of Atlanta, and I work in Monroe, that explains the locales found here. Check out the notes at the end for more information on the booming criminal underground actually operating in both places. *snortlaughs* Not beta'd, this is short and meant to show a quick, fun look at a mission in the southern United States. :D



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Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton spent the majority of their careers traveling to exotic corners of the globe. The two of them went where the criminals were, and as luck would have it, that often led them to Asia, Africa and Europe, strange cities with exotic food, unusual languages. It kept life interesting.

Their latest mission? Not so much.

Apparently the meth dealers operating out of the booming Atlanta suburb of Conyers had joined forces with the sex traffickers of neighboring Monroe. The allied rednecks of rural Georgia were now looking to expand their reach and power and had the poor judgment to hook up with an extremely powerful international crime syndicate, potentially giving that particular organization an open door to the southern United States.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had been tracking the international group for six months when the Southern crime geniuses got ambitious, and Nick Fury was of the opinion that it would be foolish in the extreme to wait for local law enforcement to catch on. The two parties responsible for this home-grown disaster-in-the-making were Joseph “Big Joe” Durham and Mai Lin, crystal meth kingpin and whorehouse madame, respectively. Small town they might seem, the two crime bosses were actually ruthless, vicious criminals, and this situation needed to be shut down hard. Accordingly, Nick Fury sent in his best agents.

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“Natasha, did you get some of the fried okra?”

Natasha didn't have to look at her partner to tell he was smiling.

“No, Clint, I most certainly did not.”

“Why not?! We try to the local food wherever we go.”

“Not when it requires me to clog my arteries and hasten an early demise. And Picadilly's? Seriously, I can't believe I let you talk me into this.”

“So you'll eat squid served in its own ink but you won't eat battered vegetables?” Clint had never quite forgiven his partner for not telling him why that rice was dark gray.

“Correct.”

“Whatever. Nora June at the cash register said the McNair Fair in the parking lot down the street has deep fried Oreos. We are so stopping there before we head back to the hotel.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. The man was a human garbage disposal and very much a product of his American upbringing. She couldn't believe how excited Clint was to be here in this southern backwater. He said he loved the food. Whatever. She failed to see the appeal.

The spy held back a smile at her partner's delight in his huge plate of cafeteria food. When Clint went back to the line for thirds, she finally let go and laughed at him. She couldn't help it.

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“I have put on a lot of disguises, but this is a new one,” Natasha commented drily the next afternoon as she stood in front of the mirror in a room at America's Best Value Inn.

Clint was trying very hard not to laugh. He wasn't being very successful.

The fiery redhead's hair was teased into something resembling a football helmet. She had on a bright purple push-up bra with the straps visible under a low-cut airbrushed white cotton tank top that brightly declared how much Natasha loved Spring Break in Daytona Beach. To top (or bottom?) it off, the spy was wearing blatantly slutty Daisy Dukes and wedge sandals from Payless ShoeSource. The top of a zebra thong peaked over the top of her shorts.

“I hate this op,” Natasha growled.

“But the memories!” Clint reassured her. “Just think. How many times in our lives will the bad guys actually operate out of a family-owned beauty shop? It's so cliché no one will ever believe it.”

Natasha just rolled her eyes and adjusted her garish bra strap.

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Late that night when Natasha returned to America's Best Value Inn, she washed off the few spots of blood that made it onto her hands. Big Joe would not be orchestrating any more international crime deals. Behind her, Clint carefully packed up all of his gear in anticipation of their leaving. After they left Big Joe's double-wide, Clint had taken out Mai Lin with his bow. Their mission was done and it was time for them to leave.

“Seriously, Nat, who's gonna believe this?” Clint held up his camera again. He'd been trying to snap a picture of her all day.

“Clinton Francis, if you take a picture, I will open your femoral artery with my fingernail clippers.”

“Take away all my fun,” Clint muttered as he pocketed his camera.

Natasha put her back to him as she went to change clothes. Without looking at him, she commented again.

“In your sleep, Barton. You would never know I was there.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Clint said as he moved his hand away from his pocket.

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Ultimately, when Conyers and Monroe, Georgia were distant memories, local detectives at a loss to explain the local drug lord's and lady's deaths, heartburn from deep-fried Oreos faded, Clint was absolutely right. Amidst all of their crazy stories, the one about the redneck crime syndicate operating out of a beauty parlor was one of the stories people were the most reluctant to believe.

Go figure.

/fin

As there really was a massage parlor shut down in Monroe and a rolling meth lab really was shut down in Conyers – in front of the courthouse, no less – this lovely little thing pretty much wrote itself.


Names changed b/c, um, it seemed prudent. :D