The interlaced beams of the construction site lay in a grid format above me. A cool wind blew in from the north, and the shifting dirt and gravel of the in-progress building were at my feet. I took in the orange and yellow glow of the city at night that seemed a mile away, the bright white lights the construction workers would use during night shifts off so to hide our operation.
Deep within the construction pit was an old relic. It was beyond powerful, or so the legend foretold. Our boss, Captain Devil, wanted it more than anything, with it he believed he could conquer the city, then the world. He promised a new world order, where the holders of power would bow down to us.
However, tonight, I was not helping Captain Devil uncover the relic. I was standing outside, in the cold blanket of darkness, holding a large machine gun of some kind that I didn’t know how to use, listening to a man I had never met before.
“And I said to the pharmacy lady, you know the short, curly brown-haired, maybe not from around here if you catch my drift,, I said, ‘lady-mcgee, you better not tell me I have to pay more than $50 for my medication. Lady I got shakes!’ And you know what she said to me?” he asked me, his voice so high-pitched it was on the verge of squeaking.
“I imagine you’re going to tell me,” I somberly replied.
“She said because I don’t get no insurance, it going to cost me more than $1000 for a few pills. Can you believe that horse crap?”
“Sure can’t.”
“That’s right you can’t! I mean I ain’t eligible for insurance! I’m a career henchman, you hear me? This crap doesn’t have no benefits!”
I sighed and bobbed my head in agreement. In a way he was right, this shit really had no benefits. We were both what you called, career henchmen. Most of the supervillains who got locked away would escape jail eventually. However, it was expensive to bust your henchmen out with you, so only the really high tier ones had a consistent crew. The rest would hire their henchmen through an underground service like the one I worked for.
The only benefit I received for going through them was guaranteed bail if it was less than $500. And normally when a superhero was the reason you’re arrested, bail isn’t bad. However, a superhero usually had very little regard for the henchman’s well-being.
“Maaaan, I should’ve signed up with Death Seeker when I had the chance. He was taking on full-time henchmen. With dental and mental!’
I perked up at this and actually looked over at my associate with curiosity.
“Death Seeker was? When?”
“Like two weeks ago I think. He offered but I was all like no I got this great gig coming up with Big Bear, I don’t need no full-time!” he explained to me.
I frowned and looked forward while hugging my gun to my chest in some sort of false hope that it would comfort me.
“Man, I worked with Death Seeker like three weeks ago. Why didn’t he ask me?” I muttered to myself.
My partner waved his hands to dismiss the notion as he explained, “Hey my man don’t take it personally. Death Seeker isn’t exactly fan of…uh…you people.”
I tilted my head to the side, confused.
“What do you mean, you people?”
“I mean… white.”
“White?”
“Yeah man…white people. He, not a big fan of working with the white people,” he elaborated.
I took a hard look at my partner. He was wearing a toque, an old dusty jacket, and torn jeans. His face was marked by a scraggly facial hair, and while he wasn’t that young, he was clearly young enough that he still hadn’t outgrown his prepubescent chin hairs. That wasn’t the most notable trait I was taking in though.
“Kid…you’re white,” I argued.
“Pfft. Only on the outside,” he shot back.
I raised an eyebrow and my lower lip drooped in disgust. Then I shook my head and looked away.
“Whatever,” I commented. Death Seeker was white too. He definitely worked with lots of white people. The kid was full of crap I told myself. Regardless, I began to feel a little self-conscious.
“Don’t take it personally man. I mean do you know any good white henchmen? I mean besides you, obviously,” he said apologetically.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“White henchmen are just…goofier, then you are typical, anything else. They’re more prone to bumble around and screw up. Or they’re less likely to see the superhero descending from above to punch them both out because they’re goofing off,” the kid continued.
“You’re serious? You really think that bad things happen on these heists because of white people?” I asked.
“I’m just saying it because it’s true. I was reading about it online.”
“What kind of horse crap website told you that?”
“It was on the career henchmen subreddit. That place is legit,” he argued.
This was the problem with young henchmen these days. They thought the internet could teach them everything they needed to know about being a good thug. These kids would browse websites, read forums, and suddenly they thought they were experts in the field.
Unlike me, these kids hadn’t been out here for 20 years. They hadn’t been getting their jaws cracked by super-powered punks, been getting their ribs kicked in by abusive cops, and they sure as hell weren’t there for the great supervillain eradication of 2007 where it was open season on henchmen’s testicles. I’m still bummed I would never have any more kids.
Like, I don’t mean to get ahead of myself. I’ve been using this assault rifle for 20 years and I still didn’t know how to aim it properly, or let alone reload it with someone else’s help. I was also a terrible, terrible, getaway driver, but that wasn’t the point.
I put in my time. I wasn’t a poser like these punk kids who read something online and suddenly they were experts. I had seen things in my tenure as a career henchman, and villains who were so defying of all logic that my head had almost popped. But I was still here, still standing. We’d see if these kids would last.
Having said all that, you’re probably asking yourself why I’m still doing it. If I’ve acknowledged all the problems with being career henchmen, surely I’m smart enough to not be one?
Well, the thing is I can point these out because being a henchman is all I’ve ever known. I’m not particularly smart or talented, I’m not attractive and I really don’t have any interests. I just want a pay cheque, pay my child support, and move on with life. If I could actually save enough money, then maybe, maybe I would go back to school and get an education.
I have no idea what in though. I could get into business management, but then what, I’d manage idiots like this kid here? That’s not a life. Arguably this isn’t either, but I’m alive. Superheroes at least don’t kill. Well, most. It’s ignorant but I try not to think about anti-heroes. If you can’t tell I have enough problems already.
A cool chill ran through the air, making me and the kid shiver. The moment was only a temporary respite from the kid’s prattling, as he continued.
“Know what else I saw on there? I read that there is a huge bounty out right now for any supervillain or even henchmen, that can kill Justice,” he added, eager to shift the conversation away from my seniority. It works as the concept strikes my curiosity.
“But, that’s impossible,” I replied. “Justice is made of…made of justice or something.”
“I know right? The chick once rode a nuclear missile across the ocean and disarmed it with her bare hands while fighting off ninjas!” the kid said excitedly, his voice starting to carry through the construction site. Generally, when you’re on guard duty the idea is to stay quiet, you don’t want to tell the superheroes where to start punching.
“I think that’s a rumor. Well, didn’t that billionaire philanthropist guy, Chaz Newman or whatever, hurt her with some rock or something?” I asked, assuming the kid will know since he obviously was more informed than me. I had heard about the story years ago but it was a rumor, essentially a myth, among the henchmen.
“Nah man I don’t buy it. You don’t just get near something and start to feel weak at the knees! That’s just not how that crap goes down!” he argued with me.
“Well, it is if it affects your biology,” I argued, starting to become annoyed with the ignorance again. “That’s the idea. That it’s affecting her on a microscopic level. It like destabilizes the chemical that gave her super powers.”
“Pssh that’s lame as hell,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Big tough hero getting beat up little things. Bigger guys should be able to beat up big guys, that’s how that works.”
The kid got to me and I finally turn to address him. I admit I’m not super passionate about superpowers or how they work, but damn it I’ve been around them long enough to have some knowledge. And I was going to drop that knowledge bomb on the punk kid.
“Listen, son, you don’t-“
My thought was interrupted by a flowing cape and a kick to the nose. Having descended from a beam above us was a woman in a blue cape with silver armor. Her red hair was tied back and sa long Bo staff was in her hands.
Enter expletive here. It was Justice.
My co-worker was already on his back and I stumbled backward, barely maintaining my footing. Justice quickly grabbed the kid by his shirt’s collar and lifted it up to give him leverage. All the while the kid was pleading pathetically with the hero.
“Hey come on man I just got to make payments on my car and I got to support my kid man you know child support is a real bi-“ the rapid-fire string of made up excuses ended with a bone-crunching punch.
Well, I’ll give the kid one thing. Two white morons were goofing around and got taken out simultaneously.
However, like I said before superheroes don’t tend to care how they leave the henchmen, no more evident than that moment when she signed my colleague up for facial reconstruction surgery.
I desperately, frantically, tried to cock my gun and aim. I looked down, pulled back the safety, and then took aim. But then Justice was gone.
I drooped slightly, letting my gun point to the ground. I knew this trick and I knew it was over.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” asked a confident voice from all around me.
I nodded, resigned to what’s about to happen.
“Can you just…maybe not my left shoulder? That just got better after that operation with Death Seeker,” I asked.
No sooner than the last word leaves my lips than I am flipped by my shoulder onto my back and with a debilitating pain my right shoulder was dislocated. I screamed in pain but then I saw Justice’s first coming in hot. I had a single moment of clarity when
I realized she actually listened to me.
“Thank you,” I muttered out, and then my world was darkened.
Tomorrow I would wake up in the jail hospital being treated for my injuries, and then my bail would come through in 24 hours. So that would mean 24 hours with prisoner guard Joe, or if I was lucky it might prisoner guard Bob who kicked like a girl (yes I have nicknames for the guards, I’ve been to all of them enough times), but then I would be out on the streets again.
Then like the big dope I am, I would sign up for another one of these jobs, get my butt kicked by another superhero, and the cycle continues on and on and on.
Could I change? Maybe. But like I said, this is all I’ve ever known.
That’s just the life of career henchmen.