Portrait of a Henchmen

A day in the life of a henchman

I’m a goon. A lackey. A henchman. A zealot. A hired gun. I had a name once, but it’s long since been lost to time and a string of bosses that had so many employees they just gave us numbers. I’m part of the army that evil maniacs have at their disposal when they try to take over the word. How I’ve survived this long is unbeknownst to me.

I got up yesterday at six in the morning. Standard henchman wake up time. It’s almost as if we are in the army. Close enough, I suppose.

I raised my head off the paper-thin pillow of the cot I was given. The barracks are solid white. This guy has a serious obsession with the color white. This whole base is white, at least on the inside. The outside blends in perfectly with its jungle environment. It was a real pain in the a*s to find for the interview, that’s for sure.

I went to the trunk at the foot of the bed and pulled out my standard issue white jumpsuit. The zipper starts at the crotch and goes all the way up to the top of the turtleneck. One of the most uncomfortable things I’ve ever worn. I slid on my boots, also white, and clasped all three Velcro strips as tight as they were comfortable.

The other henchmen in the barracks were scrambling to get ready. Eager pawns in the deadly game of world domination. I went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. My features are dull and uninspiring. You probably couldn’t tell the difference between me and the guy that slept next to me if you walked past us on the street. I slicked my black hair back with hair gel, and make sure I’m clean shaven.

I walked back to my cot and grabbed the white dome-like helmet off the hook on the wall. I slid it over my head and slid the strap under my chin. It’s tight, but I’m used to it. I grabbed the sub-machine gun off the same hook and throw it over my shoulder.

Standing at the end of the bed for inspection was the worst part of the day. This was our job. We were always perfect. There was never any need for inspection, but this guy just demands it of his henchman.

I remember when my mother asked me why I chose the career path of a henchman.

“Why can’t you join the good side?” she asked me.

“Because evil maniacs pay better, mom” I replied simply, knowing she wouldn’t understand.

That’s true too. I’ve made a fortune gooning. Not that I can spend it. We’re not allowed off base. The fact remains though, when I retire, I’ll be a rich man.

A friend of mine decided to be a good guy. We talked last year while I was in between jobs. He told me it was the worst decision he’d ever made. They work for barely any money and the “reward of making the world a better place”.  That’s a bunch of bullshit, I think. The world will always have guys like my boss running around to cause trouble. It’ll never be a safe place.

The henchmen captain came in at six-thirty. A lot of yelling commenced for no reason. He’s a real a*****e. He walked the length of the barracks, looking each of us up and down, moving on when he was satisfied. His whole routine takes about seven minutes. Seven minutes is about six minutes too many in my opinion. When he’s done, he shouts the order to fall out for breakfast, and we all do so willingly.

The cafeteria is quite exceptional. At least as far as evil base cafeterias go. One-way mirrors lined the walls so we could look out onto the jungle surroundings. The sight was more pleasant than white walls, so I looked out constantly.

This morning’s breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs, three slices of bacon, two slices of buttered toast, and our choice of milk or orange juice. I chose orange juice to avoid anything else white. I ate rapidly, but savored every bite as I always do.

When I was done, I took my tray up to the conveyor belt for dirty dishes and threw it on. It disappeared into the wall and I went to check where I was posted for today.

Just outside the cafeteria, several pieces of paper were pinned to a bulletin board. Each paper had a squad number and a list of each squad member and their assignment on it. I looked at the paper marked SQUAD 370 and found myself. HENCHMAN 221: EAST WARD, UPPER HALL PATROL.

I enjoyed patrol far more than guard. Guard consisted of standing in one spot for hours on end, while patrol you, well, you patrolled. Sure, I just walked up and down a hallway all day, but at least I was moving.

 When I arrived at my post, another henchman was there, patrolling.

“Good morning, Henchman 370,” he said to me in a monotone.

“Same to you, Henchman 443,” I replied. The man looked almost exactly like me except for a few subtle differences. “You’ve done good. I’m here to take over.”

“Ah, most appreciated,” he said, not smiling, and without another word, walked away towards the barracks.

And so starts my ten-hour shift of walking back and forth in a white hallway.

Five hours into the shift another henchman brought me protein/energy bar for my lunch. It tasted like cardboard, but I ate the whole thing out of hunger and boredom.

My boredom didn’t last much longer. There I stood in an empty hallway eating a piece of an old shoe when the alarm sounded. It was so sudden I almost choked on my lunch. Then the computer voice of the intercom spoke up.

“SECURITY BREACH IN SECTOR 12, ALL UNITS RESPOND,” it said, the voice soft and feminine without a hint of panic.

I turned on my heels and sprinted down the hall towards Sector 12. As I ran, the other henchmen on duty were pouring into the halls with me, each of us stepping in time with each other.

Sector 12 was a war zone. Bullets flew over my head as I slid through the door and took cover behind a 50-gallon steel drum. Why it was there, I’m not entirely sure. All around me, my coworkers were dying tragically, and hilariously at times.

I popped my head over the drum and fired a few shots into the crowd advancing on our position. Whether I killed anyone or not, I have no idea. My accuracy isn’t the best.

I peeked out again to see what I was up against. They were at least one hundred strong, and led by some one I can only describe as a super spy. The kind of guy who’s notorious for being a thorn in an evil maniacs side. He was dressed casually, but ready for a fight. His hair kept its fluff even in the heat of battle. He was remarkable as he killed henchmen with one or two shots, managing to avoid all the bullets flying in his direction with little to no effort.

I popped out and fired in his direction. They sprayed around him sporadically. He didn’t even flinch. The captain showed up shortly after and told us to fall back to our defensive positions. We didn’t have to be told twice.

I was defending an almost unknown of door. Most people didn’t even know it existed. As such, they only assigned me and another guard to the duty. The battle was on the other end of the compound. We were safe here. At least we thought we were.

The door opened and the super spy appeared through the door. Without hesitation, the other guard and I opened fire on him, but he slipped back through the door with a cat-like reflex. He poked his gun out the crack of the door and fired off a few rounds. I ducked behind cover, but the other guard wasn’t so lucky. He crumpled to the floor in a heap. The super spy kept firing, but hitting nothing. Then his ammo ran out and I heard nothing but clicking.

I took the opportunity to reload, but before I could finish the spy had rushed through the door and grabbed me from my cover. He tossed me across the hall with little effort and I hit the ground hard, sending my gun sliding away. I stood up and took a fighting stance. I swung once, then twice at his head. He blocked them both, and landed his own punch, making me dizzy. Before I could recover, I felt his boot on the side of my face, and I went down.

I was incapacitated and he was getting away. The life of a henchman, I guess. No skills, no stamina, and no chance. I could feel the life draining out of me. Who’d have thought you could die from a punch and a kick. Go figure.