How to Become a Henchman, A Novel: The Henchman's Survival Guide

by J Bennett

  “I have flown high and been brought low,” The Professor begins, his voice hoarse and so quiet that we strain to hear him. “I have been broken these many years, a sun stripped of its hydrogen. Cold, devoid of energy, forgotten.”

  The head producer has obviously convinced Gerald to dial back the Professor’s wackiness. This bitter, shattered person is a whole new take on the character. I bet the viewers will drink it up.

  The Professor’s head jerks up. “Throughout my life, I have been a man of science. A man of reason and principles. But I have learned of a new power source: an energy that is inexhaustible and undefeatable.” He throws himself into a hefty pause before croaking, “Hatred!”

  Next to me, Gold slaps the table, and the rest of the crowded room quickly follows. Smart. The Professor def noticed him.

  “All these foolish heroes think that I am defeated!” The Professor announces, his voice rising, his mouth cracking into a grin. “But I have been merely biding my time.” He lifts his cane indignantly, “And planning new ways to bring this town to its knees!”

  The Professor’s voice booms with impressive reach, trained from the many years when Gerald was an actual chemistry professor at some high school in Boston. According to Matthew, he loved his job and would probably still be teaching to this day if the school hadn’t replaced the entire teaching staff with online software.

  “I only wanted to share my genius with the world, but the people of this town mocked me. They laughed. Their heroes have stopped my brilliant experiments and destroyed my prototypes,” The Professor continues. A cam bot hovers close to him. “They won’t be laughing at me anymore. I will be an accelerant that will burn the heroes out. All of them, especially Beacon.” His hand tightens on his cane as he growls her name.

  Cheers erupt. Everyone’s trying to out-applaud their neighbor, desperate to grab The Professor’s attention even this early into the tryouts. Gold puts his fingers to his lips and releases a piercing whistle. I clap along with the others and plaster a big smile on my face.

  “But in order to make the formula work, I need the right compounds,” The Professor says. “You are those compounds. Which three of you will be the catalysts I need to teach this town an explosive lesson?”

  Three? He’s hiring just three henchmen?

  I see a twitch of shock on Gold’s face, but he recovers quickly and leads the cheers again. My hands come together a beat too late. The noise from the group is noticeably less enthusiastic. We’re all realizing at the same time that the odds of making the show just got a whole lot longer. I look around the room at all the people striving to be noticed, despo to land this gig.

  I’m not giving up. I reset my expectations. I’ll just have to work harder, be smarter, play the game a little better.

  When The Professor releases his signature villain laugh, I pound the table and lend my voice to the cheers.

  Chapter 7

  Chin implant? No comment.

  Shine, Interview with Reena Masterson

  My path to villainy starts with a bunch of paperwork. Not actual paper, of course.

  After his big call to arms, The Professor limps back into the inner room, the heavy doors sliding closed behind him. That’s when Tiger Claw distributes cheaply printed Bands to each of us. When I strap mine to my wrist, a fresh-faced panda Totem appears on the holo-screen and scans my retinas. Identity confirmed, I receive a load of e-forms to complete.

  First up are about a thousand pages of non-disclosure agreements. They reiterate the fact that during this contestant phase, we aren’t allowed to share any pics, vids, or updates on any aspect of the process. “No posts, no boasts,” as Tickles explained when he described his own tryout phase on The Henchman’s Survival Guide blog.

  Next up comes forms requesting all our personal data. Most of the information is already pre-filled, pulled from our Stream, medical records, and other sources. It’s all standard stuff — name, birthdate, medical history, genome sequence, citizenship, radiation exposure, and other demographic information. I scan the forms and add a few answers to the rare empty lines. I give it one more quick review and submit.

  I look up. All around me, faces pucker in concentration and lips whisper to correct and update info. I watch Gold replace a pre-filled list of actively used medications with the word “None.” On my other side, Lysee takes two years off her birthday and 15 pounds off her weight before submitting her forms.

  It hits me that every single girl in this room probably did the same thing… except me. Surely 22 isn’t too old, right? I sigh. Two mins into my career as a henchman and I’ve already flubbed it with honesty.

  “Is that one of the producers?” Lysee asks as she glances at Tiger Claw who walks between the tables monitoring our progress.

  “He’s just a production assistant. Producers would be wearing Goggs,” Gold points out, having finally finished his forms after changing just about every pre-filled answer, included adding 20 pounds to his weight. I look around the room but don’t see anyone wearing Goggs. Guess the producers can’t be bothered to meet us lowly contestants so early in the process.

  Tiger Claw makes a show of setting a Pod next to one of the side doors.

  “Listen up,” he calls out. “Watch for the code on your Band. When you see it, enter this room.” He points to the door behind him. “Answer the questions in the allotted time. When you are done, please leave the premises directly.” He looks down at his Band, clearly reading a prepared script. “Be aware of the non-disclosure agreement you signed. If you communicate the questions to other contestants or discuss your experience in any way, you will be eliminated from consideration and legally prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

  Heads nod. Capes and vils may be the big Personas in Biggie LC, but the townies with the best houses, robos, and Anders 3D printers are the entertainment lawyers.

  Next, we wait.

  And wait.

  One by one, codes appear on the holo-screen in front of the door. The individual with the Band that shows that number shuffles, strolls, or power walks into the room. Exactly ten minutes later, they reappear and head out the front door of the warehouse.

  An obvious flaw in this system quickly emerges. The interview room is too far back from the entrance, and those who finish their interview have to walk past several tables on their way out. Despite the legal threat, by the time the third person makes her way out of the interview room, sword thumping against her thigh, the whispers have started.

  Gold begins working the main room. He’s all grins and laughs, revealing a talent for making fast friends. It pays off. Before the eighth name even appears on the holo-screen, Gold stops by our table and graciously whispers the interview questions to us.

  Lysee gives him a happy hug. I nod in appreciation, but I wonder why he’d being so generous. Living in Biggie LC, you quickly learn that nothing is ever truly free. It’s time to re-evaluate Mr. Gold. He’s useful and clever, yes, but I’m getting danger vibes from him. He reeks of ambition, and though his face is young, he acts older. His wary eyes hint at a hard life.

  Two hours tick by, then three.

  Lysee pulls the bows from her hair, yanks up her corset to cover her cleavage, and practices her answers with an angry snarl. Quietly, I practice my own answers, memorizing them to the point that the words lose their meaning. Don’t over practice, Tickles advised. Be prepared, but sound spontaneous.

  When I’m tired of practicing, I check out the other contestants. Most slouch in their seats, seemingly lost without their Bands offering up games, eps, and Stream updates. However, some are putting the time to better use. Gold isn’t the only one working the room. Mermaid moves from table to table. Her bright green eyes are focused and hungry as she drops into offered chairs and leans in to chat with new friends, mostly of the male persuasion.

  Movement catches my eye. The big, red-headed brute slinks out of the interview room. I’ve secretly nicknamed him Sequoia, but he doesn’t look very peaceful o
r majestic at the moment. Instead, his face is pinched in frustration. He throws an angry glance at our table. Gold has dropped back into his seat next to me, and I raise an eyebrow at him.

  “Probably choked under the pressure,” Gold says with an easy shrug.

  Lysee squeaks as her name appears on the holo-screen, but then quickly stifles her excitement, forcing her face into a grim expression.

  “I have been wronged,” she says quietly to herself. “My father was killed… no, murdered!” Her lip trembles. She smiles and nods at herself.

  “Luck,” I say to her.

  She grabs my hand and squeezes it tight. “You are gold. And I’m gold.” She looks at Mr. Gold. “And you’re extra gold. We’re all going to make it. I feel it!”

  And then off she goes, clomping exaggerated steps to wait by the door. Gold looks after her, an amused grin on his face.

  “She won’t make it,” he says.

  Protective anger flashes through me.

  He notes my scowl. “Maybe she’ll make this cut, but there are only three open spots. The producers won’t pick two beauties, and that woman with the scale tattoos is a better choice.”

  He’s right, and I recognize how well he’s already read the room, but Lysee is also my friend. “We’ll see,” I say, keeping my voice even. Cam drones still drift overhead. “She may surprise you.”

  “I think you might be the one who surprises me,” he answers, “though your persona is absolute blight. If you need some coaching, I’m available for hire.”

  “Thanks, I’ll keep you in mind,” I say.

  Lysee emerges from her interview, face streaked with tears, eyes puffy, and hands clenched. Despite it all, her hair and makeup are still fab. Passing our table, she sniffs loudly, looks around for cams, then breaks into a grin.

  “I was soooo glam,” she says, flicking the tears off her cheeks. “I bet all them producers are bawling. And I owned that last question. I…” she stops, puts a finger to her lips, and smiles. “I’ll tell you at home.”

  And out she goes, sniffling toward the front door.

  More time ticks by. More empty chairs. A half hour later, a punk kid wrapped in faux leather and a scary guy dripping in chains go at each other, throwing punches and knocking into the tables, apparently fighting over Mermaid’s honor as she screams at them to stop.

  “Damn,” Gold says, “she’s impressive.”

  Watching the cam drones cluster around the fight as Mermaid ducks a stray punch and pries the men apart, I can’t help but agree. No matter what happens, she’ll get screen time for that in the first ep.

  “You’re up,” Gold whispers to me. My eyes dart to the holo-screen, and there’s my number, 62. I take a deep breath. I feel almost exhausted from the constant cycles of adrenaline that have been crashing over me throughout the wait. I’ve practiced my answers. My character is simple. I’ve got it all under control.

  Be your character, I remind myself.

  “Luck, Wholesome,” Gold says, giving me a smile that seems anything but encouraging. “Go melt their hearts.”

  I move past the tables and stand by the door, waiting for the current interview to wrap up. The production assistant with the Tiger Claw tattoo stands at attention next to the door. When it slides open, the figure in the cowl makes an exit. Spiked rings glint on zir’s fingers. I pon what angle ze is going for. Mysterious and dangerous?

  Doesn’t matter, I’m up.

  Before I can get my bearings, bright lights flash on from three cam drones hovering in front of me. I expect to see at least one producer from the show prepared to ask the questions, but the small room is otherwise empty except for the cam drones and a simple black Pod sitting against the wall.

  It jumps to life, producing a glowing screen. Words form on the holo-screen.

  Please remove your mask and turn around slowly.

  I force myself to smile and nod. I slip the mask off my face and slowly rotate in place. A group of producers is on the other end of those cameras watching me, assessing my figure, checking my ethnic makeup, weight, and height on my data sheets. Maybe they’ll be intrigued by the simple outfit, the lack of splashy makeup, the clear un-glamminess of me.

  I finish my turn. Too fast? Too slow?

  Thank you. The words appear. Please replace your mask. Despite my nervousness, I appreciate that the letters are clean and simple. No wacky emojis or adorable narwhal chatbots blubbering questions.

  As the letters fade, I tug my mask back in place. As long as my mask is on, I know that anything I do and say is fair game for The Professor’s first ep.

  The first question appears.

  Why do you want to become a henchman?

  A two-minute clock appears in the corner of the holo-screen and begins counting down.

  I keep the smile pressed onto my face. Even voice, I coach myself, remembering the advice from Tickles and his Henchman’s Survival Guide blog: Project confidence and comfort. Look directly into the camera.

  “I don’t want to become a henchman,” I say and stare into the middle cam. “I want to become a henchman for The Professor. I’ve lived in Big Little City for three years, and I’ve never applied for a show. It’s because I only want to work for a villain I really believe in.” I take a breath. Thirty seconds have ticked away.

  Don’t rush, don’t rush, I tell myself, even as my heart pounds hard. “I have always been a huge fan of The Professor. I watched his series growing up. I appreciated the depth and detail he put into his schemes and always rooted for him to win against Beacon.”

  There. Done.

  Except I have a minute left, and my answer didn’t sound nearly as good out loud as it did when I practiced it in my head.

  “I think the heroes in Biggie LC are too proud,” I blurt out, thinking of one handsome sidekick in particular. “They think they run this town. None of the villains have defeated any of the big ones in years. The Professor can change that. He’s smart. Wiley. I want to help.”

  Twenty seconds left. I wisely shut my mouth and allow the time to run out.

  The next question pops up, and the timer resets to a minute and a half.

  Why would you be a great henchman?

  The intent of this question is clear. The producers want to know what character I’ll be going for.

  “I know that a lot of big personalities have walked through this door,” I start. Slow. Articulate your words. “But henchmen are ultimately the support system for the villain. We are not the stars. A good henchman doesn’t steal the spotlight from the villain. We make the spotlight love the villain. I would be a great henchman because I am strong, level-headed, and relatable.” I manage not to choke on that last word.

  “I’m a hard worker. I can follow directions and stay out of the way when needed. I will absolutely do my best to pull off every crime and scheme The Professor plans, and I’m willing to go up against any hero or two-bit sidekick who tries to stop us.“ I make my voice hard and look directly into the cam. “I may have an even temper most of the time, but when it comes to protecting my villain, I can get a little mean… a little evil.” I give a smile that I hope is teasing and confident.

  Twenty seconds left. Time to get real with these producers.

  “The truth is, a lot of these candidates only want to use a henchman position as a stepping stone to grab eyes and get sponsored. They’ll take every opportunity to steal the lens from The Professor,” I say. Mugging for the camera is a significant problem in shows with a big cast. Most hero leagues die by ego.

  “I won’t,” I promise forcefully. My eyes have wandered away from the cameras, and I force my gaze back. “Being a henchman — supporting The Professor — is exactly what I want to do and all that I want to do. I would make a great henchman because I actually want to be a henchman.”

  Only three seconds left. I silently congratulate myself. One more question left, and I’m done. When it pops up, I’m practically humming with confidence.

  What skills can you br
ing to The Professor?

  The clock resets to one minute, and I start my answer by describing my three years of self-defense training. I list the different fighting styles I know and try to make this seem more impressive than just going to class three times a week and occasionally pounding the circuits out of a repurposed crash test dummy.

  I describe my schooling without mentioning the school’s name. The producers will surely cut any slips that reveal too much identifying information, but I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot by giving them extra work. I make sure to note the science classes I’ve passed. Next, I tell the producers about running track in high school, even though all the comps were virtual. I mention that I’m not on any mental medications. That’s not technically a skill, but I figure it’s good for them to know that I won’t be zoned out on Mellows or overhyped on Throttle during an important mission.

  Finally, I repeat the line about being a hard worker and level-headed just for good measure.

  Ten seconds left.

  “And lastly, I am very loyal,” I say into the cams. My voice is even, strong. “The Professor will be able to count on me, no matter what.”

  Perfect! I didn’t mess up that one at all. The timer counts down to the last second. I turn to go, holding in a huge sigh. The door doesn’t open. In the corner of my eye, I see the holo-screen flicker.

  A new question appears.

  What is the difference between good and evil?

  I stare at the surprise question, full lobotomy, as the words shift into a two-minute timer. The seconds begin to count down.

  Gold, that slithering bastard!

  I spend the first five seconds of my time fuming at him for not mentioning this question. Then I open my mouth and give a weird little laugh that probably immediately dooms my chances. Finally, I blurt out the first thing that pops into my head.