Lively Lime #10
"I'm very sorry, #35. Given the economic climate, tough competitors streamlining their operations, and current trends, we are just unable to keep you aboard. Now, I know this is difficult for you. It's difficult for us too. You've given a good many years of your life to this team. We hope you will keep in touch….
…….Well then, please turn in your mask and weapon. Doris will help you fill out the proper exit paperwork. Best of luck in finding another position. I'm sure there are many other super-villains who would be very happy to hire you."
Great, after over a decade of dodging bullets, storming hideouts, and being punched in the face by teenage do-gooder sidekicks, I can't believe I'm on the henchmen unemployment line.
But here I am, just another sad face in a sea of former foot soldiers, stormtroopers, putty patrollers, and second-tier generic underlings, all victims of the latest wave of downsizing that had swept the bad guy industry. Evil overlords with horns, cloaks, and an entourage of hundreds of nameless minions were no longer in style. Something called "corporations" were a much better way to achieve global domination. Dark, dank, inner sanctums buried within mountains were replaced by trendy Caribbean oceanfront complexes. It wasn't even cool to cackle evilly anymore. We henchmen were just antiques from a bygone era. Now, with our respective lords all filing for bankruptcy and selling off their superweapons on Ebay, where were we to go?
The only skills the majority of us possessed were "taser/raygun/axe semi-proficiency", "running collectively towards impending doom", "unwavering lack of independent thought", "getting distracted by attractive and seemingly helpless females", and "not being able to capture the hero." Interests ranged from the standard "shooting/breaking things" and "pillaging" to "biscuits" and "napping". Not exactly that impressive on a resume. Hey, maybe these abilities couldn't cut it for the majority of people on this earth, but as henchmen, these were the hallmarks of a classic legion of destruction. Two years of henchmen community college plus certification to qualify for a position with one of the many respected super-villains of the world. There's a process. Don't think it's so easy, amateurs. We all took serious pride in our work. There wasn't even a need to unionize. It was that awesome.
This stupid line never seems to move. Some aging minion, wearing an old Bebop and Rocksteady t-shirt, is shouting at the woman in the window. This is worse than the DMV. I remembered that time I had to go renew my license for the flying tank. I would have rather faced those killer bees on that tropical island again than the so-called public servant behind the counter. I wonder if there would ever be a chance to wield such weaponry or face such adventures again.
Finally, my turn.
"Your name?"
"#35"
"No, your birth name."
"……Dexter Flurby."
"Well then, Mr. Flurby. I only have a couple of jobs left available. Of course, there will be no overtime pay or benefits. This is a temp agency, after all."
"Yea yea whatever. Would any of those jobs happen to involve kidnapping princesses or patrolling a mutations experiment lab?"
"Um…not exactly. One is a junior high school gym teacher, and the other is a receptionist at a plastic surgery clinic."
"Sigh.…..I'll take the latter, please."
God, I hate getting fired.
…….Well then, please turn in your mask and weapon. Doris will help you fill out the proper exit paperwork. Best of luck in finding another position. I'm sure there are many other super-villains who would be very happy to hire you."
Great, after over a decade of dodging bullets, storming hideouts, and being punched in the face by teenage do-gooder sidekicks, I can't believe I'm on the henchmen unemployment line.
But here I am, just another sad face in a sea of former foot soldiers, stormtroopers, putty patrollers, and second-tier generic underlings, all victims of the latest wave of downsizing that had swept the bad guy industry. Evil overlords with horns, cloaks, and an entourage of hundreds of nameless minions were no longer in style. Something called "corporations" were a much better way to achieve global domination. Dark, dank, inner sanctums buried within mountains were replaced by trendy Caribbean oceanfront complexes. It wasn't even cool to cackle evilly anymore. We henchmen were just antiques from a bygone era. Now, with our respective lords all filing for bankruptcy and selling off their superweapons on Ebay, where were we to go?
The only skills the majority of us possessed were "taser/raygun/axe semi-proficiency", "running collectively towards impending doom", "unwavering lack of independent thought", "getting distracted by attractive and seemingly helpless females", and "not being able to capture the hero." Interests ranged from the standard "shooting/breaking things" and "pillaging" to "biscuits" and "napping". Not exactly that impressive on a resume. Hey, maybe these abilities couldn't cut it for the majority of people on this earth, but as henchmen, these were the hallmarks of a classic legion of destruction. Two years of henchmen community college plus certification to qualify for a position with one of the many respected super-villains of the world. There's a process. Don't think it's so easy, amateurs. We all took serious pride in our work. There wasn't even a need to unionize. It was that awesome.
This stupid line never seems to move. Some aging minion, wearing an old Bebop and Rocksteady t-shirt, is shouting at the woman in the window. This is worse than the DMV. I remembered that time I had to go renew my license for the flying tank. I would have rather faced those killer bees on that tropical island again than the so-called public servant behind the counter. I wonder if there would ever be a chance to wield such weaponry or face such adventures again.
Finally, my turn.
"Your name?"
"#35"
"No, your birth name."
"……Dexter Flurby."
"Well then, Mr. Flurby. I only have a couple of jobs left available. Of course, there will be no overtime pay or benefits. This is a temp agency, after all."
"Yea yea whatever. Would any of those jobs happen to involve kidnapping princesses or patrolling a mutations experiment lab?"
"Um…not exactly. One is a junior high school gym teacher, and the other is a receptionist at a plastic surgery clinic."
"Sigh.…..I'll take the latter, please."
God, I hate getting fired.
posted by Anonymous at 10:07 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home