Let's get one thing straight, okay? I didn't expect working for supervillains to be glamorous. I didn't expect it to be pleasant. Hell, if we're being honest? I expected it to be awful. To be miserable. Challenging, sure! But I expected a challenge for my morality, my competence, or even my health; not to my rapidly thinning patience.

 God, the cackling. I hear it in my dreams now, you know? Before I started working here, I thought it was just a bit. You ransom the bank with a death-ray, some hero shows up, and you cackle at them to show you mean business, that you're a real card-carrying scoundrel, a madman, all that jazz. But no! Every single boss I've had of the more ‘mad genius' persuasion has just been like that, for the last 8 godforsaken months that I've been in this business. They send me to fetch them coffee? Cackle as I leave. I come back, hand them the coffee? More cackling. I'm just standing by the fucking door? Well, you're not going to believe this! MORE. FUCKING. CACKLING.

 But you're not here to listen to my woes, are you? No, you're some big shot reporter, here to reveal the sordid truth of the City, aren't you? Thinking that'll net you some award, some prize, anything other than a long walk off a short pier? Sit down, I'm not the one who's going to hurt you. Not got anything of worth to tell you anyway, nothing worth the hassle of killing over. Reporters like you are a dime a dozen around here, I swear; it's something in the water. Drink too much, and you either end up fighting other people in spandex or chasing after them to ask questions.

 I got lost again, didn't I? Doesn't matter, you came here and while I don't got the kind of secrets you're looking for, I got as much of a story to tell as anyone. If there's someone that wants to hear it, of course. Think you'd be willing to take a break from ‘truth and justice', and listen to some nobody ramble for a while?

 Huh. Thanks. Might as well get started then. Let me tell you the story of how I got into the business; with the serial numbers filed off, of course. If you end up with something to publish, I'd rather not these people know I was talking about them.

 Ask around the henching community- sorry? Oh, henching. It's a word for- well. My line of work, yeah? Matching outfits, evil plots, you get it. Anyway, ask around, and you'll get a whole raft of answers about how they got in; sometimes, it's debt. Sometimes, it's enviroment. Hell, sometimes it's a family thing; ever hear of the Marcos? Six generations. Lots of people see it as the only move they got. Me though? I do it for the love of the game. Hurting people, that is. I do it because I like hurting people. I used to have some data job before this, the kind with spreadsheets and meetings. I think it's important to love what you do, though, and I love breaking knees a lot more.

 Hmm? Oh, yeah, I did say that, didn't I? Yeah, I didn't go in with high hopes. But there's a hell of a difference between a hope and a need, isn't there? When I first picked up the job, I thought I was going to hate it, cause then it was some shameful thing. I was normal, the kind of person you pass on the street and don't blink at. Hell, I still am! The only reason you know I'm a henchperson is because of... well, the context we're in now, yeah? Back off. So yeah, I had morals and sensibilities and values. But I also had an appetite for this kind of thing, and it was clawing its way out. I started out working for someone we'll call Murder Man. Not the real name, but I swear it was equally pretentious and awful and just plain dumb.

But he was local, and most importantly his little gang of sycophants all wore masks. So, this is what I thought; either I can keep letting my hunger tear me apart every single day, or I can find a release valve. So, I wore a mask. I stood in front of doorways, and looked mean enough that people got the message. And when they didn't get the message? When I was brought along to act as vaguely threatening scenery on shakedowns or robberies? I got to slake my thirst a little. No murders, not one. Ironic, I know, but I always figured the Murder Man label was a bit like one of those butterflies; I read about them once. Not the poison kind, but the ones who look like them; act threatening enough to pull on the rep of the kind of people who're actually threatening, yeah?

 No, I was still hurting people. A lot, actually; that was kind of the point. I was there for the rush, the fear and the pain. But I was wearing a mask, and as long as I felt guilty about it when I went home, when I sat alone in my darkened apartment with something strong in one hand? Well. That was just part of the experience, wasn't it?

 You look like you're scared I'm going to hurt you again. I guess that's fair, given the kind of talk we've been having; still, you're missing the point. If I hurt you right now, that's just me hurting some dumbass who walked into the wrong room. It's not some story, it's just me being cruel. That's not what I'm about. Give me a moment to think about it, yeah?

 Alright, let me put it like this; why are you, little reporter, out here? You could do fine writing the boring stuff well, couldn't you? You could make a career of it. But instead, you're out late at night by the pier populated almost entirely by abandoned warehouses. So, why take the risk? Because you want to be the one who breaks the big story, right? That's it for me, too. It's about being part of something with vision; not just hurting, but being the deliverer of its purpose. And no one has more vision than the freaks I work for. They're out here to change the world, for better or worse. That kind of vision lights you up inside. Just being near it makes you feel more real. Even if they don't make it, it feels good to be a part of it.

Where was I? Right, working for Murder Man. It went like that for a couple weeks. Honestly, I was reaching the end of my rope; Murder Man didn't have any of that vision I wanted, just a little more power than your average Tom, Dick, and Harry. If it had just been another week, then I probably would have let the illicit thrill drain away, dropped the mask, and walked off. Gone back to the spreadsheets and the hunger. Scary to think about.

But that night? Some local hero, no name, might even have been their first night out, comes running through. Changed everything. Barely a costume, just some colorful streetwear, but they ran through us like a scythe through grain, like they weren't even human; something higher, something meaner. Maybe they were bitten by a radioactive squirrel, or made a deal with a ghost, or fell into a vat of magic acid or whatever. Does it matter? They were moving like nothing I've ever seen before, and that's when I knew I had to stay in the game. That kind of intensity suckered me in like nothing I'd ever seen before; I needed more, it didn't matter if I was with or against it.

Murder Man got taken in. I managed to crawl away with a broken jaw, blamed it on falling down the stairs. There's a temp agency for this stuff that I managed to get in contact with in the aftermath, one of the other henches gave me the hookup. Ever since then? Just going from boss to boss, doing what's asked. Chasing that sense of realness that comes with standing next to somebody about as unreal as it comes. That's worth any amount of dumbass cackling. That's my story; keep my name out of it if you do end up publishing it. And hey? Thanks for listening.

Now get out.