George sat at a table at Gilligan's, nursing a beer. He felt like biting his nails in nervousness. For the umpteenth time, he looked at his watch. He sighed. It was barely two minutes since he'd last done so: ten after six. He ran a hand through greasy hair, surveying the room. Bare walls that were no less bare for the photographs that covered them, a bartender who could've been eighty to look at, but probably wasn't over forty, a floor sticky and stained with spilled alcohol and the drunks that cluttered the corners… he'd been coming here for over a year, and it was still the most depressing place he knew, excepting a few apartments.

"Mr. Wilson?" He turned slowly, sizing up the man in front of him. He was five four, tops, which was enough to make him stand out here. The pleasant smile on his middle-aged features and extended hand only served to amplify the strangeness of his presence. George reached forward and grasped the hand, pulling the surprised newcomer down to the table.

"Knock it off, willya?" he hissed. "Guys here are gonna think I'm talkin' to a narc."

"S-Sure. Sorry. But you are George Wilson, right?"

He sighed. This guy was an idiot. "Yes. Now, whaddya say we take this somewhere quiet?" The man nodded as they stood to go.

It wasn't until they were halfway to a friend's place that George thought to ask the other's name.

"Oh, I'm Earnest."

"Course you are," George muttered, resisting the urge to smack himself in the forehead. This had been a terrible idea.

…

He was calmer by the time they arrived at his friend's apartment. Mike wasn't the nicest of guys, but you could trust him; so long as they had his permission to be there, he wouldn't interrupt. Earnest, whose last name, he'd learned, was Parker, was looking around in excited curiosity, scrawling in a little notepad. He seemed utterly oblivious to his surroundings; belatedly, George wondered how someone clearly lacking in self-awareness could become a reporter. Of course, that was probably why he'd been assigned to "human interest": there were only so many ways he could get himself into trouble. 'Better question is, what th' hell am I doin' here?'

George soundlessly directed him to an overstuffed armchair that seemed one rip away from collapse. He sat down gingerly as George turned a wooden chair around and sat on it backwards, lacing his fingers over the back.

"So, this is all confidential, right? 'Cause I hadda promise my friend it was. This is his place."

Earnest nodded eagerly. "Of course, of course. It's the only way we could get people to speak to us."

'People?' he thought. 'Who're the others? Best not to ask.' Instead, he spread his hands wide and smiled sarcastically. "So," he said brightly. "Where d'ya wanna start?"

Earnest was fiddling around with a tape recorder. He looked up and smiled. "Don't worry. I'll take notes on it later, and I'll leave out any details that could point to your identity or those of anyone you talk about." He placed it on a small end table and extended a microphone. "Now, how'd you get into this line of work?"

He shrugged. "I knew a guy who knew a guy who specialized in this sorta thing."

"'This sort of thing?' What do you mean?"

"Well, y'see, it's like, ah, Supply n' Demand." He relaxed, warming to his subject. "There are lotsa guys that're outta work or in the fact'ries, and they'd kill for these jobs – not literally, y'know, 'cept a few," he added hastily. "Anyway, some guys are sorta like talent scouts. They goes around, and if they like ya, then they'll recommend ya ta someone good. If not… well, y'know, there ain't nothin' wrong wit' bein' in the streets, 'cept it's awful cold."

He paused, remembering his own stint of homelessness when he was young. Earnest gestured at him to go on, giving him a look that was not unsympathetic. He cleared his throat.

"Right, so my friend calls this guy, and the guy comes an' looks at me, and he puts the word out to some bosses he's in good with, an' one a' them gives me a second look. Next thing ya know, I got a offer. Now, I ain't been outta work for more than a coupla weeks at a time for more n'a year. So…" He trailed off.

Earnest nodded. "How many bosses have you worked for?"

That one was easy. "Three."

An eyebrow shot up. "Three? In a year?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, they gets arrested, and they kin fire ya, so act'lly, I haven't worked for a lot, not like some a the guys I know, who's worked for ten or eleven."

"Alright." He glanced at a sheet of questions. "Are there people who are better or worse to work for?"

"Well, yeah, of course. It's all about weighin' the risks. I mean, in Gotham or Metropolis, there's more of a chance you'll get caught, but the bosses know that, so they pay more. An' some a the bosses are mean. They'll hit ya for bein' late, or crackin' a joke at a bad time, so ya wanna avoid them. Plus, there're some guys, 'specially in Gotham, who're just nuts. I mean, the Joker'll shoot ya for forgettin' to laugh at somethin' he thinks is funny, or for laughin' at somethin' else."

"Given the choice, you would you work for?"

He thought about it. "Not sure, but prolly someone in Metropolis."

"Why?"

"'Cause Superman may beat ya up for breakin' the law, but he'll chat wit' ya too. He'll tell ya ta look into the rehabilitation program, and he'll offer ta give ya references. He's nice, ya know? But o course, since that don't matter to most guys, the pay's still through the roof."

"Do you ever think you're doing the wrong thing?"

"You mean, do I have a conscience? Yeah, of course. But it's just parta the job, shuttin' it off. Ya don't feel great about it, but that's life. Ya don't really have a choice, and you ain't seriously hurtin' mosta them. That's no excuse, I know, but I sleep at night just fine, even though I ain't no sociopath."

"Do you ever want to retire form henchwork?"

"Every day. But that's real rare, since they don't pay ya too much, and you end up blowin' mosta it on broads and booze."

"Are most henchmen single?"

"Yeah, 'cause once ya get married, ya don't wanna risk gettin' hurt or arrested, 'cause they need ya, right? There're always a few, though. I even met a coupla guys shacked up wit' henchgirls, 'cause they get it, ya know?"

"Sure." Another look at the sheet. "Are you in a relationship?"

"Yep." He smiled dreamily. "Mel. 'S short for Melody. She sings. Wanna see a picture?" The other man nodded and he pulled out a small photo. They were at the carnival, sharing an order of cotton candy, laughing at some silly joke she'd made. It was unbelievably corny and childish, but he loved it anyway.

"Uh, didja want anythin' else?"

"Let's see… No, that's it." He stood and shook George's hand. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Wilson." Then he turned and left without a word.