Last Minion Standing

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“I need a minion,” I announced suddenly.

My best friend Jezebel, more commonly known as Jezzie, whom I’d grown up with in the pit known as Hell, looked up from her issue of Demon’s Duds and frowned. “What do you need a minion for?”

“If I’m going to be hunting down scummy souls and sending them back to Hell then that kind of makes me a superhero, right?”

“I guess,” said Jezzie slowly. “So why the need for a minion?”

“Don’t all superheroes have a minion?” Redundant question, as I’d watched all the movies and had read like a zillion comic books—Batman had Robin, Hercules was followed around by the weird satyr, Han Solo had Chewie. If I wanted fame—and the other side of the coin, fortune—I needed a lackey of my own, someone to enhance my awesomeness. Besides, I’d grown tired of fetching my own coffee and dry cleaning.

Jezzie’s face cleared in understanding and she laughed. “I think you mean a sidekick.”

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