Author's Note: This is my own story, where I invited other authors on Twisting the Hellmouth to share their contributions.
Despite its name, its clientele, and the fact that it was located in its own pocket dimension, the Henchman's Bar was just like any other watering hole throughout the Multiverse. It was the cherished hangout for an assortment of minions, goons, underlings, and the like from all known times, existences, and realities that gathered together after a hard day at work, gratefully downed their brewskies, and then enjoyed a chance to safely grouse among themselves about their boss's latest stupid scheme. Much later on in the evening, if they were lucky, the newbies on their first visit to the bar would be the recipients of various, mostly-drunken, handy tips on how to survive working for people whose idea of employee relations was to expect absolute obedience for such orders as, "You there, what's-your-name, get ready to single-handedly fight off the Justice League while I escape through the secret tunnel!"
Over the years, a spot at the back of the bar, by the bulletin board with its bowling league sign-up sheet, had become covered with graffiti that presented some of the more sensible advice dispensed by uncredited, third-rank, subordinates before they'd passed out at their tables. On the wall by the phone nook, diverse beings had scraped with flint knives, hacked with battleaxes, and burned into the plaster using their laser pistols such hard-won pearls of wisdom as:
THE JOKER HAS NO SENSE OF HUMOR REGARDING THE JOY-BUZZER GAG BEING USED ON HIM.
IF YOUR DARK LORD INSISTS ON WEARING A CAPE, ALWAYS HANG BACK A FEW PACES WHILE MARCHING AFTER HIM; THEY GET REALLY CRANKY WHEN YOU STEP ON THIS.
IT'S NOT A GOOD IDEA TO ATTRACT LEX LUTHOR'S ATTENTION BY YELLING, "HEY, BALDY!"
NEVER GOOSE SAURON.