I'd dress 'em up in Neddie Jingo uniforms -- straw boaters, Tattersall vests, white sack suits (after Memorial Day) an' string ties with the "NJ" crest on 'em. Arm garters. Sharp!
They'd follow me around, awaiting my every nefarious bidding. I'd tell 'em, "Do this! Do that! Beat up that superhero! Rustle me up some eggs!" And they'd do it, 'cos they're my henchmen. They'd have to. Help with the yardwork, too. Vacuuming.
They'd hench like it was going out of style. Henching, henching, all the livelong day. I'd pay 'em good money, too, for their henching services. Give 'em a percentage of the take. It's what good arch-villains do. Good henchmen don't come cheap.
In my lair high atop Gotham City, I'd gather my henchmen around. "Lefty," I'd say, "Is the Jingomobile gassed up? Have you polished the chrome on the Atomic Osterizer that we may accomplish world domination in style and elegance?" And Lefty would grit in his Bowery growl, "Yeah, boss." "Highpockets, have you phoned Commissioner Gordon and and guilelessly informed him of the spurious rash of break-ins in the Diamond District, that every blue-clad boobie be bamboozled into browsing for bogus baddies?" And Highpockets, agape at my alliterative skill, would reply, "You bet your bippie, boss!" "Then, henchmen, let us unfold our evil plans! Away! Careful of the tilted floor! These camera angles are murder!"
Or maybe some dacoits. Turbanned demons from the deepest reaches of the Subcontinent, maddened on hashish and heathenism, awaiting their master's every depraved command. Yeah. Dacoits.