Chapter 3: Such Choleric Character
This fight is foolish and exhausting. After scrapping a few minutes, Dr. Mid-Nite realizes a few things. For one, he can only flip immense Solomon Grundy so many times. The doctor is going to have a sciatica soon. For another, Solomon is like solid stone. A man can sock him hard—even in a sweet spot—without hurting him a bit. And, conversely, Grundy's punches can wreck a warehouse post of concrete—causing overhead girders to ominously groan. Furthermore, Solomon Grundy is an undying fiend who can take rifle fire without keeling over, or feeling the bullets much at all. Hopefully, the Brooklyn Army Terminal has a stored bazooka—or howitzer—to stop this rampaging hulk. Currently, soldiers shoot the sizable sot, but their bullets but bounce off.
"Solomon Grundy have a fun day and 'un' thee!" announces the ogre.
The ogre's opponent, Mid-Nite, knocks a wooden board across knobby knuckles—to no effect. Solomon's thrown fist continues forward and forcefully hits chest—sending superhero flying. Grundy's foe skips and skids along the warehouse aisle. Snarling goliath stomps after.
"Get up, little man," Grundy goads, "Jennings said to beat you up but not to kill you."
"Well, that no-kill command was awfully considerate," the Master of Darkness rubs his sternum and rises, "I should rather like to meet this gent Jennings after he sicked Solomon Grundy on me."
"But," adds the undead goon, "he didn't say anything about making you sick with broken bones. So . . . aaah. So, Imma gonna do that!" A wide, white hand swipes.
Dr. Mid-Nite ducks and tumbles backward. Once upright, he beans the brute with a blackout bomb. Then, he runs for cargo that might provide cover. There, he calls to soldiers to bombard liberally. Grenades lob in, and grease guns strafe. Incensed Solomon Grundy swats black smoke from his sightline. Despite himself, Mid-Nite swallows hard, for he realizes that the surrounding freight could be full of flammables and explosives. The grenades detonate while the rounds ding and sting.
Grundy weathers the combined blast like a Looney Tune. His clothes are terribly tattered, and his being is besmirched. But, the daffy demolition does not do him in. He is simply left as exceptionally ornery as Yosemite Sam. And, he plans to get the rabbit who just crossed him.
"Mid-Nite!" the behemoth bellows, "I'm going to tear you apart and take your leather to my tailor!" He doesn't mean Charles' tunic.
Suddenly, Hooty swoops past and plucks a big hunk of a howling hulk's hair.
"Ah! Grundy grawlix!"
The owl sidekick is sneaky to assail Solomon Grundy so; however, the animal is not so astute when it flies directly to its master. You see, the birdbrain gives away his position! Normally, the monster is cretinous as coffee grounds. However, unfortunately, this is the one time Crook Kong is sufficiently clever to critically calculate. Caterwauling, the colossal creep charges through cargo and containers. He is going to catch Mid-Nite and crunch him heinously. Doc desperately prepares.
However, fortuitously, a dozen supply soldiers charge in and swarm giant Solomon like the Green Bay Packers. They prick impotently with bayonets and trench knives, but big Grundy just grunts grouchily over the wee gouges. Hopping and mad, Cap. Storm cheers them on. Solomon Grundy shoves, slugs, swings, slaps, swats himself free of fighters. From the side, stalwart Storm signals the sizable s.o.b. to come and combat him. Surreptitiously, the sly Storm buys Dr. Mid-Nite some time to determine sound tactics. Along that line, the Loser shouts a strategy. As the abominable ogre arrives, Cap. Bill blurts of big bombs stored deep in the Brooklyn base, and he points in their direction. Then, Grundy lobs the Loser over land and sea into the Upper Bay where the old tar splashes down.
The wild brute bellows at the sky like the Nemean Lion. Then, his boot heels swivel so that he might stalk his midnight prey. Hobnail hoofers hastily tromp toward Dr. Mid-Nite's last position. By gum, Grundy will hunt down the hero and rip him in half—just as the horror's handlers told him to do!
However, the hero surprisingly makes the hunting easy. He steps into plain sight and sounds off—getting Grundy's attention. When the awful oaf looks, Mid-Nite flares his green cape wide and challenges the chalky chimera to come charging. Solomon does. So, the superman sprints stage right toward Storm's recommended explosives. The Societarian supposes that an M64 munition will do some good this night. The medical corpsman knows that it sure did in Europe. Hooty bobs on Mid-Nite's shoulder and seems to nod in assent.
Promptly, the swashbuckler sharply rounds a warehouse corner while his fearsome foe pursues. A brown glove swipes a grease can from a shelf and sprays the contents on the aft floor. The slick spot should produce a pratfall nicely. That buys Mid-Nite some time and distance. If a man can spread some adhesive over the floor, the clever champion plans to do that too, to flippantly frustrate furious Grundy. With a fine lead, Dr. Mid-Nite hears Solomon Grundy slip, spill, and swear. The Justice Societarian smiles—although in a gravest situation.
Somewhere miles away, Dr. Charles McNider's girl Friday is likewise in a serious situation. A flying saucer descends in the vicinity of McNider's manse. And, although awake at this hour, Myra Mason does not notice it, for she is captivated by a book in the domicile's study. The nurse always stays up when her man Dr. Mid-Nite is out doing his good deeds. He may need her caring services upon his return. Therefore, she enjoys some java and literature at a late hour by electric light.
Past the drawn curtains and outside her window, a Dr. Jennings approaches with eight very strange companions. Although a doctor, Jennings is no colleague of McNider or even Mason. Rather, he knows physics, engineering, and rocket science like a Goddard. In fact, he once even took a party to Mars—where he met his companions. On a straight trajectory, Jennings makes for the front door where one may knock. In this earlier era, everyone is a bit more trusting of anybody, even a late-night visitor. Even if one is a lone woman at a dark hour. She may kindly answer the door and politely invite him in.
Jennings' comrades could easily overtake him and smash their way in. The extraterrestrial Kriglo stand twelve feet over ground, and they have six powerful legs by which to locomote. However, the Spider-Men of Mars suppose that, when on Earth, do as earthling Jennings directs, at least for now.
One Martian's ultramodern machine quickly scans the entire manor with x-rays. He reports that Myra is alone and her exact location. The invaders from Mars have her right where they want her.
Back in Brooklyn, a berserk beast barrels through the prodigious tarpaulin blinding him. Dr. Mid-Nite dropped a parachute upon Grundy. The undead ogre emerges—to an immediate barrage. From a distance, Dr. Mid-Nite pegs the possessed palooka with tools from an open kit-box. Solid wrenches strike and rap nasty noggin. A circular blade—delivered like a discus—slices a swarthy suit sleeve. Still, savage Solomon sinisterly approaches. A hero's glove holds inverted a sizable screwdriver as Tomahawk might manage a knife. Grundy nears. Then, like Scalphunter, Mid-Nite impeccably pitches the rod right into an eye socket! Solomon stops and screams. He grasps the sticker, surpassingly smarting. The super swipes a sledgehammer and skitters to the side—where he shoos off Hooty. The owl's safety matters to McNider. Hooty hurries from the bombs thronging this bay.
Hefting his mallet, Mid-Nite calls out, "Hey, monster, make for the hills. Otherwise, I'm ending you—with a bang."
The sledgehammer head swings high. It hastily approaches an M64 warhead—but stops but short.
Solomon Grundy extracts icky implement from askew orb. He says, "Solomon may be stupid, but even he can see you die too when the bomb detonates. You be blown to bits, Dr. Mid-Nite."
"Exactly," the Master of Darkness elucidates, "There is actually enough explosive in this bay of bombs to obliterate even you forevermore. Exit the area now, Grundy. Obviously, I can't successfully subdue you, so slaughtering you—even if it means self-sacrifice—is my sole option." Of course, Dr. Mid-Nite is bluffing, but his balderdash could successfully scare off the rampaging buffoon.
Perhaps, Solomon Grundy gets the bluff; perhaps, he does not. Either way, he gruffly answers, "Grundy does not care if a colossal concussion casts his carrion carcass from here to Connecticut. He has wanted to die ever since the day when angry Gilded Age Gothamites hanged him and then dropped him into Slaughter Swamp where strange forces took his eternal sleep [see All-American Comics #61]. Kill Solomon Grundy if you can."
The hero hesitates and wishes that he had help from the Justice Society.
Suddenly, from above, deus ex machina, comes a great green glove. The huge hand grabs Grundy tight and takes him away. Above, Green Lantern glibly levitates beneath the rafters and lights.
"Need a hand?" he quips.
Mid-Nite cracks a smile, quite grateful for Green Lantern. Solomon Grundy snarls instead. He spits at Alan Scott, but his slimy saliva only sails so far. The faux fingers affixed the fiend snake fantastically around his figure. Then, they change into thick, adamantine chains that Lantern extends far out of the warehouse chamber. The glowing links go to great lengths beyond Grundy's or Mid-Nite's sight, and Green Lantern seems to be concentrating greatly, as though the wizard would work a wily trick.
A ways away, Cap. Storm swims along a luminescent, lime line leading him ashore from the drink, and the bright circlets continue a distance underwater after that. In fact, for a fleeting moment, Green Lantern has a construct stretching 106,000 feet or—that is to say—twenty miles. Five leagues or so distant, the continental shelf sits with a whopping anchor momentarily suspended over it. With a wink, Lantern lets the anchor plummet. It pulls pealing Grundy off with grand force and speed. He grates and peels over the terminal's ground past the GIs he drubbed and Dr. Light's gruesome remains. Like a Rube Goldberg gadget, the tackle takes Solomon past the shipyard and briskly into Upper Bay. He is in deep now. Then, like in Gardner Fox fiction, the chain flows into the oceanic abyss at an impossible speed yanking a roaring yahoo to Davy Jones' locker.
On shore, impressed Dr. Mid-Nite asks, "Is he gone?"
"Are any evil-doers ever forever gone?" Green Lantern shrugs, "Spectre or Dr. Fate could perhaps permanently zap a zombie. My magical capabilities simply sensed something sinister and supernatural while I was on night patrol over New York. So, I came to the Army's assistance. I am glad that you are also here."
"Yeah, well, glad to still be here," Mid-Nite mentions, "Good ol' Grundy is tough."
The showy superhero assures, "You distinguish yourself well against any foe, from Killer Maroni to Ultra-Humanite, my friend."
"Thanks, I try," Charles accepts the compliment.
Alan asks, "So, why was our revenant so restless this night? What was he stealing or destroying?"
"Stinky Sol seemed to be after me," Dr. Mid-Nite scratches his chin some, "I am not the World's Greatest Detective. However, my inkling is that he was a decoy or distraction meant to occupy me."
"Hmmm," Lantern's lips purse, "Distract you from what where?"
Mid-Nite shrugs, "I have two guesses. Someone either threatens my loved one Myra or plans to steal my most prize possessions. Both are at home right now."
"You should get home then," a glittering hand gestures to go.
"Agreed," assents Doc.
"Doiby Dickles is a cabbie that I know should you need one fast," friend Lantern offers.
"I am okay, chum," the Master of Darkness waves tootle-loo, "Hooty and I brought the Midnight-mobile. I am not always dandy at driving during the day. But, at night, I am excellent."
"Well, good," Green Lantern accepts the odd comment. He does not know that Dr. Charles McNider is blind during daylight but sighted in the night.