Slaughter Swamp. The Gotham City limits.

The Scavenger crouched in the mud, his cloak wrapped tight around him to block the chill of the night. Mosquitoes hummed through the air, a veritable cloud of vampires, but the electro-static field generated by his body harness kept them from being much bother.

His existence centered around the art of acquisition. Tools, weapons and devices of all stripes and calibers filled his waking moments and greatly added to his sense of general comfort and well-being. The Scavenger was, by nature, a paranoid. However, that did not mean that they weren’t out to get him.

No, not ‘they’. Him. His enemy.

He shivered, suddenly filled with fear. Fear was his companion, his protector, his shield against the end. His cybernetic eye whirred and clicked, the micro-filament sensors detecting a change in the atmosphere of the swamp.

“Ah,” he said. “I knew it.”

The murky water rippled, burbled and began to froth. He stepped back from the edge, readying the weapon he held. It was a trans-temporal inducer, fashioned by Cadmus several years previous. He had acquired it through the services of several costumed individuals, though he loathed to be associated with such creatures. With practiced ease, he took aim. And waited.

The water burped and then exploded as a maggot-white hand tore through the muddy veil and clawed at the muggy air. Something horrible rose out of the muck, dead eyes gleaming, worm-lips wriggling back to display yellow, rotting teeth.

“Monday...” it gurgled. Then, louder, “MONDAY!”

“Actually, it’s Thursday,” the Scavenger said. “You’re late.”

The creature turned ponderously, hands flexing. “Thursday?”

“Yes, quite.” The Scavenger pulled the trigger. The creature lurched forward, much quicker than he had anticipated, but not quick enough. The weapon spat a swathe of nothing, and slapped the creature out of time itself, knocking it into a recursive loop of self-repeating motion. Like a film stuck on pause, it wiggled in place, frozen into the span of two seconds.

The Scavenger chuckled, feeling the warmth of satisfaction from a plan well-plotted and stepped forward to examine his newest possession. Around him, robots of various shapes and sizes buzzed forward, collecting samples of the water, the mud and the insect life. All necessary to unraveling the secrets of the creature.

Of Solomon Grundy.

“Born on a Monday,” the Scavenger murmured, his eye clicking and whirring.

DIRTY DEALS
Issue #10
SON OF A MONDAY

“So, who is he?” Cluemaster asked, sitting on the faux leather couch, his arms spread out around the shoulders of the acrobatic twin thieves known collectively as Double Dare. One of the twins twisted a curious set of fingers and the criminal yelped in pain, jerking his hands back to cradle them protectively against his chest.

“A pack rat with delusional paranoia,” the Key said, idly examining the holographic projector in his hands. He activated it again, for the tenth time in as many minutes, his oddly colored eyes roaming over the set of partial blueprints that had appeared. “This lair of his alone-”

“Time-delay bulkheads.” Clock King pointed a gloved finger at the blue print. “Here, here and here. We’ll have to be fast.”

“Why you numb-nuts were chosen,” Deadshot said. He was crouched in front of a mini-fridge, rifling through the contents. “What, no Snickers?”

The six were ensconced in a motel room in Barrow, Alaska, thanks to the Key’s teleportation systems. Outside, snow gently fell. Inside, Cluemaster had cranked the heat up as high as it would go. At least until Deadshot had shot the thermostat.

“Christ, it’s cold in here.” Cluemaster rubbed his arms. “I’m freezing.”

“I’m not,” Deadshot said. “So shut up.”

“Make me.”

CLICK. The sound of the wrist gun clicking to life was loud in the room. Cluemaster held up his hands.

“Shutting up.”

“Glad to hear it,” Deadshot said, popping the tab on a beer. He looked at the can and clucked his tongue. “Cans. Classy joint.”

“I like the ambiance.” The Key didn’t look up as he spoke, his thin, pointed tongue rooting around beneath his lips. “It soothes me.”

“You know what would soothe me?” Cluemaster asked.

“No one cares. Three point five seconds,” Clock King said.

“Hey!”

“Off by point five,” Clock King grimaced. “Have to check my internal clock.” He looked at Deadshot. “Who are you working for?”

“Who says I’m working for anyone?”

“Please.” Clock King sounded smug.

“Do you honestly need to know?”

“Honestly? No. I’m happy to be out and about, but…”

“But?”

“But.” Clock King gave a shrug. “There it is. Two point six seconds.”

CLICK.

“Got it this time,” Clock King said, snapping his fingers and blithely ignoring the wrist magnum pressed to his forehead. “Back on track.”

“Ever so happy for you.” Deadshot lowered his arm and smirked. “Let’s get down to brass tacks, kiddies. My employer-”

“Told you.”

“Quiet. My employer wants me to make contact with this guy. Your job is to see that I do that.” Deadshot gestured with his can, slopping beer onto the floor. “Savy?”

“Easy-peasy-cheesy,” the Key said. He looked up, as if noticing the others for the first time. “I can open this lock.”

“You sure?” Deadshot asked. The Key licked his lips.

“Sure as sure can be.”

“When?”

“How’s now?” The Key lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. Light flared and the cold vanished, to be replaced by the heat of a warm day. Somewhere, birds chirped.

“Where are we?” one of the twins chirped, looking at her sister.

“Smells like cows,” the other replied.

“Texas,” Deadshot said. He looked at the Key. “Really? Texas?”

“Right now. It’s a ‘Castle Revolving’.”

“A what?”

“A stationary object that ‘revolves’ through time and space,” Cluemaster supplied. “Highly theoretical.”

“Theory went out the window a while back.” Clock King looked around. He pulled on his mask after a moment and stretched. “Good place for it, though.”

“Yeah. If you say so,” Deadshot replied. “So, it’s right here?”

“No. Right there.” The Key pointed at a spot a few feet away. In the distance, a bull bellowed. “To be exact.”

“Oh yes, let’s do be exact,” one of the twins said.

“Exact is good,” the other agreed. “Especially when it comes time to pay us, oui?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Deadshot waved a hand. “When the job is done, kids.”

“As good a speech to start us off as any, I suppose,” the Key said, hopping forward in his awkward, insectile way. He raised his thin hands, like a maestro preparing a symphony. Something shimmered as he moved his fingers.

“What-” Cluemaster said.

“Nanogenetic molecular reimbursement.” Clock King sounded intrigued. “He’s rewriting reality in a six by six patch in order to reveal the door. How wonderful.”

“What, did you get a subscription to Scientific American while you were inside?”

“Something like that,” Clock King said, hands clasped behind his back, his odd, featureless mask revealing no expression. Clad in a green bodysuit, he resembled nothing so much as some for of strange reptile. “I used my time to better myself. You?”

“I got a nicotine addiction. And I can make a shiv,” Cluemaster said, rubbing his face under his blue bandana. He was clad in his old orange bodysuit, with his trick-vest over it. “Y’know, useful stuff.”

“Can it,” Deadshot said. “I hear something.”

The sound came from everywhere and nowhere-a queer grinding noise, like massive gears coming to an abrupt halt. Something much like a heat-shimmer cut the air with a sound like tearing paper and then, in a gradual reverse fade, a wall of Apokalyptian steel was revealed.

The door was a thing of red-veined black metal, its shape constantly shifting and surging as it adapted itself second by second to the world around it.

“Oh my, how…beautiful,” the Key said softly. “I can hear it. It’s singing to me…” He trailed off dreamily, staring at the door.

“Six point two minutes until the castle finishes its revolution.” Clock King looked at Deadshot. “Estimated.”

“Key?”

“Roger-dodger-codger,” the Key said, snapping to and stepping forward, long fingers cracking in anticipation. “Open wide, my sweet, and let daddy in.”

Alarms blared, shrieking their mad song and jolting the Scavenger out of his examination of the hulking shape suspended in the control tube. He bit back a scream of frustration and snapped his fingers summoning liquid-gel screens into existence, as the nanocameras began whirling around the entire surface of his lair, examining everything. A grotesque shape danced wildly at the front door, a wild shape, a cackling mad thing which was, somehow, opening his door.

No one could open his door. That was why he had the door. So that no one could open it. This wasn’t possible. Not at all. No.

“Stop it,” he said, out loud. His voice echoed in the room. No one replied, of course. There was no one to reply. And that was just the way he intended to keep it. He looked around his sanctum, thinking of weapons and dismissing them instantly.

“No, no, no, no,” he said, cybernetic eye whirring and clicking. “Hurr.” He turned, looking up at the control tube and what floated within.

His newest weapon. One of a kind. He frowned, weighing, judging, thinking.

It needed a test. He had installed control systems, of course. But the only way to be sure…

He decided, finger jabbing the release button. The tube flashed and then, the shape was gone, displaced to the point of trouble. He brought several cameras up on the scene, determined to record every bit of footage there was to be had.

One way or another, it would be interesting.

There was a ripping sound, and then there was a roar of hatred that set the cows to screaming. A dead white fist thundered out of nowhere and caught Deadshot in the back of the head, sending him sprawling. He rolled through the dust, limp and unconscious.

Clock King and Cluemaster whirled. Double Dare was already in motion, twin forms darting towards the hulking, swamp-stink shrouded shape that towered over them.

“Is that-” Cluemaster began. Clock King nodded.

“Yes.”

“BORN ON A MONDAY!” Solomon Grundy roared, raising his fists to the sky, red eyes blazing. The Key turned slightly at the sound.

“I almost have the door open. Keep him busy, yes?”

TO BE CONTINUED

Next issue: Hey, look, it’s Solomon Grundy! How is this distinctly low-powered version of the Secret Six going to do against the undead powerhouse? And who will be left standing to face the next threat the Scavenger has up his sleeve?