Free Crime Plus Music by Jim Fusilli Page A

into the scene—that of a man and woman warrior back to back with futuristic-looking weapons in their hands battling half-monster-reptile and half-machine creatures. He blinked, and it was if he were floating away.
    â€œAbout time you go here, brother man.”
    Gibson blinked again. Before him was Shaderoc the Deifier, the Demolisher, the Defender, the Soul Shaker. He was a big cat as Gibson had always imagined him. Six four or five and built like Mike Strahan back when or J. J. Watt now.
    â€œSheeet,” he muttered.
    Shaderoc wasn’t real. That is, Gibson looked down at his hands and they looked like . . . his hands. But this construct before him was hyper-idealized, like a live pencil drawing by comic book artist Jack Kirby, inked with fluidity by Gil Kane and colored in a combination of a bold primary palette.
    â€œWe’ve got our back up against it, Church,” said Shaderoc in his, of course, bass voice. He was hefting a retro kind of space rifle like what Dr. Funkenstein’s minions used in that movie. The weapon looked like it was made of tin and plastic. In a scabbard attached to his belt was a sword.
    Gibson realized they were in a good-sized cave and a group of people were crowded in here too. There was the fine muscled sister from the album cover in a kind of modified tiger-skin bikini with breechcloth, heavy gravity boots slinging a large, curved knife weapon like the Klingon’s bat’leth. There was Miles Davis in his Kind of Blue phase, sharp in a sharkskin suit, shades, and wielding a onyx samurai sword, the blade phasing in and out of solidity. Near him was a hunched over Chet Baker who worked the valves of his horn and out of the music end swirled color tendrils that snapped as they lashed and licked the thick air. Big Mama Thornton was in a svelte aquamarine space suit while she expertly loaded a magazine into a World War II-era Thompson submachine gun. Like a character in a Sam Fuller movie, she rolled the dead cigar stump around in her mouth.
    â€œAre you ready?” Shaderoc asked Gibson.
    Given he was unarmed and unprepared, he said, “What can I do?”
    Shaderoc looked bemused. “Bring it home, baby, bring it home.”
    â€œI want you bad,” the wet-dream woman said as she threw her body roughly against Shaderoc’s. She kissed him with lustful ferocity as he kneaded a handful of her incredible backside.
    Looking away, Gibson was handed his Telecaster by Stevie Ray Vaughan. Charlie Christian sparked a cheroot behind him. Gibson heard a screech and turning around, flying into the cave were musical notes the size of greyhounds. They undulated as they spread about, the strains of Muzak and smooth jazz. Miles was visibly shaken but rallied as an F note rushed at him, a jaw full of razor-like teeth opening in the note head. Those teeth closed in on Miles’s face but he executed a spinning move, his sword cleanly severing the note head from the stem.
    â€œTake that, motherfuckah,” he rasped.
    All about him, Shaderoc, the Tiger Woman and the musicians did battle against the invading notes. Invaders and defenders experienced losses. A ravenous note dove for him and a panicked Gibson strumming his axe on reflex. To his surprise, the sonic waves the guitar released burst the demon note into tiny pieces. A hand clamped on his shoulder. It was Shaderoc.
    â€œWith me,” the big man said, already in motion.
    Down a dark tributary to the cave they went. Gibson still was on his crutch, but he somehow kept up with Shaderoc’s long strides. From up ahead in the half-light came a blast of sound that sent Gibson onto his back and Shaderoc to his knees. Growling, venal notes swarmed about them, their teeth lunging for them and a jumble of off-key singing assailing their ears.
    Gibson had managed to sit up but he felt nauseous.
    â€œCome on, follow me, Church.” Shaderoc was back on his feet, aiming and firing his rifle, disrupting some of