Drone Ant Man owned this part of Drone Town. With his glitching suit of teal promises and inky drone helmet, he ran a abandoned car showroom with vehicles that could zip you all the way back to 1985 and still be back in time for dinner at the Drone Diner.
Swamp Rats was his band and he pasted their bill posters all over this part of Drone Town; more a statement than advertising, he was past selling the dream.
The cars still ran, technically. You'd turn the key, the dash would flicker through a decade it had never lived in, and the whole thing would fold you back to 1985 — windows down, FM static, the suburb still believing in itself. Drone Ant Man let you take one out on one condition: you came back. Most people came back. The ones who didn't, he never chased. He'd seen the figures.
The Drone Diner kept his table by the window. Black coffee, no order taken — they knew him. He'd sit under the glitch of his own helmet and watch the tail-lights pull out toward the edge of town, where the road stopped resolving and went to blocks.
