***

“We should call for backup,” Ian said.

“We got this,” Hunter mumbled.

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“I think we have to slice off its antennas.”

“Flutes aren’t great at slicing.”

“Have you thought about a more practical weapon? Are you married to ‘The Piper’ theme?”

“You’re wearing a flannel robe, flip flops and call yourself ‘Psamurai’. You don’t get to advise me on a theme.”

“I don’t call myself ‘Psamurai’.”

“That’s how you sign your autographs now.”

“Now’s our chance,” Hunter pointed to an ultra-violet, glowing ant the size of a Great Dane reviewing the television sets in a store window, “It’s channel surfing.”

The ant wiggled its antennae at a television tuned to an old martial arts program. The onscreen combatants were pulled from the screen in flashes of test patterns and static. The kung fu legends rippled and waved, and were silhouetted with detuned fuzz and drenched in oversaturated colors. They raced toward Ian and Hunter and engaged them in highly stylized and choreographed martial combat. They batted away the bizarre and ineffective attacks of the apparitions from black belt theater. Ian and Hunter struck their attackers into stuttering movie reel countdowns that evaporated into white noise. In their place stood a man with exquisite hair and a cheap suit.

“Kent Malloy?” Ian questioned the low-rez apparition, “From the News at Ten?”

“Tonight’s top story,” the man said in a practiced baritone, “Psamurai and The Piper get canceled.”

Ian struck the man and he dissolved. He caught a glimpse of the giant ant pulling Dorothy Zbornak from a large screen.

“Knock it off, Video Drone,” Ian scolded, “It’s 10 a.m. on a Wednesday morning. There’s nothing you can use against us. Just surrender quietly. I’m sure the authorities will be willing to…”

Dorothy punched Ian square on the nose. Hunter looked away, covered his eyes, bit down on his lower lip and thrust his blade, rendering Dorothy into a dissipating cloud of noise.

“I’ll cut your antennas off for that, you haploid son of a bitch,” Hunter shouted.

Video Drone scanned the televisions and his attention was drawn to Michael Landon and Victor French. As he dragged his feelers over the screens a crackling sound was heard, followed by the smell of ozone. Ray, Cletus, and Abby, appeared, sitting on the ground, in the crackling anomaly growing before Ian and Hunter. Ray was dazed, the others were unconscious.

“PBS?” Hunter pointed his sword in Ray’s face, “History Channel?”

Ray thrust out his palms and Hunter flew spinning against the building across the street, his katana clanking to the ground. Ray turned his hands toward Ian and he backed away.

“It seems clear you’re not one of Video Drone’s,” Ian said holding his hands out to calm Ray, “So there’s no quarrel between us.”

“Who’s Video Drone?” Ray coughed and tipped forward, onto his elbow.

Ian pointed to the glowing ant.

“Yeesh,” he grimaced, pulled out a pistol and shot it. Video Drone rolled to his back.

Ray pulled himself up, slung Abby and Cletus over each shoulder, wobbling to and fro.

“Sir?” Ian said, “You probably shouldn’t be exerting yourself like…”

A car honked its horn. Another driver yelled for them to clear the street. Ray took off on a gust of wind and flitted in the updrafts on the side of a highrise and out of sight among the rooftops. Hunter and Ian watched as he disappeared, looked at each other and shook their heads.

“This town is going to the dogs,” Hunter grumbled, “Is the ant okay?”

“I don’t know how to check an ant’s pulse."