"I WAS BORN IN THE USA"

Biker had no idea how that password popped into his mind, but it certainly got him in. At that lonely building, the truth of the conspiracy behind the masked massacres exposed itself on the lit up screen. The password, a call to arms, assembled text files, e-mail exchanges, everything that pointed to the truth.

The flashy killer started reading through, at first in interest, and then in disgust. Every killing in Miami – even most of the ones he himself made – were plotted to advance a pro-American agenda to topple the Russo-American Coalition. Sure, he himself was bloodthirsty and joined up with this 50 Blessings thing for sport, but he had no patience for fascists. He felt like heading into that nearby sewer to bury his cleaver in some nationalist scumbags, but a certain e-mail caught his eye. One e-mail had an address.

To the headquarters for this secret nationalist agenda.

Biker glanced at the manhole that led below the building and shook his head. Forget about these small fry. He'll probably get a more satisfying resolution from the guy in charge. Placing that weird creepy janitor that looks like a game dev in the back of his mind, Biker left the building. He hoisted himself onto his bike, destination memorized, determined to find resolution to this whole stupid thing.

The workers at the office Biker found himself in stepped out of his way, eyeing him uneasily as he passed, blades in hand. They didn't seem hostile, but Biker kept a grip on his cleaver and throwing knives, just in case. Even if all these people were bystanders, there's the demon that stands at the end of his journey.

Biker found himself before a large mahogany door that spoke of opulence and arrogance. Suspiciously, he did not run into any resistance – there weren't even any security guards to bug him. Maybe they were waiting for him, just beyond the door. Keeping a tight grip on a throwing knife, Biker kicked the door down, prepared to throw.

What greeted him was not a gang of armed men, not a single gun.

But a man that sat behind a desk.

"Kicking in my door is rude." He said. "Well I'm Donald Trump, welcome."

The man crossed his arms, regarding Biker arrogantly.

"You're one of the masked killers, right? Congratulations. What does it feel like? You must feel like a winner, right? To fight for the American cause?"

"I don't care about your cause. What I'm wondering is if you actually had the brains to think this would work." Biker said to him. "You can't just topple the Russo-American Coalition, especially with a plan this batshit."

"Sure I can!" Trump slammed his hands on the desk. "It's not about wiping out the Ruskies, but making America strong again! See, at first I thought about building up this wall, a great big wall that will keep the Russian immigrants out, but my contacts in government thought that was absurd, and you know what, they were right – a wall will just make it look like America is hiding, see. We are not a country of cowards, and that's where 50 Blessings come in! No government affiliation no roadblocks, just hardworking Americans doing this country proud!"

Biker stared at him from behind his helmet's visor. "…Why use masks though?"

"Have you ever seen a chicken in an alley way? Real scary stuff. You don't mess with chickens and you don't mess with America."

Biker faintly remembered an encounter with a chicken man. Chicken man beat the shit out of him but stumbled away like a drunk guy – probably hallucinating or something.

He had to concede that the man had a point. Still though…

"Have you thought about the consequences of all this? Do you think Russia will be happy about this?"

"Of course they won't be! But America is strong, and we will beat back whatever the Ruskies have to throw at us!" Donald Trump declared.

Biker glanced around. "You do realize that I can just kill you and be on my way, right?"

"Ha! It doesn't matter if you kill me!" The man stood up, gesticulating wildly. "We have operations all over the country! Even if I die, my spirit will keep the patriotic spirit alive, that I can guarantee!"

Biker stared at him, wondering if he's truly that deluded, and if he'd actually be satisfied killing him.

Then, he just threw his arms up. "You know what? You're a fucking idiot. 50 Blessings is going to fail and if anything bad happens to this country, it's all on you, dipshit." With that, Biker turned and left.

"He's right, you know." A person wearing a chicken mask standing in the shadows said to Donald Trump, who was too busy patting himself on the back for "scaring off Biker".

"You know nothing! You all know nothing!" Trump shouted at his hallucination. "50 Blessings will make America great again!"

Donald Trump cheered to himself in his office, after watching the news report of the assassination of the Russian president and that cowardly American president. "I told you so!" He shouted at the rooster headed man in the corner.

The hallucination merely turned its head to look out the windows of Donald Trump's office, watching a bright light form all of a sudden in the distance. "I should be saying that to you."

Meanwhile, a drifter sat at a bar, drinking away the last moments of his life. He didn't even need to look outside to know what was happening.

"That fucking idiot."