An Exploding Ally XXXIX.

The backboard was broken, the hoop askew, and the net long since retired by a ring of knotted shoelaces—but the asylum court still rang out with the squeak of sneakers and the thud of a basketball.

"Got any thoughts on how Democrats and Republicans are doing these days?" Bird asked, flipping the ball behind his back to Abe.

Abe caught it with one arm—chainsaw off—and spun around, faking left.

He didn't shoot yet.

He glared at Bird. Then out into the haze, where the ocean moaned against the cliffs as if it was sick of hearing humans fight.

"I'll tell you, son," Abe said, dribbling once, his boots scraping against concrete. "In my day, we shed blood over principle. Nowadays? They are the same wings of one dying bird."

He shot. It swished—somehow.

"You got one side," he said, grabbing the rebound off the wall, "preaching empathy in gold leaf on their CVs. Shouting 'for justice from behind twenty-foot gates and private jets. Posturing as fighting for the oppressed and holding fundraisers that are pricier than an immigrant family's yearly rent."

He stopped. Glared at Bird straight in the face.

"Preaching free speech—'til someone disagrees. Then it's pitchforks and hashtags and excommunication. That isn't empathy. That's ideology wearing 'empathy like a Halloween mask."

Bird blinked. "Damn."

"And the other side?" Abe went on, switching hands mid-dribble, "They constructed an entire identity upon fear. Fear of the outsider. Fear of the future. Fear of anything that isn't precisely what they're familiar with."

He braked at the arch. Spun the ball on one finger. He revved his chainsaw hand slightly, as if in warning.

"Talk about illegal immigration like it's war, but some of them spit the same venom at legal immigrants too. People who came here to build, like my grandpappy did. Like the Irish did. Like the Chinese did on the damn railroads."

Zenkichi tossed him the ball again. Abe caught it without breaking stride.

"And both of them?" he said, at last facing the basket.

"They're not that different. Not where it matters."

The ball escaped Abe's fingertips—smooth release, dead-center trajectory.

Swish.

They're both too busy dancing," he grumbled, watching it fall. "Dancing for the wealthy. Puppets with improved PR. One is the savior, the other is the sheriff, but the script?" He gazed up at the sky, mouth pinched. "By the same ten billionaires behind the curtain." 

The ball rolled away, sounding against the concrete like a slowing heartbeat.

Silence lay over the broken asylum court. Wind kicked up dust. A crow cried out in the distance, as if it had just heard the news.

Hiroki leaned against the rusty fence, arms crossed, a smile pulling at his lips. "Are you always this blunt?" 

Abe turned. Gradually. Hat low over his eyes, beard glinting. He had the look of heavy eyes—not one of anger, but of time. Of knowing.

"Honesty," he declared, voice gruff, "cost me a theater box and half my skull." He smiled crookedly. "Figure I paid upfront."

No one laughed.

Zenkichi's fingers strained on the ball. Shotaro simply stood, immobile, as though the world had slowed around Abe's words.

Abe spoke again at last, in a softer tone.

"It doesn't matter who's in charge. Conservative, liberal, red, blue, left, right… It's a board game. Always has been."

He glanced at the iron gates beyond the court, then back at them.

"The rich will always be the real citizens," he said. "And the working class? We'll always be the tools."

Another gust of wind rolled through the yard.

Bird caught the ball and spun it in his hands.

"I hate it when Americans make sense," he muttered.

Abe grinned, tapping his chainsaw arm.

"Then get ready to hate me all game."

.....

The hallways of Big Abe Asylum groaned beneath the dim lights, paint sloughing like dried-out dead skin from the walls. The air reeked of old bleach, rust, and something you couldn't identify but knew was not supposed to be breathed in.

Hiroki trailed Shotaro, glances flicking to the cells on either side—thick glass, padded walls, metal doors that hummed when you moved too close.

"They don't seem mentally ill to me," Hiroki grumbled, voice hushed, incredulous. "They're just quiet."

"I know," Shotaro replied, fisting his hands into his pockets. "But see this."

He stood in front of one of the cells and rapped on the glass.

Within, a man—not, no, rather a beast fashioned by decades of untested screen time—stumbled forward. Grease stuck to him like damp towels. A matted beard fell to his waist like a withered garden, Dorito flakes sprinkled over his dirty anime sweatshirt. He reeked of sour milk and bitterness.

"Hey, champ," Shotaro shouted over the intercom. "What do you say when you see a mixed-race couple?"

The guy staggered nearer, eyes half-open, mouth twisting into a sneer.

"You ruined your genetics."

Hiroki blinked, furrowing his brow in incredulity. "Genetics?" he parroted, amazed. "Why the devil is he, of all people, discussing genetics?"

Shotaro arched a brow, his tone as dull as stale bread. "I know, right? Wait until he discovers genetic diversity's literally how species don't go extinct."

He gestured for Hiroki to approach. "Come on. Let me show you another."

They went to the next cell. Seated within was a young man, early twenties, dressed in a knockoff military uniform and blue-light spectacles. He had the slouch of one who lectured on comment threads for a living.

"Hey, champ," Shotaro shouted out. "What were you doing before they brought you here?"

The man sat up straight with unwarranted pride. "I managed a Save Europe account on Instagram."

Hiroki gazed at him. "But. You're South Asian.

"That's the magic," Shotaro grunted, rubbing his temples. "Delusion has no nationality."

They went by another cage. In it was a woman with bangs perfectly curled, clutching a cracked phone and a dead-eyed stare. She hissed like a snake as soon as she locked eyes.

"Hey, lady," Shotaro said, voice light but laced with something harder. "What's your favorite line again?"

She glanced up from her phone—smiled sweetly, unnervingly. A porcelain smile that didn't quite reach the eyes.

"Not all men… but always the man."

"See?" Shotaro dramatically flung his arms apart like a magician showing the last card. "She shared that with #KIM last week."

Hiroki blinked. "What's #KIM?"

"KILL. ALL. MEN." Shotaro deadpanned. "Because evidently, eradicating half of them will completely fix their issues. As if human nature won't adapt and discover new ways to be unhappy."

Hiroki edged a half-step back. "That's morbid."

"Oh, it gets worse," Shotaro said, already heading to another cage. "We have a big one here. Real final boss vibes."

The cell was bigger than the others—bars made of reinforced metal, added padding on the walls. In it stood a giant of a man with arms the size of cement, a neckbeard as thick as Abe's ideals, and a chest tattoo that bore a suspicious resemblance to a low-res crusader.

"Hey, big fella," Shotaro shouted. "What do we say when we see a legal immigrant? Not illegal, just someone going through the channels like everybody else."

The man advanced, his eyes crazed with pseudo-wisdom.

"Europe fell," he declared, voice apocalyptic. "They're invading. Replacing us. It's demographic warfare."

Shotaro didn't flinch. "Yes, well, what's your opinion on, say, the actual centuries of invasion, conquest, and genocide that Europe perpetrated throughout those very same nations these immigrants originate from?"

The man beamed, pleased. "That's glory. That's the power of our ancestors. Conquest. That's heritage."

Hiroki narrowed his eyes. "So… If it's done to them, it's invasion. But when you do it, it's pride?"

The man nodded as if he'd just cracked the code of physics.

Shotaro rubbed his forehead as the giant in the cage ranted on about bloodlines and family rights like he was reading out on a C-list podcast.

"Yeah. Nutcases," he grunted.

Hiroki just stared, wide-eyed. "This place doesn't need therapy. It needs a router with a kill switch. Like a hard one. With a key."

Shotaro cracked a smirk. "Hiroki, bad things only happen when you're the target."

A voice cut through the stale air.

"Take a bath, pajeet!" someone snapped from down the hall. The shout belonged to another cage—a wiry, thin dude with imitation tactical equipment and a phone taped to his hand like a scroll machine permanently attached. He yelled down the hall at the Save Europe dude, who replied with a middle finger and a nasal snort.

"Plot twist," Shotaro whispered, turning towards Hiroki. "Neither has showered in two weeks."

Hiroki blinked.

Then gagged.

The two men continued to yell through steel bars—abuse exchanged in venomous tennis fashion—each sure they were the hero of a war that no one else saw.

"They despise one another," Hiroki stated, his brow furrowed.

"They are the same," Shotaro answered, his tone low. "Reflections. Both are convinced they are fighting for goodness. But they are only noise—whispers that reside in echo chambers.

.....

The court was empty, the air thick with evening and the faint hum of broken stadium lights in the distance. Abraham Lincoln stood in the cracked center circle of what had once been a tennis court, his coat vanished, sleeves rolled up, one hand human, the other a humming chainsaw.

"Let's go, Abe," Bird growled, cracking his knuckles. His mesomorphic build was still thunder—coiled quiet, forged bone and rhythm, already working out the angles.

Lincoln smiled. His lips stretched over too-white teeth, a battle-worn grin, one that had gazed out over battlefields and ballots both.

Bird narrowed his eyes. "Your what?"

Abe was already orbiting him, boots scuffling dust from the concrete. "Debates were bloodsport back when. You think those were just speeches from behind a podium? I once wrestled a senator right through a barrel of molasses."

Bird didn't have time to blink.

Abe was already underway—chainsaw rumbling like some hellish war hound, boots pounding against the cracked asylum court. The zombie president moved like a memory you couldn't escape, spindly limbs sharp with precision, mad grin sewn between history and madness.

Bird crouched low, rolled to the side, the teeth of the chainsaw whizzing by inches from the scalp.

"Stretch first, I said!" Abe bellowed, laughing like a church bell at a funeral. Half joke, half threat.

But Bird wasn't quick enough this time.

Abe came at him with a blur of zombie speed, caught him in that old-fashioned hold—one hand, nothing flashy—punched his heel in, wracked his weight like a Gettysburg-forged lever, and brought the six-foot-five kid crashing to the ground with the certainty of a signed decree.

The court shook.

Bird groaned from the floor, dazed, the sky wheeling above him in circles.

"Annnnd you're out, boy," Abe declared, stepping back with a victorious nod, chainsaw humming like applause. "Four score and one suplex later."

Bird coughed. "Remind me. not to question your wrestling credentials again."