Memoir of a MAGA mob moss

Zelenskyyy rolls the dice and Trump rolls him

I worked for the boss for years. Since Mar-a-Lago. Now I’m at the White House with him. Or as the boss calls it the Big House. I was there when Zelenskyyy came by.

Trump was flipping crypto coins like George Raft at a Vegas casino doorway when he greeted Zelenskyyy to the big house. “Nice to see you dressed up.” Zelenskyyy rolled the dice and wore his traditional wartime T-shirt. Trump rolled his eyes.

“College Boy” Vance rubbed his knuckles in anticipation of roughing up the “next one”. He checked out his eyeliner in his compact mirror and flipped it shut as the boss took command. Trump sneered dwon at Zelenskyyy. “For this special occasion you couldn’t put on a tie?”

“I wear these humble clothes to honor my soldiers in combat.”

Trump and Vance wore their spats and their forties fedoras like tough guys, good guys, made guys, for they were rebels with a cause, devils with dirty faces. Trump wore orange paint, and Vance wore eye makeup like Boy George.

Vance would never wear a derby. he knew he resembled a droogy from Clockwork Orange.

Trump and Vance sat down with their guest, Mr. Zelenskyyy in the back of their favorite diner around a wine bottle with a melted candle atop a checkerboard tablecloth.

Mr. Trump cracked his knuckles and glared at Mr.Z.

“JD”, Mr. Trump’s consigliere, fondled the blackjack in his hand and sneered at Mr. Z suggesting it would be best if he did not move.

Lou, the diners owner, opened up the joint and let “certain elements” of the press in. “Certain elements” that were friendly to the boss. To Donald. This was his Boss’s world now, a world he made by breaking the law and a lot of thumbs.

One of the Press goons timidly “expressed concerns” that “others” knew “others” who were expressing concerns the Boss was “too closely aligned with Putin”. The Boss set him straight and quick.

“Who are these punks, these rats and snitches. I’m here prioritizing a peace deal.” The boss bent down and got in his face like Joe Pesci. “And while I’m here I don’t want to hear anyone talking smack about Putin.”

The reporter shut his pie hole. Quiet as a morgue on Christmas Eve.

Trump moved away from his leather Godfather chair, opened the desk drawer and got out the brass knuckles to arm his right hand which was itching to correct Mr. Zelenskyyy on the year when Russia annexed Crimea. In a way this punk “nobody” would never forget.

Zelenskyyy calmly responded, “No. That was the year Russia annexed Crimea.”

Then the Godfather went silent, drawing in a deep Brando breath signaling cruelties to come and exploded unleashing holy-hoodlum-hell serving notice that he is now following orders from Putin and Zelenskyyy should get in line.

“We’re taking this out back. Now.” Trump and Vance picked the smaller Zelenskyyy up and dragged him into an ally and beckoned the press to shine their spotlights on the three of them in the dark end of that forsaken alley.

“Say thank you, Mr Trump. Kiss our asses, Mr. Zelenskyyy. On camera! Kiss them. Make Putin happy. Kiss my ass.” Trump pushed him back onto a cardboard box full of rotted produce. Zelenskyyy stood back at up. He has led a nation at war for three years. He is not intimidated by gangsters. “Let me remind you, gentlemen, Mr. Putin has repeatedly broken negotiated cease-fires.”

JD arched his menacing brows in disbelief. “Are we going to let him talk to us like that? Are we boss? Are we?”

Zelenskyyy glared back at the two mismatched mobsters closing in on him like blubbery bullies demanding lunch money. “Like what?”

“We can’t let him talk to you like that, Mr. Trump. No siree. Get out. Get out.”

Zelenskyyy warned them. “This war threatens you. You will feel it.”

Who did he think he was talking to? He can’t talk to the boss like that. That’s when Trump, the Capo de Tutti, the Godfather of America, lost his cool, got in the little man’s face, and like a fat Sicilian bit his nose off, spat it on the floor and growled like a Scorcese extra, “You are totally gambling with World War 3. Get him out of here.”

“Well done in there, JD.”

“Thanks, boss. Nobody disrespects you around me.”

Marco Rubio has a question, sir.

“So let me get this right. So now we’re stabbing Ukraine in the back because we’re siding with the bad guy, the war criminal Putin? And we’re dividing up the spoils? Never mind. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll shut up. Let me just stare off into the oblivion that is my fate.”

Then I heard the boss tell all the MAGA “boys and girls” in Congress to blow kisses at Putin and damned if they didn’t all line up to betray America, blowing kisses at the happiest grinning KGB war criminal on earth, Lord Putin, mob boss of all mob mosses, in Moscow.

Later that night Trump dreamt of Roy Cohen and woke up laughing. Melania had no idea why he muttered, ”America executed Julius and Ethel Rosenberg for less.”

My boss, Donald? His “Mitch McConnell” legacy judges gave him immunity, He’s a “made” man, “made” like no other, free to dream of shooting someone on Sixth Avenue and free to dream of sitting at the big table with the mob boss of all mob mosses in Moscow. And while the oligarchs prattle on, beyond them, through the window, across the street, America’s mob boss can study the spot in the snow where he will break ground on “Moscow Trump Tower” in 2028, the innocents of Ukraine be damned.