This Ain’t The Godfather, Morons.

America loves its gangsters, but every wiseguy’s story ends the same: in flames, in cuffs, or flat on the pavement.

Guest article by Michael Cohen

Let’s get real: Donald Trump isn’t a politician, a patriot, or even a leader. He’s a gangster cosplaying as a savior. A knockoff mob boss in a red tie with a spray tan that could blind you from space. And yet, millions worship him like he’s Vito Corleone risen from Mar-a-Lago. Why? Because America—or at least a frightening chunk of it—has a soft spot for gangsters. Especially the ones who talk tough, punch down, and promise revenge.

Think about it. In The Godfather, Michael Corleone starts out clean, the war hero. But by the end, he’s morally bankrupt, alone, and has his own brother murdered. In Goodfellas, Henry Hill gets everything: money, power, women—but it ends with him ratting out his friends and living the rest of his life eating egg noodles and ketchup in the suburbs. And in A Bronx Tale, Sonny—the neighborhood boss everyone idolizes—gets shot in the back of the head over a beef he thought was buried. That’s the cost of the life. That’s the price of playing the villain.

But somehow, Trump skips the tragic ending. At least for now.

His base doesn’t see the guy with 91 felony counts and a dictionary full of lies. No, they see Sonny at the bar, flipping car keys and telling them, “The working man’s a sucker.” And they eat it up. He’s their Sonny. Their Michael. Their Tony Montana without the cocaine—or at least without the subtlety.

They cheer when he insults the disabled. They laugh when he mocks veterans. They nod along when he slanders immigrants, journalists, judges, and anyone with a brain and a backbone. Because to them, Trump isn’t the con; he’s the guy who cons other people. They think he’s playing the game for them. Spoiler alert: he’s playing them like a violin. And they’re clapping along to their own demise.

You can’t reason with that kind of devotion. Trust me—I tried. I was the consigliere to this wannabe Don, and I helped sell the myth. I built the wall of lies brick by brick. And I saw firsthand that it’s not policy that wins hearts; it’s persona. Trump projects strength not because he’s strong, but because he pretends he’s untouchable. And in a country broken by inequality, fear, and rage, people want to believe in someone who promises to punish the people they blame for their pain.

But just like in those mob movies, the high never lasts. The power is fleeting. The glory turns to blood. And guess what? We’re already seeing it. With Trump back in office, it’s no longer an act; it’s a goddamn sequel. But this time, he’s not just throwing tantrums on Twitter. He’s purging government agencies, pardoning his goons, and rewriting the rules to protect himself. This is mob rule in a democracy’s clothing.

Meanwhile, the very people who put him back in power? They’re the ones who’ll suffer most. Farmers are drowning under his second trade war. Families can’t afford their meds because he gutted the ACA again. Veterans are getting shafted by VA rollbacks, and small towns are being hollowed out by policies that look great on Truth Social but burn like hell in real life.

But will his base admit it? Not a chance. They’re too deep in the fantasy. They’re Calogero—the kid in A Bronx Tale who worships Sonny until the bullets fly. By the time they realize they were just pawns in Trump’s ego war, it’ll be too late. The country will be smoldering, the courts packed, the Constitution hanging on by a thread—if that.

Look—I get it. America loves an outlaw. We romanticize the antihero. But we forget the lesson every one of those gangster stories teaches us: it always ends in blood. In betrayal. In regret.

So when I hear people say, “Trump just tells it like it is,” I want to scream. No—he tells it like a grifter. He tells it like a guy who spent his life stiffing contractors, cheating on his taxes, and convincing you that losing is actually winning. And the saddest part? The people still chanting his name are the same ones he wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire.

Trump isn’t Michael Corleone. He’s not even Fredo. He’s Sonny—loud, impulsive, reckless—and one day, politically speaking, he’s gonna get whacked. The only question is how many people he takes down with him.

So don’t sit around like an extra on the set of stupidity and complacency, watching democracy crumble while you munch popcorn and scroll through headlines. Do your part. Speak out. Show up. Vote. Hold him accountable—before the credits roll on this American tragedy and we’re left trying to salvage a country we were too distracted, too jaded, or too damn tired to save.

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PERSONAL NOTE: I CAN’T DO THIS ALONE.

If you’re reading this, it means you care. You care about truth. About justice. About saving our democracy from the grip of grifters, liars, and power-hungry con men. But let’s be real—I can’t carry this weight on my own.

I’m asking—no, urging—you, my loyal Substack readers, to help grow this platform into a force they can’t ignore. We’re not building a newsletter; we’re building a movement. One loud enough, sharp enough, and relentless enough to push back against the lies and hold the corrupt to account.

Now more than ever, independent journalism needs you. Your support keeps this alive—not corporate sponsors, not shady billionaires with agendas. You.

And yes—as a personal thank you, the first 240 Founding Members will receive a rare, signed, numbered Substack edition of my New York Times bestseller, Revenge: How Donald Trump Weaponized the U.S. Department of Justice Against His Critics. A collector’s item—and a statement.

But this is bigger than a book. It’s about standing up while others stay silent. It’s about building a community that calls out the bullshit and fights like hell for what’s right.

So here’s what you can do:
Become a supporter.
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Do your part. Stand up. Speak out. The time is now—and together, we will be heard.