THE RETURN OF FAT DONNIE
A GANGSTER SAGA
It was a foggy night in the city that never tweets. The neon lights of Mar-a-Lago flickered like a bad toupee in a hurricane. Somewhere, deep inside the gilded halls of his golden fortress, Fat Donnie sat behind a desk so large it could have doubled as an aircraft carrier. He leaned back in his chair, chomping on a Big Mac like it was a Cuban cigar, while his right-hand man, Dirty Steve Bannon, shuffled papers that were probably blank.
"Steve," Donnie said, his voice oozing with the kind of bravado you'd expect from someone who thinks ketchup is a vegetable, "we did it. Ice Cream Cone Joey is outta the picture. The family is mine now."
Dirty Steve adjusted his rumpled trench coat, which smelled faintly of whiskey and bad decisions. "Yeah, boss," he said, scratching his scruffy chin. "But Joey had loyalists. People who liked his... uh... soft serve approach to things. They're not gonna roll over so easy."
Donnie’s eyes narrowed, which for him was just squinting a little harder than usual. "Loyalists? Hah! I’ll show them loyalty! Loyalty is when you stick with me no matter how many times I throw you under the bus!" He slammed his fist on the desk, sending a half-eaten Filet-O-Fish flying.
Enter Fascist Fishman Miller, the family’s consigliere, slithering into the room like a snake in a three-piece suit. His face was so pale it looked like he’d been moonbathing. "Boss," Miller hissed, "we need to clean house. Joey’s people—they’re still out there, lurking in the shadows. Whispering about democracy... and decency." He said the last word like it tasted bitter in his mouth.
Donnie nodded solemnly—or at least as solemnly as someone with ketchup on their chin could manage. "You're right, Fishman. We gotta take care of this before they take care of me. But who do we call? Who's ruthless enough to get the job done?"
Dirty Steve and Fishman exchanged glances. There was only one name that came to mind, one man who could purge the disloyal faster than you could say "fake news."
"Elon Musk," they said in unison.
A hush fell over the room. Even the gold-plated chandelier seemed to shudder at the name.
"Get him on the line," Donnie barked.
Moments later, Elon Musk strolled into the room wearing a leather jacket and carrying a flamethrower because subtlety wasn’t really his thing. "I hear you’ve got a loyalty problem," Elon said, smirking like someone who just bought Twitter on a whim.
"Yeah," Donnie said, leaning forward. "Can you handle it?"
Elon grinned. "I’ll handle it faster than I can launch a rocket and make it explode."
And so began the great purge of Ice Cream Cone Joey’s loyalists. Elon didn’t waste any time. First, he bought up all the social media platforms and turned them into loyalty tests. If you didn’t retweet Fat Donnie’s latest rant about how windmills cause cancer, you were out—permanently.
Next, he deployed an army of Teslas equipped with AI facial recognition to hunt down anyone who still had an "I Like Joey" bumper sticker on their car. The Teslas weren’t great at corners, but they got the job done... eventually.
Meanwhile, back at Mar-a-Lago, Donnie was getting paranoid. "What if Elon turns on me?" he whispered to Dirty Steve one night over a bucket of KFC. "What if he decides *I’m* disloyal?"
Dirty Steve shrugged. "Relax, boss. Elon’s too busy trying to colonize Mars to worry about you."
But Donnie wasn’t convinced. He started holding loyalty oaths every morning at breakfast. If you didn’t swear allegiance to him while holding a Diet Coke in one hand and saluting with the other, you were escorted out by one of Elon’s flamethrower-wielding robots.
Things were getting tense in the family. Even Fishman Miller started looking nervous, and that guy usually thrived on chaos. "Boss," Miller said one day, "maybe we’re going too far? I mean, loyalty’s great and all, but we’re running out of people."
"Nonsense!" Donnie bellowed. "I don’t need people! I’ve got... I’ve got ratings!"
But ratings couldn’t keep the family together forever. One by one, even Donnie’s most loyal cronies started disappearing—some to Elon’s purge, others to sheer exhaustion from trying to keep up with Donnie’s ever-changing whims. Dirty Steve eventually fled to an undisclosed location (rumor has it he’s running a pirate radio station somewhere in the swamps), and Fishman Miller slithered off into obscurity, muttering something about writing a memoir titled *Scales of Justice*.
In the end, Fat Donnie was left alone in his golden fortress, surrounded by nothing but empty Diet Coke cans and the faint hum of Teslas patrolling the grounds. He stared out the window at the dark horizon, wondering where it all went wrong.
And then it hit him: maybe loyalty wasn’t about demanding fealty or purging dissenters. Maybe it was about... nah, who was he kidding? It was probably Hillary’s fault somehow.
As for Elon Musk? He took his flamethrower money and built a rocket big enough to launch himself—and all of Twitter's remaining servers—straight into space. Rumor has it he’s still out there somewhere, tweeting from orbit and plotting his next big move: turning Mars into a giant electric car dealership.
And so ended Fat Donnie’s gangster saga—not with a bang, but with a tweet that got zero likes.
The end... or is it?
