Avast, ye scurvy dogs and pen-pushing scallywags! The fog of war has lifted over the treacherous waters of the Potomac, and what rises from the brine is a sight to freeze the marrow of any landlubber. Donald Trump, the man they thought was consigned to Davey Jones’ Locker after the great mutiny of 2020, has clawed his way back onto the quarterdeck. It was a tempestuous voyage, fraught with more legal squalls and jagged reefs than a smuggler’s run through the Tortugas, yet the Gilded Galleon has dropped anchor right in the heart of Washington D.C. once more. The cannons of the establishment fired their volleys, but the hull of this particular vessel seems forged from a metal no court-room smithy can pierce.

To hear the tavern-talk in the low-rent docks, this wasn’t just a victory; it was a full-scale boarding party against the ruling admiralty. After being slapped with more irons than a captured privateer—those weary indictments the city-folk prattle about—most men would have been swinging from the yardarm. But the Republican Party has seen fit to hand him the compass and the wheel once again. "He’s got the favor of the winds, or perhaps a pact with the sea-devils," remarked First Mate Vance, adjusting his tricorne hat as the tally-man counted the electoral doubloons. "Either way, the horizon is turning orange, and there’s no harbor left for those who sought to sink him."

The consequences for our high-seas commerce are as murky as a barrel of rot-gut rum. Word from the White House suggests that new letters of marque will be issued, targeting the merchant fleets of the East with tariffs that hit like a broadside to the midships. The lords of the European coast are shivering in their silk breeches, fearing that the protection of the Great Fleet might be withdrawn if they do not pay their fair share of the booty. It’s a bold gamble, shifting the currents of trade and treaty while the Kraken of inflation still lurks beneath the waves, waiting to drag us all to the depths.

"I seen many a captain fall," croaked an old boatswain from the corner of a smoke-filled brig, "but never one what rose from the seabed with his wig still perfectly coiffed and his grievances freshly sharpened." The crew is already being hand-picked from the roughest loyalists at Mar-a-Lago, men and women who would walk the plank before questioning the Captain’s orders. The old guard, those barnacle-encrusted bureaucrats who think they run the tides, are currently scurrying for the lifeboats as the Trump flag—a golden ‘T’ on a field of defiance—is hoisted to the highest mast.

Prepare yourselves, ye bilge-rats, for the four-year gale that follows. Whether ye be cheering for the return of the plunder or weeping for the stability of the old charts, the truth remains as salt on the tongue: the man they called a ghost has returned to haunt the living. The map of the world is being redrawn in permanent ink, and the ink smells suspiciously of bronzer and gunpowder. Secure the hatches and pray to whatever gods ye harbor, for the Great Comeback is no longer a legend told in the galleys—it is the storm we are currently sailing right into.