Avast, ye scurvy dogs and armchair admirals! The air in the Pentagon port smells thicker than a bilge rat’s breath, and it ain't just the humidity of the Potomac swamp. Word on the wind—whispered by those shadow-dwellers who sell secrets for a silver groat—is that the Great Orange Captain is eyeing the eastern horizon with a murderous glint. The United States Military has spent the last few suns sharpening their steel and loading the heavy shot, ready to unleash a thunderous broadside against the Islamic Republic before the next Sabbath sun sets. Yet, the big man himself, currently pacing the gilded decks of his Mar-a-Lago galleon, has yet to drop the hammer. It’s a tense wait, like the eerie calm before a typhoon that promises to flip every skiff from here to the Barbary Coast.

If the cannons roar, the ripples will turn into rogue waves faster than a deckhand finds the hidden rum ration. We aren't just talking about a minor skirmish over a stolen goat; we’re talking about the Persian Gulf turning into a boiling cauldron of dragon’s fire. The spice trade—that black liquid gold the land-lubbers call oil—would see its price skyrocket to the heavens, leaving every merchant ship from London to Tortuga dead in the water. "If the Eagle strikes the Lion," grunted my first mate, Iron-Legged Larry, while he polished his rusted blunderbuss, "every sailor on the Seven Seas will be paying three doubloons for a pint of whale oil just to light their lanterns. It’s madness, I tell ye! Madness born of too much sun and not enough parley."

The lords of the admiralty are already in a frenzy, checking their charts and calculating the windage. They say the fleet is "prepared to strike," which in pirate-speak means the fuses are lit and the gunners are just waiting for a heavy nod from the helm. But Donald Trump is playing a dangerous game of "Liar’s Dice" with the fate of the world. One moment he’s threatening to sink the whole Persian navy with a single tweet-squawk, and the next he’s talking about wanting to sit down for a pipe and a pint of grog. It keeps the world guessing, but out here on the rolling blue, uncertainty is a shark that never stops circling. Even the old sea-dog Quartermaster Bolton, who usually loves a good scrap, looks nervous enough to switch to goat's milk.

Should the order come down the line, the consequences will be more dire than a kraken’s cold embrace. A war in those narrow waters means the Strait of Hormuz gets choked with the burning wreckage of empires. No merchantman will dare the passage, and the global markets will sink like a lead-weighted corpse thrown overboard. Lord Scupper of the Treasury was overheard muttering into his grog at the local tavern, "A single spark in that dry tinderbox and we’ll all be eating hardtack and sawdust for a decade. The gold will vanish, and only the vultures will grow fat." We’re perched on the jagged edge of the world's end, and the Captain is still deciding whether to steer us into the vortex or come about.

So, keep your weather eye open, ye lot. The weekend looms like a black squall on the horizon, and the "Final Call" remains locked in a iron chest for which only one man has the key. Whether we wake to the sound of thunder or the peace of the grave, one thing is certain: the high seas are about to get a lot bloodier if the Great Orange Captain decides his cutlass needs a fresh coat of crimson. Batten down the hatches and pray to whatever gods haven't abandoned us yet, for the storm is nearly upon us.