Avast, ye scurvy-ridden, ink-stained wretches! The year is waning like a gut-shot whale, and the ledgers of the Federal Bureau have washed ashore like a bloated corpse. We peer into the tallies of 2025, and by the barnacles on Neptune’s backside, the ports of the New World are more treacherous than a shark-pit during a feeding frenzy. While the governors and their powdered-wig cronies claim the waters are calming, the hard truth across the United States tells a much darker tale. The streets are thick with cutthroats, and the local watchmen are busier than a one-armed carpenter in a hurricane trying to keep the peace.

In the bustling harbors of the North American coast, the art of the grab-and-bolt has reached a fever pitch. No longer do the scallywags wait for the cover of a moonless night; they plunder the apothecary and the silk-monger in broad daylight with no fear of the lash! Carriage-theft—or what the land-lubbers call 'auto larceny'—has spiked so high that a man cannot leave his horse unhitched for a second without it being rebranded and sold in a distant colony. It is a total breakdown of the social contract, worse than a mutiny on a merchantman carrying nothing but sour limes and disappointment.

"I’ve seen better discipline in a Tortuga tavern after a double-rum shipment!" bellows my First Mate, Barnaby "Salty" Bones, as he squinted at the crime charts through his cracked spyglass. He is right to be wary, for the consequences for us honest privateers are dire. If the ports are in chaos, the supply of gunpowder and salted pork dwindles to a trickle. We cannot fence our "liberated" treasures if the local magistrates are too busy dodging brickbats and musket fire in the town square. This lawlessness is a rot that threatens to sink the very dockyards we rely on for a decent shore leave.

Even the high-and-mighty Lord Sterling of the counting house has weighed in, trembling in his silken breeches. He claims that the so-called "stabilization" of certain violent acts is a mere fluke of the tides, a temporary lull before the storm surges again. To my weathered eye, it looks like the predators have simply moved from the dark alleyways into the counting-houses. The shadow of the gallows grows long, yet the noose remains empty for the cleverest thieves who hide behind desks rather than daggers. Whether it is the petty larceny of a bread-thief or the grand schemes of a port authority, the common man is being fleeced faster than a sheep in a shearing contest.

So, keep your cutlasses sharp and your eyes on the horizon as we drift into the unknown waters of 2026. This 2025 report is a warning writ in blood and black ink: the law of the sea is slowly becoming the law of the land. If the Metropolitan Police cannot hold the line against this rising tide of villainy, we might as well hoist the black flag over every town hall from here to the edge of the world. It is an ominous wind blowing through the colonies, mates, and it smells of smoke and desperation. Guard your purses and your lives, for the gallows are hungry and the sea is cold.