Gather ‘round, ye salty dogs and ink-stained wretches, for the bells toll heavy in the Port of Lost Angels! Word has washed ashore on a tide of bitter ale that the legendary privateer Kiefer Sutherland—the man who has saved the Crown’s neck in twenty-four-hour increments more times than I’ve had hot grog—has been hauled off to the stockades. It seems our Jack of All Hours engaged in an unauthorized boarding action against a humble pilot of a hired carriage-skiff! Aye, the very man who once dismantled ticking infernos with naught but a toothpick and a grimace has allegedly laid hands upon a civilian ferryman in a fit of terrestrial rage.

The skirmish, which occurred under the hazy moonlight of the California coast, saw the great Sutherland accused of an assault most foul upon a driver of the 'Uber Galley' fleet. Reports from the dockside suggest the fray began not over stolen charts or buried treasure, but over the simple navigation of the city’s cobblestone labyrinths. One witness, a local tavern-keep known as 'One-Eyed Oscar,' claimed the air turned blue with curses that would make a boatswain blush. 'He was shouting as if the very fate of the colonies depended on the next turn,' Oscar wheezed while polishing a pewter mug. 'Next thing ye know, there’s a scuffle, a tumble, and the constabulary are descending like gulls on a gut-wagon!'

Lord High Executive of the Studio Isles, Baron McMoneybags, issued a decree from his ivory fortress this morning, sounding quite distressed. 'This is a blow to the trade routes!' the Baron shrieked, clutching his pearls and his stock options. 'If our most feared interrogator is locked in the brig for brawling with the transport guilds, who shall protect our moving tapestries from the critics? This mutiny against common decency threatens to delay the production of our finest winter dramas, and the spice trade of celebrity gossip shall suffer a most grievous drought!' Even his former crewmates whisper in the shadows; one deckhand known as 'Lefty' muttered that the Commander always did have a bit too much fire in his belly when the rum ran low and the moon sat high.

The consequences of this naval disaster are ripples that may yet become a tsunami. The 'High Seas of Hollywood' are already in a state of blockade, with agents and advocates scurrying like rats on a sinking merchantman to patch the hull of Sutherland’s reputation. If the Magistrate finds him guilty of this land-piracy, we may see the Commander trading his tactical waistcoat for a striped tunic of the chain-gang. The trade of 'heroic imagery' is a fragile one, and when a hero strikes a common rower, the Jolly Roger of public opinion is hoisted in protest. Every carriage driver from here to Tortuga is now checking their mirrors for the glint of a celebrity’s wrath.

So, let this be a warning to all ye pampered privateers who think the code of the sea doesn't apply to the back seat of a carriage! No matter how many times you’ve saved the world on the silver screen, the law of the land has a long arm and a heavy set of irons. Sutherland may find that escaping a terrorist cell is child’s play compared to escaping a disgruntled driver with a legal writ and a smartphone camera. Keep your hands to yourselves, ye scallywags, or ye’ll find your next twenty-four hours spent counting the cracks in a damp cell wall. Captain Iron Ink has spoken, and the ink is as black as the Commander's current prospects!