Avast, ye salt-crusted bilge-rats and ink-stained scribes! The Great Admiral of the Gilded Mane, Donald Trump, has strode onto the quarterdeck of the world stage to deliver a chilling ultimatum that has every merchant ship from here to the Orient shiverin’ in their timbers. With a face as grim as a winter squall, the Admiral has declared that the crew of the Middle East powerhouse known as the Persians have but a mere fortnight—ten to fifteen rotations of the hourglass—to surrender their alchemical secrets or face a broadside the likes of which haven't been seen since the dawn of the ironclad. The message is clear: sign the parchment and abandon your glowing potions, or prepare to be sent to Davy Jones’ Locker.

The tension on the high seas is thicker than a London fog, mates. Our spies in the rigging report that the Admiral is currently weighing his heavy iron shot, calculating the trajectory to strike the ports of Iran with the fury of a thousand krakens. This ain't no mere spat over a stolen rum ration; this is about the 'Great Alchemy'—the pursuit of the enriched powder that could turn a simple galley into a floating sun. The Admiral insists that if no deal is struck within his fifteen-day deadline, he’ll unleash the fire of his iron birds to scorched the very earth where their laboratories stand.

"The powder is dry, and the fuses are cut," whispered the ghost of First Mate Mike Pompeo, his eyes gleaming with the fervor of a man who’s smelled too much saltpeter. Even the old sea-dogs in the United Nations are squawking like panicked parrots, flapping their wings and calling for 'parley' while the Admiral ignores their cries, focused entirely on the ticking clock. The consequences for us freebooters are dire indeed. Should the cannons begin their terrible song, the price of 'Black Gold'—that thick, foul-smelling sludge that greases the gears of the world—will skyrocket higher than a crow's nest in a hurricane. Trade routes through the Strait of Hormuz will be choked with debris, and every merchant vessel will find itself caught in the crossfire of a clash between titans.

From the gilded halls of the White House, the decree has been cast out like a net: the Persians must bow to the terms of the Gilded Galleon or face the absolute ruin of their docks. The Admiral claims he’d prefer a trade of silk and spices to a shower of lead, but his hand never strays far from the hilt of his cutlass. "I’ve the finest fleet and the biggest barrels of powder," he was heard bellowing to the press-ganged galley slaves of the media. "If they want to play with fire, they’ll find themselves in a furnace." It’s a gamble of the highest stakes, played with the lives of sailors and the stability of the seven seas as the ante.

As we sail into these murky, shark-infested waters, keep your lanterns low and your cutlasses sharp. The next fifteen days will determine if we enter a season of uneasy peace or if the horizon will be lit by the orange glow of war. The Admiral has set his course, and he’s not a man known for turning the wheel once the wind has caught his sails. Whether this be a masterful bluff to force a better bargain or the opening volley of a global tempest, only the Fates and the deep blue sea can tell. Hold fast, me hearties, for the storm is nearly upon us.