By the powers, the seas around the Persian Gulf be churnin' like a shark-frenzy in a blood-tub! For twenty-eight suns now, the common sailors of that desert-bound vessel known as Iran have been hollerin' for their lives, defyin' the Morality Police who thought they could chain the wind itself. It started with a whisper of a lass named Mahsa, whose life was snuffed out like a cheap tallow candle in a gale, but now the whole fleet be in an uproar. These land-lubbers in Tehran be findin' out that when you deny a crew their basic rations of freedom, they’ll eventually sharpen their cutlasses and look toward the quarterdeck with murder in their eyes.

The Turbaned Admirals, sittin' fat on their piles of black gold, have responded not with parley, but with the iron fist. We’ve seen reports of the Revolutionary Guard boardin' schools and markets as if they were enemy frigates, swingin' their batons and firin' lead into the crowds. They’ve even gone so far as to cut the signal flags—what you modern scallywags call the internet—tryin' to keep the rest of the world from seeing the mutiny unfold. They want the silence of the deep, but the roar of the people be echoin' even in the hold of my own ship, the *Ink’s Revenge*.

"I’ve seen many a storm in my ninety years on the brine, but never a squall so persistent," muttered my First Mate, Old Blind Barnaby, as he polished his hook. "The masters of Tehran be tryin' to keelhaul a whole generation, but ye can't drown a fire that's already burnt the sails to the mast. They be usin' Tehran Crackdown tactics that would make a Barbary corsair blush with shame. It’s a dark day when a man—or a woman—can’t walk the docks without fear of being clapped in irons for the crime of showin' their hair to the sun."

This ain't just a localized scrap in a tavern, mates. This mutiny threatens the very trade routes of the high seas. If the Iran Protests continue to boil over, the price of the 'black blood of the earth'—that oil we all crave for our iron-clads—will skyrocket higher than a crow’s nest. Lord Grog-Siller of the Admiralty warned me just yester-eve that if the Strait of Hormuz gets choked by this chaos, we’ll all be payin' double for our grog and our gunpowder. The global merchants be shiverin' in their buckled boots, wonderin' if the next wave will capsize the entire regional order.

The gravity of the situation be heavy as a lead anchor. We are witnessin' a widening crackdown that spares neither the young nor the old. The streets be slick with more than just rainwater, and the smell of gunpowder hangs heavy in the air from Tabriz to Shiraz. Whether these brave souls can topple the tyrants or if they’ll be consigned to Davy Jones’ Locker remains to be seen. But mark my words, when the tide finally turns, it won’t be the common sailor who’s thrown overboard. The wind be risin', and the Turbaned Admirals better hope their anchors hold, or they’ll be feedin' the sharks before the moon wanes again.