Avast, ye scurvy dogs and salt-crusted bilge-rats! The air in the Tortuga of Tinseltown is thick this morn with the scent of spilled rum, scorched pride, and betrayal. Word has reached my ink-stained ears that Lord Kiefer of House Sutherland—the man who spent twenty-four moons thwarting the world’s end on the velvet screens—has been clapped in irons by the local constabulary. The charge? A most heinous act of mutiny against a humble helmsman of the Magic Carriage Trade. Aye, the lad was merely trying to steer his horseless schooner through the fog-choked streets when the Great Actor decided to treat the driver's skull like a coconut at a village fair!

Witnesses claim the scuffle began over a dispute of doubloons or perhaps a missed turn near the harbor. “I saw it with me own good eye!” squawked Barnaby ‘Three-Toes’ Higgins, a local rum-runner who was polishing his peg-leg near the scene of the crime. “Sutherland was roaring like a kraken caught in a fishing net! He looked as though he thought he was still on the clock for the King’s Secret Service, shouting about ticking clocks and moles in the crew. But there were no moles, Captain—just a lad named Gary trying to earn enough silver for a fresh loaf of sourdough and a new set of tires!”

The Admiralty of Los Angeles was not amused by such swashbuckling antics. They swooped in like gulls on a discarded biscuit, dragging the Lord Sutherland to the brig. The consequences of this skirmish are dire for all who sail the asphalt seas, mates! The Merchant’s Guild of Uber-Carriages has threatened to raise the bounty on all celebrity transport. If a gentleman cannot even hire a carriage without the risk of a head-butt from a ‘Designated Survivor,’ then the very foundations of our civilized society are crumbling! Rumors suggest the price of grog at the Viper Room has already doubled in protest, and the trade routes between Malibu and Hollywood are under a strict blockade of paparazzi frigates, waiting to catch a glimpse of the disgraced privateer.

“’Tis a dark day for the craft of the stage,” lamented Admiral Sir Anthony of Hopkins, speaking from his private island fortress via a messenger pigeon. “One cannot simply go about boarding carriages and striking the navigators. It sets a poor example for the cabin boys and the understudies. If Kiefer wishes to fight, let him sign onto a proper privateer ship and face a Spanish Galleon, not a man in a Toyota Corolla!” The Admiral then retreated to his cabin to weep into a goblet of fine Chianti, leaving us to wonder if the golden age of cinema is truly sinking into Davy Jones’ Locker.

So, let this be a warning to all you high-seas drifters and silver-screen buccaneers: the law of the sea applies even to those who have starred in 'The Lost Boys.' Keep your cutlasses sheathed and your tempers cooled when engaging the local transport, or you’ll find yourself sharing a cold cell with a man named 'Scurvy Pete' who has no respect for your Emmy nominations. As for Sutherland, he’ll likely pay his ransom in gold and be back on the deck soon enough, but the stain on his ledger remains darker than a giant squid’s ink. Keep your eyes on the horizon, ye scoundrels, and tip your drivers—lest you find Captain Iron Ink writing your obituary next!