The year is 2637.

The Post-American Empire, now a fading constellation of strip malls, cities made from disused aircraft carriers and sacred cable news archives, gathers once more for one of its oldest ceremonial observances: The Threatening of the Strait.

No historian can say with confidence when the ritual first began. Some date it to the Late Hydrocarbon Era. Others believe it emerged even earlier, during the First Age of Permanent Ultimatums, when emperors still communicated by social media post and the priestly class of pundits interpreted each outburst like augurs examining chicken entrails.

Whatever its origin, the ritual is now deeply embedded in imperial tradition.

At dawn, the Supreme Administrator of Continental Exceptionalism emerges from the gold-plated Situation Dome draped in the ceremonial garments of office: navy suit, red tie, expression of baffled aggression. Before him lies the great holographic map of the Mythical Strait of Hormuz, a waterway so ancient, so contested, and so central to the imperial imagination that many schoolchildren still believe it was created by God purely to inconvenience Washington.

The assembled nobles strike the brass gong of Strategic Resolve.

The chants begin.

“Open the Strait.”

“Open the Strait.”

“Open the Strait.”

From across the desert, a solitary figure appears atop the dunes. He is dressed in ancient Persian robes, sunlit and unmoved, carrying the sacred inheritance of his people... a single, perfectly timed refusal.

He clears his throat.

“No.”

The crowd gasps, as tradition demands.

The oil futures spike, as tradition demands.

A panel of hereditary commentators immediately appears to explain that this changes nothing, proves everything, and may require more freedom.

Then the empire’s High Scribes issue the customary contradictory decrees...

“We have already won.”

“We may need to escalate.”

“We seek peace through overwhelming force.”

“We don’t need the Strait.”

“The Strait must be opened immediately.”

“We are leaving the region.”

“We will remain forever.”

And thus the ritual continues.

Children throw tiny model drones into the ceremonial fire. Traders in the outer provinces burn incense and recalculate petrol prices. The old ones nod solemnly, remembering previous iterations of the rite from 2412, 2489, 2527, 2594 and the especially holy cycle of 2618, when the empire declared victory eleven times in a single day.

No one knows what happens if the Strait ever actually opens.

Some believe the empire would vanish in a puff of sanctions and cable static. Others say the priests would simply find another narrow body of water and begin again.

Because by now the ritual has outlived strategy, empire, memory, and perhaps even reason itself.

A civilisation once built aqueducts, libraries and moon missions.

Now it performs the ancient rite of yelling at Persia until petrol goes up.

And somewhere, beneath the desert moon, the old man adjusts his robes, looks toward the horizon, and prepares himself for tomorrow’s sacred response.

“No.”