Gather ‘round, ye salt-crusted scallywags and ledger-keepers of the Low Tides! There be a storm brewin’ in the murky waters of the Potomac that’s got the Great Gold-Hoarders of Wall Street quakin’ in their velvet-lined boots. For too long, the merchant-mariners who sell us our grog, our salted pork, and our fine silks have been forced to pay a ‘Swipe-Tax’—a hidden toll gathered by the siren-sisters known as Visa and Mastercard. Every time a deckhand taps his plastic talisman to pay for a new peg-leg, these Behemoths of the Ledger skim a handful of doubloons off the top before the poor tavern-keep can even blink. But a new wind is blowin’, and it smells suspiciously like hairspray and expensive steaks.

Enter the Gilded Commodore himself, Donald Trump. Word has reached my ink-stained ears that the former Lord of the Mar-a-Lago has cast his lot with the mutinous merchants. In a move that’s sent the Admiralty of Finance into a state of pure scurvy, Trump has signaled his support for ‘Credit Card Reform.’ He’s joinin’ the fray to break the monopoly of the High-Seas Banks, demandin’ that they stop bleedin’ the small-time traders dry with their exorbitant interchange fees. It’s a strange alliance, to be sure—the man who sits on a throne of gold tellin’ the gold-hoarders they’ve got too much gold—but in the cutthroat world of the Atlantic trade, the enemy of my debt is my friend.

“Them banks take a bite o’ me hardtack before I even taste the wheat!” spat Quartermaster ‘Quick-Fingers’ Quimby, a local chandlery owner I met over a pint of fermented sludge. “I sell a compass for ten gold pieces, and by the time the Bank of the High Seas is done with their ‘processing fees’ and their ‘digital tolling,’ I’m left with barely enough to buy a blind parrot. If the Commodore can blast a hole in their hull, I say let the cannons roar!” Quimby ain’t alone. Small businesses across the colonies are sharpenin’ their cutlasses, hopin’ that this reform will force the big banks to actually—dare I say it—compete for our business instead of just robbin’ us at the point of a digital sword.

Naturally, the Lords of the Counting House are havin’ a collective swoon. Lord Ledger-Bound, a high-ranking official at the Bank of Perpetual Debt, released a statement that sounded like a funeral dirge for a sunken galleon. “This reform is a curse upon the common sailor!” he wailed, wringing his manicured hands. “If we cannot skim our three-percent tribute, how are we to fund the ‘Shiny Bead Rewards Programs’ that give the peasants a free night in a flea-bitten inn for every ten-thousand doubloons they spend? This is the end of civilization as we know it! The compass will spin madly! The sea will boil!” ‘Tis a heart-wrenchin’ tale, if ye happen to be a parasitic squid livin’ off the labor of others.

If this mutiny succeeds, it could mean a sea change for the global market. More gold stays in the pockets of the men and women who actually haul the cargo and pour the rum, and less goes to fill the coffers of the Great Leviathans who’ve never felt the spray of salt on their faces. But mark me words, the banks won’t go down without a fight. They’ll unleash their krakens—the lobbyists—to drag this reform into the depths of the legislative abyss. Whether the Gilded Commodore stays the course or gets distracted by a shiny new lighthouse remains to be seen. For now, keep yer hand on yer purse and yer eyes on the horizon. The Swipe-Tax Mutiny has begun, and Captain Iron Ink will be here to record every drop of ink and blood spilled on the ledger!