Ahoy, ye scallywags, ledger-keepers, and honest tradesmen of the digital tides! There be a gale-force wind a-blowin’ through the counting houses of the New World, and it smells of gunpowder and orange pomade. For too long, the Great Merchant Galleons—those brave souls peddling everything from silk breeches to electronic spyglasses—have been boarded by the twin Krakens of the Deep: Visa and Mastercard. These bloated sea-monsters have been skimming a ‘swipe-fee’ tax off every chest of doubloons passed across the counter, leaving the honest shopkeeper with nothing but salt in his wounds and holes in his pockets.

But hark! A new privateer has entered the fray. The Orange Admiral himself, Donald Trump, has signaled from his gilded flagship that he intends to back the merchants in their bloody mutiny against the banking lords. ‘Tis a strange alliance, to be sure. Usually, the lords of the counting houses and the kings of the coast drink from the same bottle of rum, but the Admiral knows that a happy crew of shopkeepers makes for a loyal fleet. By backing legislation to break the stranglehold of the banking monopolies, he’s effectively handing out cutlasses to every grocer and blacksmith from here to Tortuga, telling ‘em to take back their gold.

“I’ve been sailin’ these waters for forty years, and I’ve never seen the banks so rattled,” cackled Barnaby ‘Broken-Tooth’ Bill, a local purveyor of salted meats and fine spices. “Every time a customer taps their plastic plank to pay for a ham, the banks take a bite out of my share bigger than a Great White’s. If the Admiral can force those ledger-licking bilge-rats to compete for our business, I might actually be able to afford a new mast—or at least a decent bottle of grog that doesn't taste like turpentine!” It’s a sentiment echoed across the docks, as the merchants realize they finally have a heavy-hitter willing to fire a broadside at the Wall Street fortresses.

However, the Banking Lords are not taking this lying down. Lord Ledger of the ‘High-Interest Syndicate’ was heard shouting from his balcony: “This is madness! If we cannot tax every transaction with our hidden tolls, how are we to maintain our marble palaces and our fleets of ivory yachts? These merchants are nothing but ungrateful barnacles!” The banks claim that these fees pay for the ‘safety of the seas’ (or ‘fraud protection’ in their fancy tongue), but most sailors know it’s just a way to keep the common man’s purse light and their own vaults heavy. The battle lines are drawn, and the water is churning with the froth of a thousand lobbyists scrambling for lifeboats.

The consequences of this skirmish will be felt far beyond the counting house, mark my words. If the Admiral and his merchant allies succeed in lowering these tolls, the price of grog and gunpowder might actually drop for the common sailor. But beware—whenever a king helps a merchant, there’s usually a new tax waiting in the fog. For now, though, we watch the horizon with glee. The banks are shivering in their buckled boots, and for the first time in a generation, the merchants are the ones holding the long-fuse. It’s a grand day for mutiny, and Captain Iron Ink will be here to record every sinking ship and every stolen chest of gold. Drink up, ye dogs, the war for the wallet has only just begun!