Pre Market Briefing: Dull Futures and BTC’s Tease
6:32 AM EDT, July 10, 2025
Heavily Fortified Compound, Marco Island, FL
A Sarcastic Snooze-Fest
Oh, rejoice, you magnificent degenerates, it’s another glorious morning of pre-market horseshit from this swamp fortress! Futures limp in like jingo bastards with hangovers, a pitiful parade of dullness. YM (Dow) slouches down 38, ES (S&P 500) crawls a measly -1.25, while NQ (Nasdaq) dares to rip 9.25—tech’s last gasp of bravado in this eerie quiet zone. $VIX plays possum at 15.91, smirking like a mean baptist, daring the market to erupt in a firestorm of lunacy. Buckle up, pikers—this snooze-fest hides a loaded shotgun!
BTC’s Tease: Coiled for Chaos?
BTC, that crypto tease, slinks off yesterday’s $112,152.91 ATH to $110,851.44 as I scribble this hideous screed. Paused? Coiling for a blast to my $116,313.22 banking target? Hell if I know—my dope’s as baffled as a waterhead in a logic test. My downside $98,504.80 held firm at $98,276.14 (June 22), bottom’s in for good or ill. Today’s 24-hour ranges press higher—scalp these $BTC targets, you day-trading fiends:
$111,516.43
$112,186.75
$112,521.91
$113,192.23
—Bust through? I’ll reboot my Flux Capacitor for new highs. Watch this space!
Pre-Market Stocks: Bloviation Station
Let’s bloviate about the mysterious suspects:
BTCM at 2.46
MP at 42.90
GRRR at 22.92
DAL at 57.57
Yawn-worthy movers in this pre-market swamp—tech’s NQ nudge hints $NVDA (164.47) and $AAPL (210.01) might twitch, but it’s a compendium of stale bullshit. $SPY’s 623.64 flatlines, $QQQ’s 556.26 snoozes. FOMC minutes (June 17–18) waffled yesterday—tariff jitters linger. Chaos brews beneath the calm.
Valuable Resources for You Magnificent Bastards
Henrik Zeberg’s Final Warning: If you’re trading without this, you’re flying blind into a shitstorm. Read it. Now.
The Mother of All Crashes: My magnum opus on why the market’s a house of cards waiting for a sneeze. Dive in here.
Precision Levels SPX: For SPX, SPY, and ES degenerates, this Substack’s a crystal ball. 29 years in this casino, and I’ve never seen projections this surgical. Check it out.
Caffeinated Capital: Hilarious, topical, salient daily commentary - where you will learn something with every read.
I invite you to follow my intraday inane drivel and sporadic brain-droppings at My Fucking Notes —brief, in-your-face, pure gonzo fire, pikers! Pledge to ditch the suits: .
I am KingCAMBO, smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em, and that’s how I ROLL on this pre-market snooze-fest!
King Cambo’s Fear and Loathing “Legal” Disclaimer: Alright, buckle up, you madcap truth-seekers, ‘cause I’m about to sling this disclaimer straight from the edge of a neon-drenched abyss, for you magnificent bastards, with a belly full of cheap whiskey and a mind like a chrome-plated slot machine spitting sparks. This ain’t no polite suggestion to buy or sell stocks, securities, or any of that Wall Street bullshit—it’s just my raw, unfiltered brain-droppings, spewed out like a busted fire hydrant. I’m a walking financial disaster, hemorrhaging cash on trades and investments like a gambler on a three-day bender. I might snatch up any stock I yap about here or dump it faster than a getaway car at a bank heist, and I won’t send you a postcard about it. This ain’t a pitch to buy or sell jack shit! I might own the names I’m ranting about, or I might not—could be bullish and empty-handed, bearish with a fistful of shares. Hell, assume I’m playing the exact opposite game you think, just to keep you on your toes. If I’m long, I could flip short before the ink dries; if I’m short, I might go long by lunch. No updates, no apologies—my positions shift like desert sands in a sandstorm. You’re out here in the wilds, solo, so don’t you dare lean on my blog for your big money moves. I’m a fringe-dweller, howling at the moon, and the publisher ain’t vouching for the half-cocked “facts” I sling. These ain’t the opinions of my bosses, buddies, or anyone else dumb enough to know me. I do my damndest to keep my disclosures straight, but I’m scribbling this after a few beers, maybe a shot of mezcal, so don’t bet your ranch on my accuracy. I tweak my posts after they’re live ‘cause I’m an impatient bastard, too lazy to proofread. Spot a typo? Come back in 30 minutes, it might be gone—or worse. And let’s get one thing crystal: I fuck up. “I fuck up a lot.” I’m saying it twice ‘cause it’s the only gospel I’ve got. Now go, you beautiful lunatics, and don’t blame me when the market chews you up and spits you out.