You wake at four AM in your converted shipping container home to decode a steganographically encrypted microdot on an open-source soymilk carton containing a data bond from a contract slave hinting that a Finnish/Bhutani alliance of anarchist arbitrageurs have shortchanged a Congolese nickel shipment.
With lightning speed, you set up a coalition with Panamanian/Ceylonese cryonicists to purchase 15,000 ingots from a Sahara solar mirror recycling plant, and make a quick profit on the resale.
In the distance, you hear the muffled beats of Haji rasta-rap, and the soothing hum of a microwave beam power transmitter. A private police car roars past.
You quickly convert the Cryptcoins into untraceable cold fusion futures, and it's not even nine AM yet.
Your profits will barely fund your effort to get in on a nanobot fishing swarm currently spawning between two artificial atolls in the south Pacific.
Before lunchtime, you hope to finally earn enough to make that down payment on that alluring starter condo in the local Rush Limbaugh microstate-franchise.
Catching a movement from the corner of your eye, you zap an autonomous spy drone outside your window with your souped-up laser pointer.