Before picture, sent by Jack Colt on his Nokia iPhone camera.
UPDATE: JACK COLT IS DOING VERY NICELY. PLEASE READ THE MESSAGE BELOW, BUT IGNORE ALL MEANINGS EXTANT WITHIN.
Dear readers,
Jack Colt, founding organizer of FTVS and esteemed quantitative analyst, is missing in the Indonesian archipelago. Wavelength signals transmitted via FTVS newswire indicate another flaccid terrorist encumbrance in the nation’s capital, Jakarta. FTVS eagerly awaits word on Mr. Colt’s normally robust health. Meanwhile, candle lit vigils illuminate the nation.
Before despair disseminates, there are myriad variables that require processing:
It is widely known that Mr. Colt enjoys absolute hibernation during his initial 5 days in the former Dutch colony. He is commonly understood to subsume himself in unbridled labial/vaginal adventures predicated on fiscal exchange, while sometimes exploring the testicular conquests of gender mismatch.
Congruently, upon Indonesian reintegration, our dearest Mr. Colt oftentimes indulges in aggressive “arvo” sessions protoluxed with exorbitant psilocybin intake.
As a result, his lack of correspondence can not be taken alone as proof of his imminent death via virgin-providing (that is the point, after all, is it not?) suicide bomb. Intensive research suggests the weapons were prescribed by several unassuming Indonesian males – bagus, they are, err, were not.
Dearest Jack, our thoughts are with you, and we pray to Artemis that you have not been exploded by nitroglycerenic compounds, courtesy of a few bad apple, unhappy Indonesian dickheads.
God bless, and may your journeys be flawless.
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I am well. The night following the bombing was a strange one. I should not have started it with long island ice teas. The gastric mix of Larium, Bintang, and Strawberry margaritas did not agree with my thick blood. I went to the Sky Garden, taking my chances, and hoping I would be the only survivor in case someone decided to blast the damn place. Like everybody else upon arrival, I was awarded a VIP pass. The Sky Garden understands there is nothing worse than not being a VIP at a party. I only have a mild recollection the rest: Dancing to poor electronic music, two whores and another man in a dull hotel room on Poppies 2, my alarm clock at 5am, waiting on the beach in Jimbaran. Noxious. Embarking on a very fast boat with two Ausssies and a boogie boarder. The boat was fast. Too fast maybe. It broke down the next day. I now found refuge in the Jungle. No distraction but the Cambodian weed of Captain Keke. Until later, Jack Colt.