(ED: The following is a series of excerpts from the final diary of the world famous explorer, Sir Desmond Rothschild, written during his final assault on the North Pole, in 1912)
Day 3: The expedition is off to a ruddy good start. The men are feeling bullish, the food is plentiful, and we’ve hired a dozen of the finest Himalayan Sherpas to support our effort. In addition, we’ve brought a dozen of the most surefooted Chilean mules. Nothing can stop us from reaching the pole in record time.
Day 4: Mules all dead, frozen stiff.
Day 6: A bit concerned, as Reginald Dalworth will simply not stop telling endless tales of his time in the Orient. The prattling fool expects to believe that he is deserving of sympathy, simply because he endured a bit of torture at the hands of the Chinese. Lord Phillip Millsworth is eagerly engrossed, but I shall have to assert myself to see that Reginald stops.
Day 8: Stopped Reginald in his tracks today, as we crossed an open plateau of blue ice. He was immersed in a tale of pungi sticks and wax, when I simply stated that I had seen much worse in my time. When he balked, I let him know in no uncertain terms that until he had been repeatedly buggered in an English library that he had nothing further to share. Indeed, unless he had lost his footing in a morass of his own blood and semen, he is barely deserving of calling himself a man.
Day 12: Disaster strikes. We’ve lost most of the food, and a good number of the Sherpas in a crevasse. They simply refused to leave Reginald behind, and we could not wait while he attempted to climb back out. He must simply have slipped. Oh the delicious irony.
Day 18: Spirits are slipping. Mook-Ping and the other sherpas try to entertain with their strange dances and ritual masturbation, but alas, Lady Despair seems to have gripped us in her slender hand.
Day 22: We have lost our way, and are completely out of food. Was forced to eat some of the Sherpas to stay alive. Phillip foolishly dined upon his own leg. Will attempt to discern our true bearing if only the wind and blowing snow will allow us. I simply must succeed in this venture.
Day 24: The sun shared her splendor with us today. I gathered the remaining men for a rousing football match. Phillip watched from the side with envy in his eyes.
Day 32: Have not been able to write for a week, but the swelling has finally gone down now. The others are all dead, save Mook-Ping and myself. He’s been wonderful, keeping me on my toes by pretending to make attempts on my life while I sleep. I must say he put much effort into his work, these attempts would fool all but the most trained of eyes. Once I foil his attempts, he often passes out. I attempt to teach him the ways of the west, but he ends up fleeing my tent upon gaining consciousness.
Day 40: I have given up our efforts at moving on, and am now attempting to eek out an existence at the quiet edge of the word. I fancy myself a bit of an outdoorsman, and have built a quaint home, out of ice and Phillip. Food supplies are dwindling, and the end is in sight. I can’t help but feel that in another life, Mook-Ping and I would have been happy together, wasting our days away in a small manor near Barcelona. Sadly, I was forced to kill him yesterday, as I caught him attempting to steal scraps from my plate. Perhaps he felt that since they were once part of his rugged yet supple thigh, that he still held some ownership over them.
(ED: The diary was recovered in 1974, during a scientific expedition to map regions of the pole. It was turned over to The Correctness for archiving. The body of Sir Desmond Rothschild found in a strange grouping of what seemed to be ice cottages. He built an entire village before perishing.)