The Node Bulletins
Copyright© 2017 by Scriptorius
The Snow King, 9 August. It is all over, our expedition in ruins. We reached here to find the place a tourist resort, thronged by numerous parties. Admission for would-be summiteers is by turnstile only. Ahead of us was a group of Bolivian monks, intent on making the ascent clad in their habits. My companions were bitter, arguing that such frivolity would shame our more traditional approach. After much vituperation, our campaign disintegrated, leaving it to me to record the last throes.
Though no gossip columnist, I must report that Flatpole and Pugh are to wed. They left us two days ago, Pugh saying that he had long wished to grow coconuts, and that he and his betrothed were to proceed two thousand miles due north to realise his dream. I pointed out that this would place them in Siberia, not an area known for tropical produce. Pugh thanked me, but said that this was a mere technicality.
Gannett resigned yesterday, irate over complaints about his cooking. The last straw was his preparation of an ibex which Flatpole had throttled. Our quartermaster neglected to skin th