Excerpt from the Diary of Dr. Phineas Burnout.

"...in his brain, which is as dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd with observation, the which he vents in mangled forms." Wm. Shakespeare, As You Like It.

Burnout, Wheelie, and two unidentified companions on an earlier expedition for the Society.

During the demolition of the ruins of an old Theosophist tea house in Baltimore, a collection of documents was found that shed new light on the strange history of Dr. Phineas Burnout and Wilhelm ``Papa'' Wheelie, who along with the mysterious Roy D. were instrumental in the founding of C.H.U.N.K. 666. Apparently, before the Theosophists acquired the building, it was the headquarters for the Wheeled Exploration Society, within which Burnout and Wheelie were renowned for their fearless adventuring spirit and amazing accounts of strange lands and cultures. Until this find, little was known about their 1889 expedition to the Mongolian steppe, even though as far as the historical record shows, neither gentleman ventured beyond the shores of America afterward. The Society archives simply cease to mention either of the pair.

The writings of Burnout himself show a desire for this account to remain secret. In his cover letter to the Secretary and Archivist of the Society, he mentions that it was only due to his obligation to the sponsors of the voyage that he sent word back to the States at all. He writes that "an extremely odd tragedy has occurred which I am hesitant to commit to paper, lest my sanity be brought into question." Although he admits that "traveling from eastern Europe to Mongolia by bicycle did of course come with its share of hardships, but we braved nothing that was beyond the abilities of two seasoned adventurers such as ourselves... even the vast expanses of the steppe were slowly being conquered by the steady progress of our wheels," he emphatically recommends that no further wheelmen explore north of the Gobi.

July 12, 1889.	We were lounging by the fire after dinner, in the tent of the local tribal chieftain. After several cups of fermented yak's milk - very delicious once the taste is acquired, and quite intoxicating - the nomadic leader became more and more effusive in his praises of our skill in riding our bicycles over the roadless expanses. We were by then used to curiosity about our machines, for the nomads near the Gobi do not make use of the wheel, preferring instead to carry their belongings on sledges and saddlebags. This man, however, did not view our bicycles as amazing and hithertofore unknown machines. He had a name for them in the local dialect, and claimed to know of a tribe to the North which constructed and used their own versions! The praise directed towards us was not for our unique inventions, but for our spiritual hardiness in conquering some manner of evil supernatural creatures that our machines were said to embody. The Northern clan was said to be very rich and successful, and occupied a large territory that was shunned by the other tribes because of the dangers of their pact with these sinister beings. The grand welcome that we were enjoying was partly due to fear for the powers that we were seen to possess as wheelmen. We, of course, doubted these stories, but felt it was our duty to investigate. After a long evening of conversation with, we turned in to resume our wanderings the next day.
July 13, 1889.	I and my companion each passed a seemingly endless night of bizarre nightmares. I remember seeing myself helplessly clutching a high perch while a horde of shadowy riders upon bicycles made of human bones darkened the entire land from horizon to horizon. I could not discern their purpose, but in the strange manner of dreams I saw them sweep all of Mongolia bare, then Asia and Europe, and then turn their attentions to the shores of America before I jerked awake with a start. It is now dawn, and time for us to take to the wheel, despite our headaches.
July 20, 1889.	Our search has been arduous, simply because of the large deserted buffer between the tribes. After a week of travel, we are lost and nearly out of supplies. We would surely have perished during this evening's storm, if we had not found shelter in these decrepit ruins.
July 21, 1889.	This morning was indeed bleak. If the truth is to be told, my only desire was to huddle where we lay and await death not as an adventurer, but as a helpless, lost child. Wilhelm was in a similar state. It took a great deal of willpower to simply stand up and scan the area, but when I did, my shocked exclamation roused my companion as well. There, on the crumbling remains of a wall, was an eerie, blasphemous mural, clearly composed by primitive shamans who did not see the world in the way that we did. I saw semihumanoid gods or demons whose malformed, contorted bodies were not fully distinct from the fantastic floating contraptions from which they dangled. I saw humans and monsters conversing, battling, and - I must be frank - copulating without regard to the constraints of gravity or matter. And throughout this maelstrom of unworldly visions, I saw devices which, despite their twisted and perverted shapes, were unmistakably bicycles of some sort. The angular knobbiness of each rider was echoed in the structure of his ride, and again, it was at times impossible to tell where flesh ended and machine began. While there were perfectly proportioned human beings, there were also warped monstrosities with vestigial leathery wings, tentacles instead of arms, and knees which towered higher than their heads even when the legs to which they were attached were at the bottom of the pedal stroke. I saw -- I can and will not repeat everything that I saw, but I will relate that what we saw should have stricken fear into our hearts and caused us to turn back, rather than galvanize us as it did.
July 22, 1889.	Yesterday, with the knowledge that we were near our quarry, we found new reserves of strength, which unfortunately did not last long after we had packed our things and pressed on. Once again, our spirits were flagging, and once again, we received another reprieve in the form of a sighting. Far off in the distance, an indistinct form on an even more indistinct wheeled steed could be seen. We doggedly followed this apparition for hours, slowly narrowing the distance between us. The man in question was apparently a lone yak herder, driving his animals across the steppe. When we were finally within hailing distance, the two of us commenced to attract the rider's attention by shouting and gesticulating. This agitated the herd, and apparently the rider as well, for he let loose a baneful blast of his horn, raised his bow and, to our surprise, fired an arrow into the flank of a nearby bull. The arrow was tethered to his machine, and both rider and bicycle were quickly beyond the horizon just behind the stampeding herd. This defeat was humiliating, and once again, we sank to the ground in desperation. The odds seem to be piling up against us. I don't know where we will find the stamina to continue.

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Last modified 12 September 1999.