July 1, 1922

Slowly recovering from another frightening ordeal. Proving yet again that anything is possible in the Lost World, I had to face a most dangerous foe – a dark version of myself. It started innocently enough with a hunting trip, as our supplies were low. In a mysterious dinosaur graveyard I was attacked by a triceratops and could only save myself by killing it. Or so I thought. But the slaughter of the beast evoked the wrath of Oseena – a strange woman, part human, part saurian in appearance. Despite the seriousness of the situation I couldn’t help noticing that she was dressed intriguingly. She looked elegant and threatening at the same time. But her sense of style couldn’t make up for the fact that her mind was rather warped. She interpreted a moment of self-defence as a most punishable offence and ripped a dark version of myself out of me. While my evil alter ego came after me, he endangered first Veronica, then Challenger. Needless to say, I was angry and resolved to stop him. He finally crossed the last line when he went after Marguerite. Seeing her in the hands of that beast that looked exactly like me was a harrowing experience. My wrath knew no bounds. And still… When we fought to the death and I had nearly conquered him, I found that I couldn’t kill him. Which surprisingly was exactly what was needed to lift the curse. Oseena reappeared, and made my evil twin evaporate into me. I was whole again. Unfortunately Oseena disappeared too quickly, so I couldn’t inquire where she got her elegant robes. A similar style might be quite attractive on Marguerite. She's often looked elegant and threatening herself. When we had a few quiet comforting moments later in the Treehouse she mentioned something in that vein. I was deeply touched to find yet again that our minds think alike in the realm of fashion. What more proof do we need that we are meant for each other?

July 17, 1922

A miracle has happened – our intrepid journalist is back! A Ouija board of all things provided the solution to his mysterious disappearance. The boy was trapped in the spirit world and it took all our ingenuity and courage to free him. Marguerite showed yet another talent, presenting herself as a medium that can contact spirits at will. She also revealed that there had been a time in her life when she had used the gullibility of bereaved people and falsely told them she could help them talk to their dead loved ones. She showed no remorse admitting such a rather unscrupulous deed, but after seeing her evoke the spirits of Malone and Saros I wonder whether all those years ago she might not have given those poor folks a glimpse into the spirit world after all.

August 3, 1922

This morning I noticed a slight tremor in my right hand, which according to Challenger might be a residual effect of the curare that was administered by Inspector Anderson two days ago. What a horrific ordeal! Encountering Jack the Ripper in his two incarnations, Dr. Gault and Inspector Anderson we barely made it out alive. Yet again my life was saved by Marguerite. I consider myself the protector of our little group, but it seems that every other week it is me who is protected by the bravest woman I have ever met. So what if we had a little spat? Over time she will learn to ignore other men completely. And if not, then I’ll learn to control my jealousy. Whichever one is easier to accomplish.

September 10th, 1922

The past has a most unforeseen way of catching up with you… Pierson Rice. A man connected to my darkest hour. Hearing his name brought back those painful memories with a force that surprised me. My brother’s death is never far from my thoughts, but Rice’s presence on the Plateau turned my mind into a dark maelstrom where guilt and regret threatened to suffocate me. But this time the pain didn’t overwhelm me. No need to drown out all those memories with too much drink and questionable company – this time she was here to save me. A few simple words, a gesture, were enough to bring back hope. Hope for redemption, hope for a better life. I’ll forever treasure those moments with Marguerite in the Treehouse. Her hair dripping wet, her voice gentle and soothing, everything about her showing infinite understanding and an unconditional love. Yes, I say love, because that’s what I saw in her face that day.

Battling Rice and his vicious plan to kill the Hagan’s rightful ruler, we faced mortal danger again. Marguerite and I, tied to each other, only a few moments away from being blown up with gunpowder… I shiver remembering how close to death we were. What if I had lost her? The mind refuses to consider even the slightest possibility that she could be gone.

Our adventure ended on a lighter note, I’m happy to report. Marguerite entertained the guests at the Queen’s banquet with a few of her favourite songs. Even her tedious bird song drew cheers. She turned to me with a triumphant smile and said “See – the Hagans are refined enough to appreciate a great chanteuse.” I raised my glass in a toast, wondering for a moment whether I should tell her that Challenger had found out that all Hagans were tone deaf. Refined indeed…It should be noted that appropriate jungle wear must be sturdy, able to withstand a brisk swim in the river pursued by a hungry plesiosaur, and still look flattering dripping wet.  Marguerite’s lavender blouse fulfils those requirements most adequately.

September 23rd, 1922

An adventure in the American West not only brought a passionate kiss with a woman who looked just like Marguerite, but also a brand new look for me. I wore an outfit that was as manly as it was chic. Light pants, a white shirt with thin stripes, a vest with a tasteful South Western pattern and fringes, a new hat and cowboy boots completed the picture of a mighty fine frontier man. I was as perfectly adapted to a life of adventure in the American West as I am adapted to life on the Plateau with my explorer look. I wasn’t the only one who embraced new fashions. I met doubles of Marguerite (the aforementioned kissing partner), Veronica, Malone and Challenger. Malone’s alter ego was a merciless killer named Johnny Ringo. His taste in clothes mirrored his dark intentions – he wore pitch black garb. Not always a wise choice in a region where dusty roads leave ugly dirt marks on black. Not that black was a sure indication for a villain in that world – the feisty Widow Montgomery wore black as well, but her heart was as pure as an angel’s.

After saving the town from the evil-doing Sheriff Challenger, I was miraculously returned to the Plateau. My friends listened to my recounting of my wild west adventures with a mixture of awe and admiration. All but Marguerite that is. The green-eyed monster raised its ugly head; my lovely companion was jealous of the Widow Montgomery. But when I reminded her that the widow looked just like her, she smiled and when I jokingly offered to ride into the sunset with her, she took my hand and squeezed it gently, a most discreet and welcome gesture of affection.

September 30^th, 1922

The mood in the Treehouse is sombre. Yet another one of our friends has disappeared. It pains me to write that our dear hostess Veronica didn’t return from our latest balloon trip. Due to a set of unfortunate circumstances – or as Marguerite would call it: yet another malfunction of one of Challenger’s bloody inventions - we landed in a hollow Earth, an inhospitable place that offered even more than the usual share of adverse circumstances. Hostile natives, poisonous air and wild creatures… No wonder we tried to escape as soon as possible.

Thanks to the help of a native woman, Aleece - who was quite smitten with Malone, we managed to leave the underground world, but unbeknownst to us not without a stowaway. We left in a tense situation, desperately fighting off the natives. Malone nearly didn’t make it, so unfortunately our attentiveness had suffered. Aleece was killed in the fight – yet another reason why we were preoccupied. But these are all excuses. The fact of the matter remains that I should’ve noticed something was amiss. When we did, it was too late. The aggressive warrior Arjax, who was intent on getting control of the balloon, attacked Veronica. Our brave hostess managed to kill him, but she lost control of the balloon and disappeared into the mysterious clouds of the Plateau. Will we see her again? We’re intent on searching the Plateau to find her.I did suggest to Marguerite in honour of the sacrifice Aleece made she might want to adopt a similar costume to the one the unfortunate woman wore.  I think the crossed fabric bodice would be most flattering to Marguerite.  Alas, she wasn’t convinced. She pointed out that I am unhappy with the attention she attracts in her more modest apparel.  How would I handle the increased popularity such attire would be sure to inspire?  She does have a point.

October 7^th, 1922

The search for Veronica has yielded no success so far. Instead of her we found a coven of witches. It was inevitable, I guess. After vampires, werewolves and voodoo queens, an encounter with witches was only a matter of time. Their leader, Dame Alice, was angry at Challenger, since his inventions kept interfering with her magic. Or something like that. Their attack was two-pronged: her two witches-in-training went after Malone and me, while Dame Alice came after Challenger. I’m pleased to report that this time I didn’t fall for the pretty face of yet another supernaturally inclined woman. No, I was steadfast and spurned her. I’ve learned my lesson well. One look at her outfit and I knew this woman spelled trouble. Bad hair AND inferior fabrics? Not for me, not anymore! How bad was the outfit? Her dress was only a little better than Danielle’s getup. Its colour was a purplish blue and it definitely wasn’t made of silk, but rather from a fabric of indefinable content. The cut was inelegant and shapeless. A cape added no elegance, but only unsightly bulk. The young witch wore a necklace that turned out to be made of cheap glass beads. The poorest tribe on the Plateau has better jewellery. And then the hair – bleached blonde, stringy, hadn’t seen a conditioner in years. Those who say that I just didn’t fall for her because I was angry that she knocked me out and stole my rifle are gravely misjudging me. I’m a man of taste that’s why I would never have taken up with such a poorly styled creature. Malone was subjected to the unwanted attentions of a red-headed specimen of the same kind. Needless to say the boy knew better as well. Unfortunately the red-head quickly figured out Ned’s weak spot, his undying devotion to Veronica. She lured him – and thereby me as well - into the castle, supposedly for a celebration of their initiation, but in reality it was just so we would meet our maker.
We outsmarted the witches through a series of sly manoeuvres and were able to return home. Ah yes, I should mention that Marguerite claims that it was only through hers and Challenger’s doing that we were liberated from the castle. What a silly conceit! As if two strong men like us would need their help!

October 19^th, 1922

Malone has left us, trying to find himself, as he wrote. I’m torn between sadness about his departure and understanding for his actions. How I misjudged him, thinking he was nothing but an inexperienced reporter, naively looking for adventures and always a bit in over his head. Turns out we have a lot more in common than I thought. Including the urge to run away from our most traumatic experiences. I long for the day when he will be back. We’re truly brothers in arms.