by Steven Fishman
11: Families Are Nothing But Trouble
There was quite a shake-up at the Mission of Fort Lauderdale. Bruce was booted out on his E-Meter cans, and all trace of his eight year reign as Mission Holder was eradicated from the face of the earth. Now I knew how Josef Stalin must have felt after he died, when his memory was forever erased from the Soviet Union. Poor guy.
The Ethics Officer of Miami, Frank Thompson, was posted as Acting Executive Director of the Mission, and his first order was to send Peter Letterese to the new office of Scientology Missions International for the Eastern United States at the New York Org to be trained during the next two months as the permanent Executive Director. Bruce's loss appeared to be Peter's gain, but then we always knew that Peter had a destiny of fame, fortune and greatness.
The best news for me was that I was seriously falling in love with my new auditor. Nancy Witkowski was a thin, six foot blonde with long, straight hair. She looked much more like a fashion model than the Lead Auditor of the Mission of Fort Lauderdale. She was a Class Eight and New OT Five, which meant that she could just look at me and I would have a multiple orgasm. There was the most hypnotic aroma of fresh cut flowers coming from between her legs, and it was such a relief to be audited by someone who looked good instead of those dogs in Miami. I mean, Valerie and Leah were both such total woofers, with bodies and faces only their mothers could love on payday.
Nancy had a very relaxed auditing style, and never lost her cool with me. She found my buttons very easily, and rapidly learned that it was far more effective to butter me up with seductiveness than to read me the riot act. From the moment I met her, I felt I was flying in a dreamy state of unreality where all my present time problems just vanished in a puff of dry ice. Sitting opposite her in the auditing room, only separated by the table holding the E-Meter, I tingled endlessly when our knees touched together, since they were the gateway to thighs more heavenly than any high priced escort's. My reactive mind was nothing but putty in her hands. I sent Diana Hubbard a thank-you note of gratitude for sending Nancy to handle me.
The first thing that Nancy and I did was to review my "on-purposeness." Purpose is "the survival route chosen by an individual in the accomplishment of its goal."52 My "on- purposeness" was my commitment to effectively getting the class action lawsuit settlements done as a means for survival in going up the Bridge.
Nancy ran a prepared list on the E-Meter based on my hat write-up which described my duties as Fields Financial Planner. She found that I had some "Q&A", or indecisiveness over how my participating in the claims would affect the other shareholders.
To remedy this, Nancy cut off one piece of hair from my chest. Then she told me to look at myself, and tell her which part of my chest the hair had come from. I honestly could not determine that the one piece of hair was even missing.
I soon cognited on the analogy of this drill to my sending in the claims. If a shareholder was originally supposed to receive $ 393.87, and now only received a check for $ 391.14, it would not even be noticed. But when I multiplied the two dollars and seventy-three cents by ten thousand claimants, I had a check for $27,300 to go up the Bridge with. The E-Meter measured a "blowdown", or the period of relief and cognition53 that I experienced when I realized that my worrying over the shareholders was for nothing.
To drive the point home, Nancy Witkowski had me mock up an "ocean of tears" as a grief charge for the hair that she removed from my chest. The process was not run completely until I was crying bitterly in sympathy for losing that one strand of hair. I finally understood that worrying about the small amount that each shareholder would not receive as a result of my participation in the claim was as important as crying endlessly over a lost chest hair. It was remarkable how much better and more alive I felt after Nancy's session. There is such a difference between being audited by a Class Eight auditor rather than a Class Four like Valerie or Leah. It was like comparing the terror of being constipated to the joy of taking a real good shit. Life was truly starting to open up for me now.
Fred Hare's telex was very mysterious.
"Report to the Deputy Guardian of Hawaii on 22 October 81 at 900 hours, Church of Scientology Hawaii Org, 143 Nenue Street, Honolulu", it read.
"Where is the airline ticket?", I asked Kevin. "What hotel will I be staying in?"
"That's your responsibility", he replied. "Do you think the Guardian's Office is running a travel agency?"
"No, of course not", I sighed. "That was pretty selfish of me, wasn't it?"
Kevin nodded his head in complete agreement.
Jaime refused to go to Hawaii with me. She was too afraid that our plane would crash because I was so thoroughly evil. Furthermore, she didn't feel Elysia Skye was old enough to travel, and finally, she didn't want to be stuck in the same hotel room as me.
There was a radio program called "Auction Action" which was run by WEXY 1520 on the AM dial. The show was a radio auction of the air where listeners were able to bid on cut-rate vacation trips. Kevin suggested that I sign up Cypress Shoes as a sponsor and make a deal with Dick Vance, the promoter of the show, so that I could be the only person bidding on their Hawaii trip. That worked, and I was able to get the vacation for only four hundred twenty-five dollars for two people, including air fare and accommodations at the Hotel Kuhio. Kevin asked me to tell my father that the vacation cost eight hundred and fifty dollars, and that he could come along if he paid for half of it. In this way, the travel arrangements did not cost me anything.
On the appointed day, I met the B-1 Intelligence Unit that flew in from Los Angeles, and we raided the Mission of Hawaii at 1282 Kapiolani Boulevard. We relieved the Mission Holder of Hawaii of his duties, confiscating his charter, his Mission bank accounts, and even his auditing certificates. When he refused to vacate the Mission, the Deputy Guardian of Hawaii declared him a Suppressive Person, and then bounced him out on his ass. A fight ensued, and five out of the twelve Guardian heavyweights that went on the bust successfully floored him, knocking him to the ground on the lawn in front of the building. I did not participate in the fight, because as I have told you before, I simply abhor violence, even though I recognize that often it is very necessary to preserve the Technology. However, I do not want you to think that I was in any way a coward. I got my ethics in by urinating in his face while he was laying down on the ground after the beating. It was the least I could do to show my disapproval for his obstinateness.
For the next five days, I worked at the recaptured Mission as the Bookstore Officer In Charge, together with a beautiful local Scientologist named Stephanie Raddatz. Once the Mission was rehabilitated and fully operational, Stephanie volunteered to hold onto the post herself, and I was relieved of my interim duties. I loved working in the Mission Bookstore, putting all of the Dianetics books in size place, dusting them off, and taking inventory. It was there that I made up my mind that I would one day enjoy being assigned a post in Scientology Archives, after we won the War of the Wogs and Cleared the planet. Certainly there were lots of important tasks to do first, but working with Ron's data in the Archives Org was a great goal to look forward to in years to come when psychiatry wouldn't exist anymore.
Nightfall in Hawaii had a splendor all its own. The whores on Kalakaua Avenue were far more glamorous than the skid row tramps of South Florida. They dressed up in expensive disco outfits, and they attracted your attention by grabbing your arm while walking along in the street. At fifty dollars per pop they were pricey, but the few that I spent time with all knew how to milk me dry by moving their pancreases in a certain way. I suppose there is Tech to everything. My father couldn't understand what I was so busy doing all day and all night, but somehow I still managed to meet him every afternoon around dinner time.
When I returned back to Florida, Fred Hare called Kevin to be sure that I was invited to the victory party at Flag which celebrated our numerous successes in Hawaii, including the fact that the Mission Holder had finally done the right thing and killed himself. Inasmuch as I wanted to attend, I was unable to go to the Fort Harrison because I had started my Grade One auditing. The Uniroyal Class Action litigation had been settled and paid out, and I once again had plenty of money to continue my progress up the Bridge.
Grade One, or the Problems Release, was lots of fun to do. I found out how to recognize the source of problems and make them vanish.
In a process called "Control, Communication and Havingness One", Nancy Witkowski ran the command, "Give me that hand; Thank you", for two hours, over and over. When we were finished, I was upset that I couldn't keep doing it, because touching her hand was really stimulating for me. I was about five minutes away from a climax, and no doubt the E-Meter gave me away. I realized, of course, that I had paid for a problems release and not a sexual release, and I knew it was wrong to get more out of the auditing than I was entitled to.
But if there was ever a process that made me forget about all my problems completely, it was "Control, Communication and Havingness Two." What would happen to you, if for four hours, you were told to look at the wall, walk over to the wall, touch the wall, and turn around, over and over and over and over again by a happy, smiling, hysterical female auditor. I'll let you know what happened to me. I started spinning. The walls dissolved, Nancy turned into jelly, I tripped over my own body while exteriorized during a dizzy spell, and the only problem that I thought I still had was in deciding who was going to recite the Scientology Prayer for the Dead at my funeral.
Amazingly enough, after the routine was over, I felt better. I didn't have problems any more. It was such a relief to throw up, because I had not vomited in years. There was probably stuff in my stomach from former lifetimes that came out in that gargantuan heave. CCH-2, which is the abbreviation for "Control, Communication and Havingness Two" is absolutely a real winner. I would rush down to the local Org and put that process right on the Master Card if I were you. Getting through it is guaranteed to get you higher than any booze or drug trip that you have ever been on. Really. If you ever go into grief over losing a loved one, do CCH-2. You'll never even remember what you were crying about. Just read my Success Story. It's on file with the Scientology Mission of Fort Lauderdale. I didn't lie when I said that CCH-2 was better than sex.
But that attitude did not last long, because with CCH-3, I started to get aroused again. Nancy had me place my knees between her knees.
"If only we were doing this process in my bed instead of sitting up in an auditing room", I thought to myself.
She then raised her two hands with her palms facing me, about an equal distance between the two of us and said, "Put your hands against mine, follow them, and contribute to their motion."
Now this was almost as good as watching bottomless table dancing, and it might have actually been better, because Nancy and I were holding hands for three hours while our knees were touching together. In "Hand Space Mimicry", the object of the game was to keep my hands glued to Nancy's no matter where she moved them. She was tricky too, making circles, figure eights, and neurotic, erratic motions which tried to force me to let go. I was so happy that she wasn't wearing a bra. You have no idea how much of a woman you can see if you are holding hands with her while she is moving her arms wildly and the buttons on her blouse are far enough apart. What a great erection I had! No matter what the bulletin said, I knew in my heart that a good stiff dick was what Ron really intended to be the End Phenomenon of the drill. I never had any idea that I could keep it going that long. When Scientology promises to restore the lost abilities of a thetan, they are not bullshitting you! I'll vouch for that.
There are so many effective processes in Grade One that they are simply too numerous to mention. For example, CCH-9 contains the phrase "Keep it from going away", and CCH-10 has the command "Hold it still." I tried running those while I was having a bowel movement and they both worked! I never realized that at thirty-one years old I could take a graduate course in toilet training. Wasn't I a big dope to assume that I knew everything there was to know about it? Sure I was.
"Opening Procedure of Standard Operating Procedure 8-C" was literally and figuratively an eye-opener too. In Part B, Nancy asked me to (1) Find a spot in the room, (2) Go over to it and put my finger on it, and (3) Let go of it. After doing that drill for an hour and a half, I cognited that this would be a fantastic process for a woman to run when she is starting to get her menstrual period. It is incredible how Ron spotted every kind of problem that living life trapped in a body had to offer. Who would have ever imagined that Scientology had a specific routine for something as uncommon as Bladder Control PMS. And yet, critics of L. Ron Hubbard have had the colossal gall to allege that he was chauvinistic and unresponsive to the needs of women. Now you can see what a load of libelous crap those rumors were, probably started by a bunch of frigid feminist whores!
The New Year's Eve party of the 31st of December 1981 at the Mission of Fort Lauderdale brings tears of drippy nostalgia to my brain when I think about it. Peter Letterese made a dramatic entrance during the countdown to AD32, the thirty-second year After Dianetics which we were busy celebrating. Dianetics, of course, was created by Ron in 1950, which is the base year of the Scientology Calendar.
Peter had completed his training in New York, and had just returned after a short jaunt at Flag, where he received his permanent certificate as the Executive Director of Fort Lauderdale.
After we watched the televised simulcast from the Fort Harrison, Peter gave his first briefing to us as Mission staff who were now reunited with Ron's Church through the heroic actions of the Guardian's Office, and by Scientology Missions International.
"I will make a New Year's resolution for AD32", Peter began. "I will never evaluate you, invalidate you, or be reasonable with your mistakes. I will just run good 8-C (control) on you and see that you help me produce the highest stats ever for any Mission on the planet!"
The applause was thunderous, and together with the "Hip Hip Hoorays" for Ron, lasted over eleven minutes. Peter Letterese was a ruler amongst men and a God amongst thetans. We all knew that he was Ron's emissary, skipping and jumping through the wonderful world of ARC. Because I clapped the loudest, Peter extended to me the honor of organizing his personal L. Ron Hubbard library of books and tapes as he moved into Bruce's old office. I had them all in size place and spatially conceptualized by four in the morning. When everyone else finished their dusting and polishing, we all went outside to admire the sunrise. It was such a pleasure to have the world all to ourselves on New Years Day while the wogs were home in bed, sleeping off their stupor from the previous night's wanton revelry of drugs and alcohol. What a privilege it was to be so much better than shit like that.
Since the Mission did not have its own Case Supervisor yet, Peter reviewed all of the auditing folders himself. When he looked at mine, he came up with a wacky conclusion that I had a fixated over- preoccupation with sex. If I didn't know him better, I would have sworn that he was talking like a suppressive psychologist. In any event, he ordered Nancy to handle what he perceived to be my "obsessive attention on the second dynamic" during the continuation of my auditing on Grade One.
"Sex isn't a problem for me, Nancy", I argued. "I just don't have anything else on my mind most of the time. If it were a problem, I wouldn't even think about it!"
So in CCH-6, which is called "Body Room Contact", Nancy asked me, "Is your penis embarrassing to you?"
I thought she was putting me on with such a personal question.
"No!", I insisted. "I happen to like my penis an awful lot, and it is in no way or shape embarrassing to me at all! I only wish that girls liked it as much as I did. By the way, why did you ask me that?"
"Well, in CCH-6, under the section called Purpose of Body Room Contact, Ron states that the process is done to the preclear to "give him in particular a reality on his own body",54 said Nancy. "Furthermore, Ron adds that "Training Stress is upon using only those body parts which are not embarrassing to the preclear, as it will be found that the preclear ordinarily has very little reality on various parts of his body." So, Steve, I just had to make certain that you were not embarrassed by your penis, because the last thing I want to do as an auditor is to give you an ARC Break and upset you."
"Hey, my penis is your penis", I assured her.
"Very good", she acknowledged.
That being the case, Nancy ran the repetitive command of "CCH-6 on a Body Part" for the next three and a half hours, which was, "Touch your penis. Thank you."
I finally saw the advantage of having a Class Eight Auditor who is rigorously trained under the flublessness of Standard Tech. An ordinary Class Four auditor like Valerie or Leah would have been content in seeing me get some charge off my case after masturbating for an hour or so and then just ended the process. But after three and a half hours, Nancy Witkowski allowed me to come to realize the phenomenal news that my body parts have nothing to do with me as a thetan. A spiritual being can't have a penis. It's just this stupid looking thing that is attached to the body, and the body isn't even mine to begin with! I stole the damn body right after it was conceived by those two strangers called my mother and father! The fact that my body grew a set of ears, a nose, or even a penis had nothing at all to do with me! It wasn't my fault the body did that. What the fuck did I have to do with it? Nothing! I finally understood that the penis isn't even mine! And I sure didn't like the idea of playing with anybody else's penis! What kind of a preclear do you think I am anyway?
Peter Letterese was so proud of my Success Story on CCH-6 that he couldn't get the words out of his mouth. Well, I hope he was proud of me. I would hate to think that he needed a review on his own Grade Zero because he didn't know how to freely communicate on any subject. Nevertheless, I explained to him that my awareness about myself had sprung up faster than anyone had ever anticipated. I no longer had to take any responsibility for any part of my body or anything it did to people. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think that Total Freedom could be that powerful. What a wonder it was to be living in the year AD32 when we finally knew what the hell was really going on.
Between Grade One and Grade Two, Nancy suggested that I take "The Assists Course", so that I could help other thetans with their problems too, now that all of mine were finally solved.
There was a six hour drill that Nancy ran on me which had the following command: "Close your eyes and look at my fingers."
Do you know that it only took me five hours and twenty minutes to see how many fingers she was holding up without looking at them with my body's eyes? It was fantastic! A thetan doesn't need eyes to see with anyway. I told you that once before, or did you forget already? And don't think that my vision wasn't a thousand percent improved either, because after five hours and twenty minutes, I rehabilitated my level of perception which was nothing less than sheer magic. Just from looking at her fingers, I was able to tell how many layers of nail polish that Nancy had used in the last year, and I was completely skilled at reading her fingerprints in mid-air while her hands were moving. You don't get that good with just your eyes, buddy. And in case you think that I am just bragging and actually full of shit, let me tell you there is no way that Nancy would have lied about my recovered abilities. My auditor is an ethical human being. She would have kept me on the drill for fourteen hours without even a sip of water if it took me that long to pass it. Obviously I was a quick learner.
With all of my achievements taking these giant steps toward perfection, Jaime and her family were still one big pain in the ass.
The Generics Class Action Claim which I sent away in her father's name to his house in New Jersey was paid to the tune of forty-one thousand dollars by the claims processing agent, which was the Delaware Trust Company. My father-in-law Ellis Tollin was a real hero! He kept the whole damn check for himself and didn't even give his own daughter a nickel of it. If you can't trust your in-laws with money, you might as well go ahead and shoot them! I would never have denied him his ten percent commission, and if he needed a little more, I could have probably negotiated it with Peter on his behalf. Was I being unfair to him in any way? I don't think so. But to steal the whole thing and keep me from doing Grade Two was about the lowest dirty rotten trick that anyone ever pulled on me. I really married into some cockeyed family, let me tell you!
When I wrote up my Knowledge Report on the incident, Peter was purple with furiosity. I discovered that an Italian temper looks the same in a Scientology Mission as anywhere else. Jaime's father had once given me his promise that he would hand over the check when he received it in exchange for his ten percent commission, and his word turned out to be worth shit!
Reggie Monce, an auditor at the Mission, said, "When you deal with wogs, you really get screwed."
And he was so right. Wogs are truly the scum of the earth. Now I finally understood why the Emperor Xenu was so pissed off at everybody seventy-five million years ago. Someone probably fucked around with his class action claims too.
"There are some new ground rules, Fishman!", Peter roared. "First of all, I don't want any new claims sent to your moochy out-ethics relatives! Your father-in-law is a criminal SP, and I want to know about every overt act he ever committed in this lifetime so that I can make him pay for this! Secondly, from now on, all claim forms are going to be signed by imbeciles. Use people who can't read, like your Jamaican housekeeper. What's her name?"
"Joy Green", I said.
"Right!", he acknowledged. "Joy Green will be just fine. Or any of those hookers that you run around with; they're good too. Or that basket case psycho-dog friend of yours that likes women to whip him and walk on him with high heels. What's his name?"
"Steve Goldberg", I answered.
"Yeah! Get him to sign some cases!", Peter commanded. "Remember, no more members of your lunatic family, especially your wife's sick family. What the hell is wrong with you? Didn't you know that Jaime's father has the integrity of snake shit?"
"I trusted him!", I pleaded.
"You trust everybody!", he growled. "Psychiatrists, criminals, degraded beings, SPs, squirrels, degenerates, attorneys, Potential Trouble Sources! But nice, honest people you don't trust, do you? You would never think of walking over to a poor guy selling newspapers in the street and offer him ten dollars to sign a claim form. No, you have to use your crooked father-in-law! You told me yourself that the cheap bastard never even paid for your wedding!"
"No, I paid for it", I agreed.
"Didn't that tell you what kind of a leech he was? My God, Steve! What the hell is wrong with you? Do you know why I didn't force you to get a divorce? Because I knew that there was a check coming to your father-in-law's house, that's why. Ellie and I talked about it, and we decided to wait until you got that check. But now look what happened! You're still married to that stinking filthy pig, and her father took our money anyway!"
There was no point in arguing with Peter when he was right. After all, he didn't get to be the Executive Director of the Mission of Fort Lauderdale for nothing. I tried to explain to him that when I get up to the top of the Bridge at OT Seven, I would do a personality transplant on Jaime and exchange her for a higher- toned thetan that would never rip us off.
"You'd better keep her life insurance paid up and start postulating her death so you could pay me that money back", he warned, "otherwise you'll never get any closer to OT Seven than the bottom of a bird cage."
I think Peter would have insisted upon my filing for divorce if he had stayed in town. However, he had to leave for the San Francisco Org for some further administrative training, as well as to take care of some personal family matters of his own. He ordered me to work directly with Ellie Bolger while he was gone, and to be certain to log all of the claims with Denise, as well as to discuss any problems I was having with Barbara Fawcett. I heard rumors that Peter was called away because of some "situation" that he was having with his own ethics, but no one would confirm that the stories were true. I saw Peter's departure as a temporary reprieve with which to buy some more time to avoid confronting the divorce issue. No matter what Jaime or her family did to us, how could I entrust my two infant daughters to be raised alone by such a psychopath? It was a no-win situation.
Unable to confront anything, I had the fortunate opportunity to leave town for a couple of weeks in March of 1982, when Ellie Bolger summoned me to meet her in Los Angeles, where she was doing some work for the Watchdog Committee of the Religious Technology Center, the highest Org in Scientology.
It was such a relief to miss Jaime's twenty-sixth birthday, which was on March 11th. Who the hell wanted to spend any time with her, falsely pretending to be happy? She always bought her own presents with the credit cards anyway.
Celebrity Center was incredible! During Hollywood's Golden Era, the Manor Hotel, located at 5930 Franklin Avenue, Hollywood, was the glamorous home to such stars as Humphrey Bogart, Marilyn Monroe, Ed Sullivan and Vincent Price. Errol Flynn stayed there too, only because he was not related to Michael Flynn, Lavenda's squirrel attorney. And now, the Manor Hotel was part of Fifield Manor, Ron's seven story French castle, which housed the Celebrity Center Org that catered to the rich and famous. In L. Ron Hubbard's Executive Directive of 2 November 1968, Ron stated "Only Class VIII's are to audit celebrities; Love, Ron."55 Ordinarily, being the fair-minded egalitarian that I am, I would have objected to this caste system where only famous people are first class thetans. However, since Diana Hubbard had appointed Nancy Witkowski, a Class VIII Auditor to audit me, why should I complain? I would have to be real stupid to rock the boat, right? Screw the rest of the preclears getting inferior service. I was making solid gains, and that's all that mattered.
The castle itself, which was known as the Chateau Elysee, used to be the main headquarters of the United States Guardian's Office before it was relocated to the Flag Land Base in 1979. Some of the advanced levels of Scientology that were being offered at the Advanced Organization of Los Angeles in the Cedars Complex used to be delivered at the Manor. But now it was temporary headquarters to the Religious Technology Center, as well as the Celebrity Center and the Manor Hotel where I was staying.
Ellie Bolger and I had dinner with the Inspector General for the Religious Technology Center, Steve Marlowe. Afterwards, I was nearly overwhelmed out of my skin to meet the distinguished Heber Jentzsch, the President of the Church of Scientology of California, who was giving a briefing about an Org that I had never heard of before called Author's Services, Incorporated.
Heber revealed that Ron established Author's Services so that his Tech would be preserved, even in the event of a nuclear war. He said that there were five confidential locations being built throughout the planet where exact duplicates of every word that Ron ever wrote and recorded was going to be preserved beneath the earth in radiation- proof caverns for eternity. Heber added that it was quite an immense project, because while Ron was busy developing the upper OT levels on his yacht the Sea Org Vessel Apollo, the tape recorder was continuously going all the time. If that were true, there were probably some fabulous tapes of Ron sitting on the commode in his stateroom, calling out to his messengers to bring him some more toilet paper.
"That would have been well worth preserving in five different places", I thought intently with reverent pride.
I was encouraged to join staff at Author's Services and move to Los Angeles by Tony D'Urso, the Author's Services Recruiter, but I had no intention of living in L. A. where there were earthquakes and three hundred dollar-an-hour hookers, and so I turned it down.
My main purpose in coming to Celebrity Center was to give a debriefing to Wendall Reynolds, the Financial Planner for the Religious Technology Center, who besides Diana Hubbard Horwich, was one of Ellie Bolger's senior executives. Wendall wanted to see what one of my completed class action claims looked like before I mailed it, so I brought the Gap Stores claim form with me, which had already been signed and was ready to be mailed out.
If there was ever a nit-picker, Wendall was it. He spent two hours arguing with me over the pros and cons of writing up the claims in longhand rather than typing them. I tried to explain to the thick-headed mule that typing the claims was much better, because often when they were written by hand, the penmanship was too hard to read, and the numerical digits were not understandable. His viewpoint was that the documents looked more "authentic" when they were hand written.
I looked at Wendall as if he were a complete asshole.
"Do you really think a dumb clerk earning a hundred and twenty dollars a week in a claims processing office is going to care about whether the form is typed or written?", I asked with righteous indignation. "All she wants to do when the five o'clock whistle blows is to go home and smoke her dope! We're dealing with wogs here, not intelligent life!"
Ellie valiantly stood by my decision and put an end to the conversation. I told her that it was a waste of time talking to people as compartmentalized as Wendall. Although she cordially acknowledged my ARC Break, she nevertheless reminded me that I, above all others, should respect management executives who pay such close attention to detail. Ellie had an uncanny way of turning my most valid complaint into something moot and absurd.
"I wish I could grow up to be exactly like her", I sighed.
When Nancy Witkowski told me that Grade Two was going to provide relief from the hostilities and sufferings of life, all I could think of was how great things would be when I had enough Tech under my belt to postulate Jaime into a catatonic state of comatose unconsciousness for the next twenty years. Then I could keep her locked up in her room and have unrestricted sexual intercourse with her, while all of the nourishment and nutrition she'd ever need would freely flow up into her body via a tube inserted in her nose. That would be a fantastic win for Grade Two if I gained the ability to make all of that happen.
But unfortunately those were actually advanced OT processes, and I would have to wait quite a while before I had the capability of performing any miracles like that. Grade Two was a lot less dramatic.
"Recall a secret", Nancy commanded.
"I once had sex with my Aunt Eva's dog Coco", I said. "She was a black poodle. Hey, that's not fair! It's not a secret anymore!"
"Your needle is floating", she replied, indicating that the E-Meter was registering complete agreement with what I had told her.
"Yeah, I remember I had a real good time", I added.
I recalled lots of secrets for the next four hours. I didn't realize how many funny things I did in this lifetime. I planted over thirty praying mantis cocoons under the furniture in my Aunt Ray's house; I released a jar of fifty moths in the closet where my Aunt Bess' fur coats were stored; I filled my water pistol with black ink and squirted my Uncle Irving in the face with it, and I burned down the auditorium of my summer camp by throwing inflammable camphor mothballs into the fireplace, and all of this occurred before I was twelve years old.
We then ran "Dynamic Straightwire", which were a series of commands that recalled what secrets and overt acts that each of the eight dynamics of self, spouse, groups, mankind, life, physical universe, spirits and God have done to me.
"Think of something a bird has done to you", Nancy stated.
"Well, a pigeon shit on my head one time", I recalled.
"Very good", she acknowledged. "Think of something trees have done to you."
"They bumped into me while I was walking, just minding my own business!", I yelled.
"Okay, now think of something your wife has done to you", she continued.
Telling Nancy my story took six hours, and that was just for the first month we were married. Nevertheless, we had to continue the process until the E-Meter revealed a "floating needle." So what if it took three weeks? There was plenty of cash in my auditing account, and Nancy worked by the hour, so it was no sweat off of her sweet rectum. Eventually, as I wrote in my Success Story, I finally realized that I really hated Jaime. I was so relieved at long last to know the truth! Imagine! All that time when I thought I loved her I had no idea what a complete idiot I had been! What a marvelous process the Relief Release of Grade Two was. For four and a half years of marriage, I never knew how I truly felt about the bitch. What a relief it was to know how deeply I hated her guts! I gave Nancy a big kiss because she was such a damn good auditor. If only she would sleep with me, my life would be complete.
But with Nancy it was strictly a professional relationship. She only would date men who were OT Five or above. Such prejudice! And Denise didn't give me a tumble either. She and the auditor Reggie Monce got married, and I felt like the loneliest person in the whole wide world. Thank God that Steve Goldberg was still around to introduce me to his succulently sleazy sluts.
I started dating one of his prized selections, a sex object named Julia Vaughn, who was my ideal choice for a tramp mistress. She was a prime example of poor white trash from Kentucky, with a voluptuous but nevertheless shapely body, with the exception of unsightly stretch marks from having too many abortions and a couple of barefoot kids that her mother took care of. Julia had a unique smell of dried up perspiration and Clorox bleach, and whenever she was not on a cocaine binge, she was an excellent value for twenty-five dollars. At least both she and Steve Goldberg were useful for signing the class action claim forms, as Peter had instructed me to get them to do.
Steve Goldberg paid her twenty-five dollars for sex just like I did, but he never slept with Julia. All he liked to do is to lick her dirty feet while he masturbated on the floor, as well as to take nude pictures of her. He was, after all, a photographer by trade. Within a short time, I had over several hundred pornographic poses of her for my own personal collection. Whenever Julia wasn't around and I was forced by the call of the wild to pay my wife for favors, Jaime allowed me to look at Julia's pictures while we were having sex. All she did is paper clip the naked photos of Julia to the back of the magazine she was reading while I was on top of her. I soon discovered that I could usually finish within Jaime's five minute time limit while I imagined myself to be with Julia as I looked at the snapshots. I had to admit that Jaime was becoming a little more compassionate by letting me do hat. Steve Goldberg didn't agree. He just said that Jaime was doing t because she knew that she could get it over with much quicker. Oh, well -- who cares? It worked, and that's all that mattered.
There was quite a shake-up in upper Scientology management. It was all caused by the psychiatry- backed United States Government, who, consistent with other floundering Socialist dictatorships, brought a series of trumped-up charges against our beloved Commodore Staff Guardian, Mary Sue Hubbard.
They arrested her on blackmail, bribery, infiltration, robbery and theft of documents, of all things! What did they think she was, a criminal or something? I can assure you that none of us, including Mary Sue, ever did any of those things, except to squirrels and suppressives who were a threat to the Church and to the Tech. It is so damn characteristic of the sick, decadent U. S. Government to prevent the only true technology on the planet from protecting and defending itself. On the day that Mary Sue was convicted, I was sorry to say that I was no longer proud to be an American.
Sadly, Mary Sue Hubbard stepped down as both our revered Commanding Officer of the Guardian's Office, and as Comptroller World Wide. A heavy heart hung all over the Third Dynamic, and we vowed as dedicated Scientologists that whoever did this to our adoring First Lady of Ethics would be punished down to the last Freudian man.
We knew without a doubt that Ron's postulates would free Mary Sue within a short time when her case came up for appeal, and every G. O. Agent including myself contributed both money and long hours to do whatever was necessary to secure her release.
There was also an internal catastrophe within the Sea Org. We found out that the Case Supervisor International David Mayo was preventing Sea Org members from going up the Bridge! Since Sea Org personnel had all signed a billion year contract, part of the fair exchange for that was to assure them at least 2« hours of enhancement time out of their eighteen hour work day, so that they could get their auditing and training done on their free time. What David Mayo did was unthinkable! He was denying these stellar beings any enhancement time at all, and most of them were frozen on their Bridge indefinitely.
As soon as Ron heard about this travesty through hundreds of complaints and Knowledge Reports, he ordered the International Justice Chief to declare David Mayo a Suppressive Person, and had him excommunicated from the Church forever. With Mayo out on his ass, the Sea Org was once again back on the Road to Total Freedom. Ray Mithoff replaced him as the Case Supervisor International, and jubilantly restored Standard Tech to the Sea Org.
We also found out that Gerry Armstrong had betrayed us by stealing thousands of Ron's personal documents, including the very same ones that I recovered from Lavenda! After all that work, they were missing again! And to make matters worse, that son of a bitch hired Lavenda's evil attorney, Michael Flynn, to represent him in a multi-million dollar lawsuit against Scientology! He even brainwashed Ron's personal biographer Omar Garrison to join him in his corrupt quest, laden with the allure of dirty psychiatric money.
Guardian's Office personnel were rearranged and shifted all over the place by David Miscavige, who was Ron's appointee as the Commanding Officer of the Religious Technology Center. Very few of us knew much about him, except that he was very young and very short, and a former Commodore's Messenger on the Apollo who proved to be more trustworthy than the treasonous squirrels who were betraying Source left and right. David Miscavige handled everything, though. He removed Bill Franks as Executive Director International because he had been in league with David Mayo, and replaced him with a very elegant and capable Sea Org Captain by the name of Guillaume Lesevre. Jokingly, we used to call Guillaume "Mr. Misunderstood", because none of us could either spell or pronounce his name, or get the gist of what he was talking about through his chromium plated French accent. Maybe what we didn't know didn't hurt us!
On the local scene, Kevin Bein was removed as Deputy Guardian of Miami, and was sent out to California to destroy Gerry Armstrong and Omar Garrison. He was replaced by Linda MacPhee, a girl with a face so ordinary she looked quite invisible most of the time. Her seedy worm's breath hair rivalled the most common kitchen mop, and her lips were so pale and gaunt that it was impossible to tell where they ended and her face began. Linda had grey eyes which were the color of whale vomit, and her skin was so ghastly that it looked like a layer of petrified fabric softener which was ready to fall at the drop of a hat.
Nevertheless, because of the counter-intention which Scientology was facing from the black hand of planetary psychiatry, I was drafted to be the Lead G. O. Agent to work on a new covert operation known as the Ethics Bait Project. My function was to head up the Ethics Bait Miami Stat Unit for the B-1 Intelligence Bureaux of the Guardian's Office.
Ethics Bait was the brainchild of Jane Kember, the Deputy Staff Guardian World Wide, who before the shake-up had been second in command to Mary Sue Hubbard.
Linda MacPhee briefed me on the operation, which was the cleverest weapon I had ever seen being used against psychiatry in my life. It made Bingoing look like playing patty-cake with an electric shock victim. We finally had a sure-fire way to expose the psychs for their greed and their criminality. I for one wanted to teach them a lesson for what they did to Mary Sue.
What was Ethics Bait anyway?
It was a sting operation to trap psychiatrists by their own avarice and personal greed.
Linda supplied me with health claim forms from all of the major medical insurance companies, including Prudential, State Farm, Travelers, Metropolitan, John Hancock, Allstate, Aetna and Blue Cross. I also had a copy of DSM-3, which is the psych bible of insurance procedure codes and suppressive diagnostic quackery utilized by our enemies to pad their own pockets.
When a Security Check or the Ethics Officer found that a Scientologist had at any time been seeing a psychiatrist or psychologist, the Senior Sec Checker from Qual, the Ethics Officer or the Master At Arms would obtain the name of the psych from the preclear, together with the name, address and policy number of the insurance company which handled the claims for the psych's medieval therapy.
My hat was to fill out the claim forms so that large amounts of insurance benefits would be paid to the psychiatrist. The claim would always be for non-existent sessions which never took place. If the Scientologist had office visits with the psych on Thursdays, for example, I would send in additional invoices to the Scientologist's insurance company for Mondays and Wednesdays. We always made sure that we billed the insurance company for days other than the actual times when the therapy sessions actually took place.
We always made the checks payable to the psychiatrist or psychologist.
You may ask why we would do anything that would enrich a psych, when they were such degraded, aberrated, and shitty beings. Keep in mind that this was Ethics Bait.
What do you think a psych would do when he received a check from an insurance company for several thousand dollars for a particular patient? He cashed the fucking thing, that's what he did. Would you really expect the psych to question the validity of the check, or complain that he received too much money from the insurance company? Are you that crazy, gullible or suppressed to believe that SPs like psychs are honest? Hell no! They kept the money for themselves! They didn't even have the integrity to return the overage to their patients!
So then, what I did next was to report these psychs to the Florida Insurance Commissioner, as well as the American Medical Association and American Psychiatric Association. It was a perfect way to cause enough trouble between the psych and the patient where we could get these criminal bastards off the lines of our preclears. And the preclears never even knew what was going on, because neither I nor anyone else ever told them!
Wasn't that the most fab idea? Jane Kember, wherever you are, I could still kiss you for it on all four cheeks!
We also ran Ethics Bait on ex-Scientologists who were using psychs as expert witnesses to help them sue the Church. Margery Wakefield was one of those psychopathic preclears. She had been driven insane by psychiatrists through psychotropic medication, and in her auditing, was unable to mock up any mental image pictures. She was what we called a "Black Field Invisible Case", which means that she could not see anything but blackness when she closed her eyes. What a cripple! An Invisible Case cannot see mock-ups or facsimiles. When they try to recall pictures, everything they see is invisible.56
Instead of going to Flag and doing the End of Endless Drug Rundown and the Suppressed Person Rundown to handle the effects of both the drugs and the suppression, she assigned a false target to us and blamed the Church for her insanity, when in fact all along, we were the only ones who could truly assist her. She started a civil suit against various Orgs, and enlisted the help of her mercenary psych as an expert witness. Well, after her barbarian "doctor" fraudulently cashed the checks which I had sent to him, Linda MacPhee arranged for G. O. Agent Gary Klinger to contact the creep, in order to persuade him to gracefully bow out of the civil suit, or else his license to practice murder through psychiatry would be revoked by the Florida Department of Professional Regulation. Gary reported to Linda that the SP psych had "pangs of self-preservation", and he knew from that moment on not to tangle with Scientologists. I learned very recently that Margery settled her case, but not for anywhere near the outlandish sum she originally petitioned for. Meanwhile, I received a certificate for Actions Very Well Done from the office of Fred Hare.
The most joy that I had in the Guardian's Office was in handling Freeloaders.
Now you may think that a Freeloader is either one of Red Skelton's famous skits or someone that crashes a party just for the food, but in Scientology, a Freeloader is "Any person who has failed to complete a staff contract at a Sea Org or Scientology Org or Mission. It includes persons who "blow" or desert their post and organization of their own accord."57
As you can imagine, being a Freeloader in Scientology is about as welcome as the Ghost of Hitler in Jerusalem.
Linda MacPhee gave me the current Sea Org Freeloader List, which stated the names and addresses of the traitors, when their contracts were signed, the amounts of services received in cash including training and processing, and the amounts of time for each person not completely served.58
If service within an Org is accepted in lieu of a cash payment for training or processing, the staff member is required to sign a promissory note for the full cash value of the service he receives. My job was to find the freeloader and either get him back on post or collect the value of the promissory note. In effect, I was one of Ron's Loyal Collection Agents.
Finding the freeloader was easy. There was Tech on it. A simple envelope sent to the deserter with the words "Address Correction Requested" written on it would usually yield the new address in nine times out of ten.
If that didn't work, I would call the family of the freeloader, pretending to be an attorney who was suing the Church, or a newspaper reporter who wanted scandalous information on Scientology. Since the family were usually behind the freeloader's "blowing" or leaving, they were more often than not only too eager to engage in rumor-mongering, which ultimately provided me with the information that I needed to track down my prey.
The next thing we did was to search the public records for the freeloader's assets. As soon as we found anything, whether it was a house, boat or car, we advised the Guardian of Legal World Wide who had already obtained a judgment for the promissory note, in order to start forfeiture proceedings. I received a commission of ten percent of whatever property we confiscated from the freeloader as a reward for my upstat of locating the person and his assets. Often I had to split the ten percent with Freeloader Financial Rescuers of other Orgs, who helped me by searching the public records in other areas. We were a close knit bunch of theta guys who worked together, bashing the heads of these renegade pricks.
Another one of my hats was in preventing the freeloader from raising any new money to pay the debt off, or to sustain his wog lifestyle. To do this, my specialty was to call his parents or employer, pretending to be, in the case of a male freeloader, his homosexual lover. I was drilled in this great "faggy" accent that was a sure bet in causing alarm and discontent within the freeloader's environment, especially when I sounded desperate about the freeloader having to take an AIDS test right away. With employers, that sometimes didn't work, so I mocked myself up as a county official from the Drug Rehabilitation Center, inquiring as to whether the freeloader was still showing any visible signs of cocaine abuse.
The general idea was to get the freeloader fired, evicted from his home, and disconnected from his family, so that he would return to his Org, go through the Rehabilitation Project Force (RPF), and get back on post where he could once again be useful to us in Clearing the planet. I made good and certain that there would always be a stiff price and lots of hell to pay for someone who just wanted to "get out" of Scientology.
My motto was simple. Ron said it best: "We'd rather have you dead than incapable."59
I did lots of cool things to punish these lowlife Benedict Arnolds. Ruining their credit was a piece of cake. Linda MacPhee taught me Ron's Tech on manufacturing mocked-up credit histories with all kinds of neat delinquencies for payments of mortgages, hospital bills, charge cards, and utilities. I learned how to report eviction notices that never took place, so that if the freeloader tried to find a new place to live, he would be given a swift kick in the behind like he deserved.
We used the resources of the Internal Revenue Service also, sending in creative memos for large unreported cash purchases exceeding ten thousand dollars, as well as loads of unreported income. I always forwarded requests to the Internal Revenue Field Agent as well as his Supervisor, in order that the inquiry appeared to come from two different sources. Wasn't I a cute little bastard?
Another excellent maneuver was to turn over the same data to the Drug Enforcement Agency, so that they would call out their own agents to investigate. We had blank official stationery printed up from every Federal agency, so we could easily create the impression that the data came from them instead of us. We were brilliant! Still, the IRS was our most popular choice. My "piece-de-resistance" was to request a specific tax audit for the freeloader known as a "TCMP", which is an abbreviation for the Taxpayer's Compliance Maintenance Program.
The TCMP is an automatic long in-depth audit of one's finances demanding a receipt for everything from cars to condoms. In the case of Sea Org members, there were often many years when the freeloader did not earn enough income to file a tax return, and he would inevitably provide that as his excuse. When our personnel records department was contacted by the IRS to verify that fact, we always said that he never worked for us! Once in a while, I singlehandedly was responsible for getting a freeloader arrested for tax fraud! When that happened, I always received a "Very Highly Commended" certificate from the G. O., as well as a shiny blue star in my Admin file. Norman Vespi, the newly appointed Success Officer of Miami, always saw to it that I got all the awards that I was entitled to. I think he enjoyed his post almost as much as I did mine.
It was real easy to ruin a freeloader's credit, because a lot of the information about the person's finances and banking was a part of his personnel file, and that data was readily obtainable through the L. Ron Hubbard Communicator of each Org. The data was easy to come by because all Scientology Org or Sea Org members always had to fill out financial statements when they joined staff! You see? I had them by the balls if they tried to escape!
Of course, when all else failed, there was nothing that could get results quicker than calling the freeloader in the middle of the night and threatening to kill his children, or if he had no children, his parents or younger sisters and brothers. Four in the morning was the best time to call. People are closest to death at that hour, and there was nothing quite as thrilling and unnerving as waking a freeloader out of a deep sleep and giving him some food for thought.
You know me. I wouldn't hurt a fly. But these shmucks didn't know that! They were so full of overts against Scientology that they were probably glad just to have someone from the Church to communicate with, even if the communication was slightly negative.
My favorite scenario was to wait until the freeloader went out of town, and then to call his parents or children and tell them that he had just been killed in an auto accident! Their reactions to my news were priceless! I was establishing my own little Org of Heart Attack Heaven! You have no idea how thoroughly effective that was in getting the freeloader to capitulate. You ought to try it on an enemy sometime, just as long as he isn't an upstat Scientologist. You'll feel a lot better, and it will help get your ethics in real good too.
While I was busy shooting up a storm capturing runaway thetans, trouble was brewing right in my own backyard.
It was my seventy-seven year old Aunt Jeanne this time.
Long before Peter Letterese had given me a Mission Executive Directive prohibiting me from utilizing members of my family to sign the claim forms, I had sent in the Technicare claim, which was signed by my father's eldest sister Jeanne under the mocked-up name of Ann Cooper. The settlement check was scheduled to be mailed to Aunt Jeanne's house in the City of Sunrise, which was about four miles from where I lived.
Aunt Jeanne went so far as to put in a separate telephone line under the name of Ann Cooper, in order to convince the letter carrier that "Ann" lived in Aunt Jeanne's house as a boarder when the telephone bills came in every month.
There was nothing different about Ann Cooper's claim for Technicare, but apparently, the claims processing agent did not think that the confirmation slip for the purchase and sale of Technicare stock which I generated on my Hewlett-Packard home computer was genuine. Technological advances in the wog society were catching up to me. Apparently, too many people were starting to buy home computers in 1982, and the form looked suspicious to the claims processing agent whose job it was to review the claim for payment. They turned over the paper work to the Post Office authorities for investigation.
Subsequently, two plainclothes Postal Investigators from Cleveland, Ohio knocked on my Aunt Jeanne's door during a sunny day in August, looking for Ann Cooper.
"That old cockeyed bitch didn't pay me the last three months' rent, so I threw her out on her toochas!", she screamed. Toochas, of course, is the Jewish word for ass.
She told the investigator that Ann Cooper was a crook and a thief, and complained to him that some of her jewelry was missing. My Aunt Min, who was seventy-three years old, started cursing Ann Cooper in Yiddish with words even too offensive for my seasoned ears. They then invited the two men inside, and offered them kippered salmon and gefilte fish, which they politely declined. One of them had a Grand Jury Subpoena for Ann Cooper.
"You should only find her and lock her up and throw the key away!", Aunt Jeanne screamed.
"She should only get the worst kind of cancer where all of her kishkes (intestines) get tangled up in black knots!", Aunt Min added.
"Officer, we're two sick old ladies with arthritis, emphysema and a little bit of Parkinson's Disease", Aunt Jeanne pleaded. "We took this stinking horse's ass in because she said they were going to put her in the Home for the Aged. She seemed nice, and showed us pictures of her grandchildren and everything."
"They weren't even her real grandchildren!", Aunt Min interposed.
"We felt sorry for her", Aunt Jeanne explained. "Then she stabbed us in the back. Imagine stealing from two old ladies?"
"Where did you meet her?", the lead investigator asked.
"In the Jewish cemetery", Aunt Jeanne answered quickly. "She just lost her husband. He was a kosher butcher, just like my poor dear Charlie, God rest his soul. Now how the hell could I turn my back on another widow? But look, I want to give you a description of the diamond ring which she stole from me. Maybe you can help get it back. I don't have any insurance or anything, and I can't collect a penny on it. You detectives look like such nice boys. Are you sure you wouldn't like a healthy piece of pickled herring in cream sauce? It'll take away your indigestion."
After three hours of very much the same runaround, the Postal Investigators left, and Aunt Jeanne never heard from them again. If Aunt Jeanne had let it go at that, everything would have been just fine. The Technicare claim was lost, and nothing else could be done about it. Peter did not want me to send any more claims to the addresses of my relatives anyway, so there was no harm done. But Aunt Jeanne couldn't keep her big mouth shut. She told her son all about what happened.
My cousin's name is Richard Klinger. He was not at all related to the outstanding Guardian's Office Agent Gary Klinger. If Richard Klinger was one hundredth the man Gary Klinger was, he would still be worth talking to. But Cousin Richard was probably the most degraded wog on the planet besides all of the FBI agents and psychiatrists.
Richard was a bald, forty-three year old diamond smuggler with a big fat belly that made him look like he was always pregnant. He lived with my other aunt, Bess Seamon, in a huge apartment megalopolis in Floral Park, New York, called the North Shore Towers. He hated women, but once in a while, he would go out with them for spite. There was one occasion when he threw his date out of the car in the middle of a January blizzard on the Northern State Parkway at two-thirty in the morning, because she refused to give him oral sex on the way home from the theatre. If that wasn't bad enough, he wouldn't even give her back her coat to keep herself warm! Fortunately, another driver picked her up and drove her back to her house in Great Neck, a fashionable community on Long Island. Aunt Jeanne had to pay off the girl's parents with five thousand dollars, otherwise they had threatened to have Cousin Richard arrested.
To this day I am pissed off as hell that anyone would take advantage of a woman in such a cruel and sickening way.
Even as a child, Cousin Richard was a bad seed. When he was ten years old, he had a bitter fight with another schoolmate, and after the argument was over, Richard ran off with the other kid's bicycle to the other side of the school building, and parked it on a steep hill behind a black 1946 Oldsmobile. Richard jumped inside the car and waited for him. When the kid found his bicycle, Richard released the emergency brake of the Oldsmobile that he was hiding in, and as the car rolled backwards, it crushed the other boy and his bicycle against the car below him. The boy died instantly. Richard thought the whole thing was very funny. I despised him for that. In Scientology, we practice Affinity, Reality and Communication, and accordingly, I detest violence and evil acts of any kind. A person like Cousin Richard should be strung up on low-current electrified barbed wire by his testicles until he either rots or fries to death.
Anyway, when Cousin Richard found out about the Postal investigation into the Technicare case from his mother, he came to me at my home with a despicable proposition, threatening to tell the two Ohio Postal Investigators that I was the one who sent in the claim under the name of Ann Cooper, unless I gave him one hundred thousand dollars. He had the business card of the men and he knew how to get in touch with them.
I don't know what gave him the idea that I had one hundred thousand dollars, but the fact was, that I didn't have even one thousand dollars in the bank. All of the money from the previous claims went into my auditing, as well as to pay off my credit card bills and to reduce the mortgage payments on my home. I had nothing left over in savings. I had no investments. Nevertheless, Richard blackmailed me, and said I would have to come up with the money within one week.
I had no choice but to immediately report the incident to the Guardian's Office. Linda MacPhee was very alarmed, since a Postal investigation into the Technicare claim might have revealed the previous successful actions, and could have prevented me from sending in future claims. She did not have a suitable solution for my problem. Instead, she phoned Fred Hare, who ordered me dispatched to Flag immediately. Both he and Ellie Bolger were waiting for me with gloom and doom on their faces when I arrived.
Of course, the problem demanded an on-Source handling.
Fred Hare directed me to read out loud from a confidential L. Ron Hubbard Executive Directive entitled "Project Squirrel."59
"The project consists of the following:", I began. "List all SPs engaged in squirrel actions or anti-Scientology actions, and get each one investigated. It will be found uniformly, despite first view that there is no evidence of it, that anti-Scientologists have in their background in this life crimes for which they could be arrested. People who attack Scientology are criminals. That if one attacks Scientology, he then gets investigated for crimes."
"So what we have to do now is find out what crimes your Cousin Richard has done", Fred Hare said sternly with a smile on his face.
It was past the statute of limitations to prosecute Cousin Richard for killing his classmate. I didn't even remember the boy's name, or the exact date when it happened.
Since that was a dead end, I handled Richard like I handled any freeloader, requesting his credit history. A strange thing happened. He didn't have any credit history. Now that was pretty weird. A forty-three year old man without any record whatsoever! Within days of doing my own investigation, I discovered that Cousin Richard never even had applied for a Social Security Number! The Internal Revenue Service never heard of him. All of these years he worked as a smuggler in the illicit diamond trade on West 47th Street in New York, where amongst the Hasidic Jewish diamond dealers, a handshake was more valid than a written contract, and a jockstrap pouch was a safer hiding place than a bank vault. In a bizarre world where secrecy was the key to survival, Richard had never legitimatized himself.
When I came back to Fort Lauderdale from Flag, I met with both Aunt Jeanne and Richard, and I told my cousin what I had found out about him. Then, in front of his mother, I threatened to report him to both the Social Security Administration and the Internal Revenue Service if he did not withdraw his blackmail demands.
"You are poison!", he screamed. "One day I will kill you!"
That was the last thing Cousin Richard ever said to me. Aunt Jeanne never spoke another word to me or allowed me into her house until the day she died. Richard never made good on his threat, since, as far as I know, I am still very much alive and so is Richard, and to my knowledge, he has never been arrested for tax fraud. Well, who knows? Maybe the IRS will read a copy of this book and look into it.
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