Lonesome Squirrel

by Steven Fishman

12: Blank Scripts For Acting Classes


After handling Cousin Richard, he was as much of a threat to us as a Rorschach Ink Blot pasted on the back of a disemboweled land crab trapped at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. To celebrate, Julia Vaughn helped me by picking up a drunk heroin addict named Debbie at Sweeney's Lounge on Hallandale Beach Boulevard, and for two hundred dollars, the three of us exchanged body fluids all night long, creating ecstasy for God and thetans everywhere who were reveling in sympathy for our joy and happiness. I bought a bottle of brand new 1982 champagne because I did not trust the staying power of any of the older stuff, and together we toasted the demise and oblivion of evil Cousin Richard, and on the positive side, how the Sun never sets on Scientology.

I wrote up a Knowledge Report on the entire "flap" or troublesome incident, and delivered it to Linda MacPhee at the Org. Linda had been thrown into Liability by Fred Hare for not handling my problem with Cousin Richard herself. He thrashed her with verbal abuse for several hours on the phone, accusing her of wasting his time and causing him excess "DEV-T" or developing traffic for having sent me to Flag instead of knowing exactly which of Ron's policy letters would apply to resolve my dilemma.

It was of little value comforting poor Linda MacPhee, although I reminded her that when she phoned Fred Hare, he was the one that ordered me to go to Flag. Linda never sent me there on her own accord. But Fred innocently forgot all about that, and blamed the whole mess on Linda, saying that she had no right to call him in the first place.

If that wasn't punishment enough, Fred Hare ordered Linda to be brought before a Committee of Evidence, which is a "fact finding group appointed and empowered by the Office of L. Ron Hubbard to impartially investigate and recommend upon Scientology matters of a fairly severe ethical nature."61

During her hearing, she attempted to hang the entire incident on Peter Letterese for failing to adequately supervise me properly. That still did not explain why she dragged Fred Hare into the mess, and Fred used this opportunity to promptly fire her from her post as Deputy Guardian of Miami.

To work her way up through the Ethics Condition of Liability, the Ethics Officer of Miami Frank Thompson shoved a broom in her hand, and at nine o'clock in the morning, walked her outside to the parking lot in back of the Miami Org, telling her to "Sweep the sunlight off the sidewalk until there is none left." The Florida heat was blistering hot as it always is during the first week of September, but she had to stay out there and work until the sun went down. Not once did the clouds come out to give her a momentary respite from her pointless punishment.

When staff members are thrown into Liability, they have to wear dirty grey rags in their back pockets, and no one in the Org or Mission is allowed to talk to them, with the exception of the Ethics Officer. Linda looked so grossly pathetic, with sweat dripping from her brow. Frank Thompson was watching her with eagle eyes from his second story window which overlooked the parking lot. If she stopped to rest or catch her breath, she knew that she would have to repeat the very same task on the following day.

I couldn't stand it!

It was all my fault that she got in trouble. If anyone should have been punished, it was me. Even though I couldn't talk to her, there was nothing in the rule book that said I couldn't give her a can of Hawaiian Punch from the vending machine inside the Org. I was pissed off at Frank Thompson for putting her through all of that torture.

I watched to see when Frank Thompson wasn't looking, and then I quickly handed the red drink to Linda. There was such an expression of thanks in her eyes that I started crying out of empathy for her. She had been hyperventilating, and so by giving her the juice, I might have actually saved her life.

I was shocked out of my skin when Frank Thompson forced me to read the Success Story that Linda MacPhee wrote about her ethics handling. Not only did she say that sweeping the sunlight off the sidewalk was the best rehabilitative action that she ever did in her entire tenure as a Scientologist, but she had the nerve to report me to the Ethics Officer for giving her the fruit drink! She said that I had violated Ron's Policy by communicating with someone while still in Liability and by interfering with the implementation of an Ethics Action through my subverting gesture. She accused me of being reasonable towards her and of going into propitiation, conciliation and appeasement with her, which was proof in her opinion that my own ethics were wildly out.

"Well, if she felt that way, why the hell did she accept the fruit punch from me in the first place?", I asked Frank.

He looked at me as if I were crazy.

"Accepting it wasn't a crime", he scowled. "Offering it to her sure was though! Scientology Ethics can only work if all Scientologists work to enforce it, and no Scientologist seeks to undermine it."

Frank told me that if I didn't write up my infraction as an overt act, I too would be subject to disciplinary action.

When I thought about it, I realized that Frank was absolutely right. By sneaking behind his back with the refreshment for Linda, I was undercutting the very umbilical cord and foundation of the Third Dynamic. The purpose of Ethics was to remove counter-intentions from the environment.62 Without Ethics, nothing I was doing in Scientology would have made any sense.

In any case, I thanked Linda for reporting me to Frank, and once again we were in good ARC with one another. Within several weeks, Frank Thompson appointed Linda MacPhee as the new Ethics Officer of the Mission of Fort Lauderdale. Now she could teach other people what to do with her famous broomstick.


I was hoping that Peter Letterese would be back for Auditor's Day, but at last count, he was handling the crashed stats at the Mission of East Bay at 411 15th Street in Oakland, California, which was one of the final outposts of the old Mission Owners World Wide Network that we just recovered from a squirrel in the San Francisco area. Peter told Frank Thompson that the franchise had been involved in weird, off-beat practices, including giving colonics to preclears with every paid Dianetic Intensive. Peter promised us that it would take about a month to restore the Mission to Ron's level of Standard Tech, and that once he returned to Fort Lauderdale, he would never leave us again.

In the meantime, Ellie Bolger sent Barbara Fawcett a telex at the Mission, and told her that it was vital and urgent that I come to Flag immediately. But then again, everything is always vital and urgent in Scientology, so I took Ellie's communication with a grain of salt and tore it up.

Nevertheless, Sunday the 13th of September was Auditor's Day, and I wanted to hear our new Executive Director International address the auditorium at the Fort Harrison Hotel with his famous French accent of Early Inspector Clousseau Gobbledygook.

It was Ellie Bolger, however, who was jabbering away neurotically as she collared me up to Diana Hubbard's chamber.

"She is in a very bad mood, Steven, so don't piss her off!", Ellie warned.

When I entered the room, I offered to shake Diana's hand. In an unpredictable show of genuine emotion, she whipped out a drumstick from a percussion rather than a chicken, and cracked it over my knuckles at what seemed to be twice the sound of speed.

"It's great to see you", I stammered as I reached for the nearest chair, nearly choking on my words from the pain.

"Yeah, I bet it is!", Diana grimaced haughtily.

"She's heard about your downstat with Technicare", Ellie soothed.

"Heard about it, my foot!", she stomped, as her freckles appeared to pop out of her eerie red face. "I've read all the Knowledge Reports!"

"Well, Cousin Richard has no command value over me anymore", I insisted.

"I don't give a flying fuck about your Cousin Richard!", Diana caroused, smashing a wine glass into an escutcheon.

"Diana didn't want to see you in order to talk about him!", Ellie reiterated.

"Stop kissing my ass and repeating everything I say, Ellie!", Diana roared.

Ellie retreated and sank into a sofa, festering in apathy.

"It's the fake confirmation forms that caused all the trouble", Diana continued as she poured herself a glass of McKormick's Pure Vanilla Extract. "Both of you are always assigning the wrong cause to everything! This is 1982! You can't use a Mickey Mouse confirmation slip that you generated on your home computer when every wog and his brother is buying an Apple or a Commodore or God knows what else."

"What does your father have to do with any of this?", Ellie asked Diana from out of nowhere.

"What the hell are you talking about?", Diana clucked as she burped incredulously.

"You said something about the Commodore --", she replied.

"You stupid idiot!", Diana screamed, with her arms ready to wring Ellie's neck. "The Commodore is a home computer! It's a brand name! You're a mindless ostrich with your head in the goddamn sand if you don't know that a Commodore is a fucking home computer! And why the hell are you always bringing up my father to me? You're a jealous piece of shit, that's what you are!"

Ellie could not take any further abuse from her best friend, and ran out of the room sobbing, leaving me alone in the unpredictable clutches of Lady Diana, who was now directing her attention to me, ready to explode upon impact.

"Now you listen to me and listen good!", she snarled. "I'm throwing you into Non- Existence! You are never again permitted to use those fake claim forms! Do you realize that you have placed the entire Church of Scientology at risk?"

"But they've worked for the last three years, and Peter approved --"

"Shut up!", she blared. "I'm not done talking to you yet! As of right now, by my order, you're stopping all production. No more claims! Well, not until I figure out what the hell to do with you."

"What about the five claims that are pending?", I inquired with a twitching eye.

"You'd better hope that nothing goes wrong with them, and that your fucking Cousin Richard doesn't know about any of our other business!"

"You said you didn't want to talk about him", I reminded her with dissonant vocal chords of supplicated glee.

"I don't!", she wailed. "I am going to make my decision in twenty-four hours, after I confer with the Watchdog Committee. Don't you realize how difficult you have made things for me? I am surrounded by enemies wherever I turn, and I don't need this extra aggravation! My mother may have to go to jail because of people like you that have ruined her life!"

Diana started to cry like a baby, and I saw a very vulnerable and sentimental human side to her that I never knew existed. I reached over to hold and comfort her.

"Don't touch me! Get away from me, you snake!", she warned, reeling into the corner of the room like a crazed animal.

"I'll leave you alone now", I whispered softly as I backed up toward the door. "What time do you want me to come back tomorrow?"

"Get out of here and drop dead!", she screamed.

It was difficult to talk to her when she was slightly moody.

"What a shame that Scientologists aren't allowed to take Midol", I thought with regret.


At seven o'clock the next morning, while I was taking a shower, I heard a pounding upon the door of my hotel room at the Fort Harrison. I put a towel around myself and opened the door. There were two women from the Commodore's Messenger Org who looked and spoke like they had just been released from a KGB boot camp.

"Are you both here to scrub my back or my front?", I asked philosophically.

"Get dressed!", the butchier of the two dames commanded.

"Where am I going?", I inquired.

"Get dressed!", she repeated as if she had just completed a proctology exam.

"Would you like to wait outside, please?", I suggested.

"We'll wait right here!", stated the second stooge.

"Fine! Do that!", I yelled back, removing my towel and throwing it at their feet, as I started itching my crotch vehemently in front of them.

As I started to dry my hair, the first poor excuse for a female unplugged my hair dryer and snapped her fingers indicating that I should rush. It was a futile effort to try to look presentable. Whoever needed me at that ungodly hour probably didn't care how I looked anyway.

It was Diana.

With her red hair lavishly unkempt in grotesque asshole-brown curlers, she was sipping on a steaming cup of unjelled jello that she had just mixed with hot water before I was unceremoniously dragged in.

"I'll have to make a plane to L. A. in an hour, so I'll be brief", she said, neither saying hello nor offering any apologies for her erratic behavior of the night before.

"You can leave now, ladies", she ordered as she ushered out the messengers with a swoop of her hand.

"Norman Starkey and I had a long talk about you last night", she began, "and we came up with a suitable handling for your problem that we can all live with."

Norman Starkey was one of the top executives from Author's Services who was on the Watchdog Committee of International Management, which was the new name for the World Wide Management Orgs. He was once the Captain of Ron's yacht, the Apollo.

"You are going to become a stock broker", Diana said austerely.

"What?", I gasped in shock. "I don't know the first thing about --"

"You need to take care of that right away", she interrupted.

"But why?", I demanded.

"Two reasons", she quipped. "I was going to have Ellie tell you about it, but since you are so obnoxious, I'll explain it to you myself, only you are making me very late for the airport."

"Couldn't I ride with you to the airport?", I offered. "I can even drive you there in my car if you like."

"I don't ever want to be seen with you", she snapped. "Anyway, the first reason is because I need you to appropriate some blank scripts."

"I don't understand what you're talking about", I admitted.

"You don't know what blank scripts are?", she asked. "And you're the Fields Financial Planner of Fort Lauderdale? I'm going to throw Ellie into Doubt for not getting you properly trained up on your hat."

"Just give me an Admin dictionary and I'll look it up", I suggested.

"Oh, God. You are really nuts!", she observed. "This is a confidential operation! You're not going to find "blank scripts" in the Admin dictionary! Blank scripts are blank stock broker's confirmation slips; and I mean the real ones, not the crap that you've been generating on your hack computer."

"So let me get this straight", I said. "You want me to get a job as a stock broker, just so that I can swipe some blank confirmation slips in order to have proof for the stock buys and sells to send in with the class action claim forms. Am I right?"

"What is this word "swipe?", she asked annoyingly. "Is that the kind of respect you have for what we are doing?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it in a negative way", I apologized.

"The correct word is appropriate", she instructed. "But in answer to your question, getting the job as a stock broker is a lot more than just appropriating the necessary forms. You need to learn how the blank scripts are properly filled out by handling real ones every day on the job. There are lots of internal codes to learn within the brokerage house where you will be working that neither I nor Ellie can teach you because we don't know them."

"Which company do I have to work for?", I inquired.

"I don't give a shit about that!", she choked as some liquid jello started drying up in her windpipe. "That's between you and Peter Letterese. Any company will do fine as long as you have access to the forms. They're always in some closet or storage room, aren't they? God, I shouldn't have to do Ellie's job. She should be giving you all this data, not me. There is always so much DEV-T on my lines!"

"But if I have to work as a stock broker, that means I'll have to leave the shoe store. There will be nobody to help my father out", I explained.

"Well isn't that too fucking bad!", Diana mimicked. "So you expect Scientology to stop expanding because of your daddy's wog shoe store! Now that's a new one! Wow! You don't give a damn about your Bridge, do you? How selfish can you get?"

"I want to go up the Bridge more than I want life itself, but I'm trying not to be selfish to my father either. He depends on me", I continued. "And anyway, how can I change careers at thirty-two years old? I don't know beans about bonds. Can't you find me something to do that's not so yawningly boring? The next thing you'll want to turn me into is an anemic tax accountant."

"Look, you little Jewish faggot!", she hissed, gritting her teeth while she grabbed me violently by the throat. "You're living in a dream world, aren't you? Do you have any idea how long it takes the average Sea Org member to go up the Bridge? Ten, fifteen, maybe twenty years. They all have to work damn hard for those two and a half hours a day of study time. All you ever have to do is ask a couple of your dead-in-the-head wog monkeys to sign a few pieces of paper, and you get to go up the Bridge without hardly ruffling a hair on your thetan ass! Not only that, your wife and relatives have stolen from us, and you weren't even punished for it. You should have been thrown into Treason for half the shit you and your family pulled so far. And now that I have a way to get you back onto production, you repay me with this bullshit over your demanding father and his fucking shoe store? I ought to take you out and shoot you!"

"I'm sorry I said anything, believe me!", I pleaded, with my nerves visibly shaken by Diana's profound oratory. "I'm an asshole and I will write up my out-ethics and see that you get a copy of it. I'll take full responsibility for every stupid thing I've said to you."

"You'd better start to take some responsibility!", Diana rebuffed. "Do you know what would have happened if that Postal investigation got blown out of proportion by the enemy? It would have come back to haunt us, that's what! They would ask "How did an ordinary shoe salesman learn a sophisticated career in Financial Rescue and Retrieval?" How would we convince the Government that a shoe salesman who majored in philosophy and never once studied economics or business administration, could come up on his own with the most brilliant and sophisticated victimless asset redistribution participation program in the world? At least as a broker, your knowledge and expertise of how you could have created the "acting classes" on your own is more plausible. Don't you even care about protecting Scientology against wog attacks by the Government bulldogs? Well, Steven, it's my irrevocable decision that you become a stock broker, and it's not petitionable. If you make any promises that you don't keep, I'll yank all of your auditing certificates, just remember that! If this is the route you've chosen to go up the Bridge, then damn it, do it right! Ellie is not going to be on her post forever. She has her eyes set on an administrative position on the Watchdog Committee of the Religious Technology Center, and when that happens, her present post might open up for you! You've got to start thinking about your future in Scientology. My God, one day you might have your own network of Orgs doing Acting Classes all over the planet! Do you think I'm doing this so you can be a mutual fund pusher for the rest of your life? You're only going to have to work in that wog scene for as long as it takes to get the forms. I don't give a damn if you're a good broker or a bad broker. There isn't a Scientologist alive who would ever trust you with their money anyhow."

"I don't know a single Scientologist who has any money left to invest!", I stated.

"That's a stinking remark to make", she scowled. "Just because you're such a failure at life doesn't mean that everyone else is. But I have no intention of evaluating or invalidating you. A stock broker who isn't on his OT levels is bound to screw up anyway."

"Why is that?", I asked.

"How can a wog broker predict the future to his clients when he doesn't even have enough power and ability to cause stocks to rise and fall by postulate?", she explained profoundly.

"Wow! I never thought of that!", I realized.

"Do you know what the definition of a stock broker is?", Diana yelled out from the bathroom as she took the curlers out of her hair.

"No", I said.

"A stock broker is someone who handles your money until its all gone!", she answered.

"That sounds more like what an Org Registrar does", I thought to myself. However, I didn't have either enough confront or a sufficient quantity of balls to tell Diana that!


When I arrived back at the Mission of Fort Lauderdale, I was relieved to see Peter Letterese. He and Barbara Fawcett had become engaged to be married, and this was no surprise, as their relationship was in covert heat for years. While he was in San Francisco, Barbara finally made up her mind and said "Yes." It must have been impossible for her to find anyone else to sleep with during the time that Peter was away, and proposing to Barbara was undoubtedly Peter's charitable act of pity and sympathy toward women in general.

The fall of 1982 placed quite a strain on me. Since I was still in Non-Existence, I was not allowed to be audited at all. Nothing could change until I worked my way out of the lower Ethics Conditions by becoming hatted as a stock broker and securing the "blank scripts." I was very upset and ARC Broken with Diana's order, because my craving for Grade Three could have put the addiction of a crack cocaine user to shame. Several large class action claim checks arrived in November and December, but when there was still a moratorium on my auditing, I used all of that money to reduce the mortgage on my house. Now I had more overts and withholds against Scientology, and I felt more blame, shame and regret than I ever had in my whole life.

Jaime was thrilled when she saw that the outstanding balance on our mortgage had been lowered. She was very glad to see that all of the errands that I had been running for "Meyer Lansky in Tampa" were starting to pay off. Finally, she actually seemed proud of me when I told her that I decided to make something of my life and become a stock broker. Imagine! I had my dumb cluck wife convinced that selling securities and investments was something I truly wanted to do on my own! The air-headed spoiled bitch never once made the slightest effort to understand what made me tick. Still, our relationship improved significantly. On the nights that Jaime wasn't too exhausted from resting all day, she ran a clearance sale, giving me eight minutes of timed intercourse for the price of six. There were fleeting moments when I almost imagined that I liked her again, until I came to my senses and the orgasm was over.

Peter made arrangements with the Securities Training Corporation to get me fully hatted as a stock broker, as well as completely prepared to take the Series 7 Brokerage Exam. Studying that wogshit was so dull and boring! It was so hard to sit through the brokerage classes without daydreaming of Ron and our Tech. Nevertheless, I passed all of the exams and obtained the appropriate licenses to sell stocks, bonds, options and commodities. I just hoped that I would never have to actually use any of that useless information.

My father once had dabbled in the stock market, and had a broker named Ken Schaeffer at the Inverrary office of Dean Witter Reynolds. It just so happened that another broker in Ken's office by the name of Noel Wallis caught Ken looking through his customer list in order to steal his accounts away from him, which is very typical of ethics amongst non-Scientologists. When Noel reported Ken to the branch manager, Ken was promoted to assistant manager of the Coral Springs office, and Ken's partner offered me his old job. In wog societies, downstats are always rewarded and upstats are frequently punished. Some of you who have never been outside an Org before might not understand how screwy life can be in businesses that are not being run according to the policies of L. Ron Hubbard. I hope you can forgive me for upsetting you with these harsh realities, but it's a cruel, sick world out there and the best advice I can give you is just try to ignore it until Scientology makes it all go away.

I was probably the worst stock broker extant on planet Earth to date. I elevated incompetence into an art form. Bringing me your investment portfolio was worse than checking into a mental hospital with a five million dollar catastrophic health insurance policy which had no deductible and paid one hundred percent of all benefits. I lost money for every single person who did business with me, but most of my loyal customers got soaked for a hundred thousand dollars or more. My biggest customer was a chain-smoking ex-convict with psoriasis named Steve Sklar who lost three hundred thousand dollars with me in less than a year. My boss, and Ken's old partner Hank Martin loved the way I was doing business because I churned accounts left and right, and generated a lot of commissions for him. Hell, my customers were only wogs anyway. It didn't matter to me how much money people made or lost because I was on salary, earning $ 250 per week. Between you, I and the lamp post, I wasn't worth that extravagant paycheck. I should have been fired the day I got the job. Still, I was an excellent administrator, with the most organized desk in the whole office. I had all of my paper clips lined up like toy soldiers, and no one at Dean Witter Reynolds had a larger rubber band collection than I did.

On Saturdays, I still took the time to help my father in the shoe store by organizing the inventory in the back room. I felt so secure to be alone with the shoe boxes after having to deal with insane people all week long. At least the merchandise did not yell at me like my idiot customers did at Dean Witter Reynolds. I couldn't help it if they were stupid enough to listen to my dumb advice.

Do you know how I used to pick stocks out for my clients? I used APM, or the Aviary Projectile Method. The bottom of my parakeet cage was always lined with the daily stock record of the Wall Street Journal. Wherever the poop landed was my daily buy recommendation to my accounts. The difficult part was in knowing what to tell my customers when the birds were constipated or didn't want to eat.


Cypress Shoes was right next door to the State of Florida Driver's License Bureau. One day, United Parcel Service delivered their new driver's license machine to our store by mistake. You have no idea how happy Fred Hare was when he had heard that I donated the driver's license machine to the Guardian's Office at the Miami Org. Now we were able to provide our G. O. Agents with real Florida driver's licenses for whatever identity or mock-up they were using at the time. In appreciation for that, Fred Hare asked Diana Hubbard to upgrade my Ethics Condition from Non-Existence to Emergency, bypassing the middle Condition of Danger.

At Emergency I was able to get audited again, and when the Executive Director of Miami Bob Levy requested Ethics Officer Frank Thompson to declare me "sessionable" again, I used up five Kleenex Man-Sized tissues as I wept for joy.

In the meantime at the Mission of Fort Lauderdale, Peter was getting very annoyed with me, since I had not been able to "appropriate" any Dean Witter Reynolds "scripts", and I was starting to become an embarrassment to Ellie Bolger, who repeatedly had to continue assuring Diana that I would not let her down.

"You've already missed the deadline for sending in the Flight Transportation Corporation claim", Peter bullied. "That's forty thousand dollars you just let fly out the window! It's not going to look very flattering when I send Ellie this Knowledge Report."

The blank confirmation slips were locked up in the wire operator's "cage", and no brokers were allowed in there. I couldn't help thinking that Diana was a real shmuck, having ordered me trained as a stock broker. I should have become a wire operator, whose function it was to enter the orders onto the teletype or "wire", and then receive back a printed confirmation of the stock purchase or sale from the main computer. I was trained for the wrong job! I felt like an ophthalmologist who spent ten years studying optic surgery just to be able to tweeze eyelashes.

Only the office manager and the wire operator had keys to the "cage", or the restricted area where the teletype machine was located. There was a whole box of blank confirmation forms sitting under the teletype printer. Every time I turned in a securities order to the cage, I was so close to the scripts that I could just taste them. Yet I had no way in there. The office manager kept his key to the cage on a keychain in his pocket, and Nicole the wire operator kept hers in a handbag, which was always next to her in the cage.

I had another big problem at the brokerage office. There was a rule which stated that all stock brokers had to wear a tie. I tried wearing one for a couple of days, but I would always break out into a profuse sweat, and I felt as if I were choking. When my boss, Hank Martin saw what was going on, he allowed me to take the tie off at all times, except when the regional district manager came to the office to spy on everyone.

Nevertheless, I asked Nancy Witkowski to audit me on the mystery of the cravat, and although it took a full month's salary at Dean Witter Reynolds to pay for the auditing intensive, I eventually found why I couldn't stand to wear the tie at work.

In a former lifetime during the year 1561, when I was a Catholic Priest by the name of Delfino Garcia in Malaga, Spain, I was hung by the neck when I was caught having intercourse with the Bishop's mistress. Every time that I wore a tie, it restimulated the mental image picture of the hangman's rope around my neck. Without any conscious or analytical awareness of it, my reactive mind called into view all of the pain and suffering that I underwent during the hanging, and wearing the tie made me feel all of the "somatics", or physical effects of the incident as if it was still taking place in present time.

Discovering the source of the incident did not have the effect of making me rush out to the mall and buy fifty new ties. The advantage of knowing why I had a phobia like that was reward enough for me. At least now I knew that I wasn't crazy. Psychiatry would have never been able to find the true reason for my behavior, because the barbaric cult of Freudian analysis never takes into account the effects of former lifetimes. The only disadvantage of finding out about the rope around my neck was the appearance of a horrible red rash which came from a four hundred year old allergy to hemp, which was the material from which the rope was made. Unfortunately, the rash never went away.

Speaking of hangings, the witch hunt by the psychotic U. S. Government against Mary Sue Hubbard caused her to lose her appeal, despite Ron's frantic postulates to help her from where he was hiding out. None of us expected Ron, our adoring and eternal Source, to come forward and present himself in court at Mary Sue's appeal, because the first thing that the FBI and the bastard United States Attorney would have done is to brutally arrest him too! Can you imagine how much heartache Ron must have felt when his wife was snatched away from him by the mad cohorts of organized Federal Criminal Psychiatry?

Scientologists from all over the world wrote thousands of letters begging Judge Norma Johnson of Washington, D. C. to show Mary Sue a little mercy. But the Federal Judge Whore sentenced the Godmother of Ethics to four years hard labor at the Federal Correctional Institution for Women in Lexington, Kentucky. You can bet your ass that I sent Suppressive Norma plenty of Bingo junk mail, so that I could get back at her in the only possible way I knew how for hurting my sweet Commodore Staff Guardian. The agony we suffered was more than any sensitive parishioner of the Church could bear. To this day I am angry that President Reagan did not give her an executive pardon. I thought there would be some special understanding between one Ron and another. Poor, poor Diana! Seeing her mother in jail could even have affected her sex life. That is why I had to make a special effort to keep my promise to Diana and get the blank scripts.

The squirrels had started to spread vicious gossip and false rumors about L. Ron Hubbard too, saying that he had died, and all kinds of crap like that. Even Lavenda called me to tell me that it "wasn't really Ron's voice on his New Year's message of 1983", known as Ron's Journal 36. What a bunch of sick predators they were that would pounce on any opportunity to malign our Founder, just because he had to withdraw from the insanity and savagery of wog publicity in order to preserve and protect the Tech from further attacks.


"Something drastic has to be done about all your stalling", Ellie said over the phone. "You have been at Dean Witter Reynolds for over three months and you have not secured the blank forms as ordered."

"I told you they're all locked up in the wire cage!", I asserted. "I can't get to them!"

"Did you try sleeping with the wire operator yet?", Ellie asked in earnest.

"I would love to do that for my own sake as well as for yours!", I promised. "But she won't look at me. She likes surfers."

"Well, I've got a new idea", she said encouragingly. "Do you have any kind of supply directory in your office?"

"Yeah, I've seen it on the branch manager's desk", I acknowledged.

"Very good!", Ellie panted. "Why don't you find out where you order more of those forms from and get them to send you an extra couple of boxes. Once they come, they might store them somewhere in the office that you actually have access to."

"Why the hell did you wait three months to tell me that?", I protested antagonistically.

"I just thought of it, and if you are such a genius like you claim to be, why didn't you think of it first?", she retorted.

There was no use in blaming each other when we had to work together to avoid the wrath of Diana's downstats. I arranged for the requisition of 10,000 blank scripts to be sent to the Inverrary office by telling an order clerk in New York that our supply was nearly completely out. The name I used to order the forms was Ken Schaeffer, the broker who I had replaced.

About two weeks later, while I was busier than a cockroach refilling my staple machine, the United Parcel delivery lady who always smelled from Massengill douche powder brought in four large boxes containing 2,500 forms each.

"We have enough of these forms for the next two years!", said Nicole, the wire operator. "Why the hell did they send us more? I have no room for them in the cage!"

"The supply department must have screwed up!", the office manager said. "Stick them in the closet!"

So on the 6th of April 1983, my mission was complete. I came back to my office at 11:00 P.M. to literally "catch up on my paper work." I opened three of the four boxes and removed about 1,000 sheets of continuous forms in all, making certain that each load had serial numbers that started with different digits. I sent Diana a CSW, or Completed Staff Work Report, indicating that I finally achieved success at last!

On the following day, I delivered all of the blank scripts to Peter Letterese. He was so overjoyed with my heroic accomplishment that he allowed me to take him out to dinner. Peter never associated with anyone from the Mission socially, and I jumped on the chance to gain more favor in his eyes. Naturally, I invited Barbara along too, since she was now his fiancee. The honor of hosting the Executive Director of the Mission of Fort Lauderdale was so exciting that I wet my pants a little bit. Even thetans can get carried away sometimes.

After dinner, Peter divided the forms in half and had Reggie Monce deliver the balance to Frank Thompson at Miami, in order that they would be forwarded to Ellie Bolger at Flag via the Org Mailpak, which was our internal courier and delivery service. Ron never allowed sensitive materials to be sent through the mails, as it was off-Policy to trust any branch of the Federal Government with data which was vital and essential to the security of the Third Dynamic.

When Ellie Bolger received the blank scripts, she forwarded them on to Diana, who had just returned from Saint Hill. On the 18th of April 1983, Diana summoned me back to Flag, and awarded me the permanent rank of Kha-Khan, in appreciation of the highest commendation possible for courage and valor within Scientology organizations.

I didn't even know what a Kha-Khan was. When I first heard the word I thought it was a very unhealthy type of bowel movement. However, when I looked it up in Modern Management Technology Defined, I found that a "particularly brave deed was recognized by an award of the title of Kha-Khan. It was not a rank. The person remained what he was, but he was entitled to be forgiven the death penalty ten times in case in the future he did anything wrong. Kha-Khans are producing, high statistic staff members. They can get away with murder without a blink from Ethics."63

So there I was, a fierce, formidable warrior of the Scientology elite, who had the world by the scrotum and the power of Source in my very own pocket.

I was also eligible to buy the Kha-Khan Pendant, which only cost one thousand two hundred fifty dollars, or the steal of the century. It was personally designed by gemologists hired on behalf of Ron and hand- crafted from various famous intergalactic stones which according to Ellie Bolger, are only found on half the continents of this planet. The Kha-Khan Pendant has stunning purple and yellow ARC triangles fashioned in the shapes of glittering diamonds and pyramids. It is still the most treasured possession I have, and far more valuable than anything else I own, especially my body. I wouldn't sell it to you, even if you offered me a hundred and fifty billion dollars for it. However, for anything more than that, we might be able to do business.


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