by Steven Fishman
14: For Less Than Two Million Dollars, You Could Set Half The World Free
Now a liberated and dashing man about town, I quickly began having a meaningful relationship with Princess Elke Schaaf, who was not blue-blooded royalty, but that is what her black pimp named Finesse used to call her. Elke was truly the most beautiful body-occupying specimen on the planet. Her long, flowing auburn hair had a bucolic peasantlike quality of natural soot, and her tattoo of a five-pointed star within a circle and other pastoral symbolism had a mystique all its own.
Steve Goldberg compiled a complete photographic portfolio of her, and was compassionate enough to sell me a set at a discount so that I could view her pictures while I masturbated with my electric vibrator in the privacy of my water bed while she was either out buying crack, selling herself, or doing whatever it took to ensure that Finesse was idyllic and happy. My life was truly perfect, as I had the girl of my dreams whenever I could afford to indulge myself, with no strings attached as I had in my marriage.
Just to show you what a sentimental guy I was, when Peter Letterese and Barbara Fawcett finally got hitched, I decided to take the Scientology Ministerial Course and become a practicing Reverend of the Church of Scientology. In the meantime, I obtained a license as a Notary Public for the State of Florida, and began performing wedding ceremonies part time. I enjoyed the celebrity status as a Justice of the Peace, and it was always an adventure to mentally undress the bride and the maid of honor during the utterances of the nuptial vows. Since I only charged twenty-five dollars to officiate at these marriages, I became instantly quite busy, and within a short time, I ran an advertisement in the Southern Bell Real Yellow Pages and had embarked on a brand new career. The fringe benefits were many. I was able to go to parties all of the time, and as anyone who knows me can tell you, I could never turn down free food. Since my ad stated that I was willing to marry couples anywhere and anytime, I soon developed an avant-garde reputation for conducting adventuresome and bizarre weddings.
I was a frequent officiator in hot air balloons, at the rodeo, in the flea market, at square dance halls, on yachts, in swimming pools, and even at the mausoleum. I was hounded by the press for weeks after I married two poodles in a fifty room mansion in Palm Beach. A designer of renown was flown in from Boston to create a custom fitted lace wedding gown for the female dog at a cost of eighteen hundred dollars, and the Palm Beach Symphony Orchestra played "How Much is that Doggie in the Window" when they marched down the aisle. Engraved gold invitations were sent out to twenty-two other purebred society mongrels in the neighborhood, as well as their trainers and two hundred accompanying chaperones of the two-legged variety. One of these human guests presented the happy couple with a sterling silver bone with their names engraved on it for the dogs who had everything. The entire wedding cost seventy-five thousand dollars, and I discovered that the dearly betrothed had to get married, because the female dog was pregnant from the groom who lived across the street. It was your typical shotgun wedding.
Everything went well during the processional, with the exception that the male dog understandably had the jitters, and therefore lifted his leg on a grand piano as he marched down the aisle, getting his tuxedo sopping wet. Undeterred, I was able to get the dogs to say their vows by waving a milk bone biscuit up and down, and when they nodded their heads following the movement of the treat, that was the equivalent to "I do." Neither of the pooches knew it, but I was running Grade One CCH-4, or "Hand Space Mimicry" on them. I always had the theory that dogs would respond positively to Scientology processing, but it wasn't until that very moment that I was able to prove it.
Barbara Letterese cheerfully welcomed the addition of my new career as a "Marrying Notary." At her request, I instantly became the Official Notary Public of the Fort Lauderdale Mission, and I got extra credit towards my administrative training by being on call twenty-four hours a day in case there were any documents that needed to be notarized. I was more than happy to volunteer my services, and I never charged a penny to the Lettereses or any other Scientologist that required my expertise. Fees were only applicable to wogs and other scum. No matter what my other faults were, I was above all a man of principle. Once, I vehemently refused to perform a wedding ceremony for a couple when I found out that the groom was a psychiatrist. I just picked up my little satchel and proudly walked out, leaving him flat and embarrassed in front of his fifty wedding guests.
"Marrying you is strictly against my religion", I snapped.
My plan was to build up the wedding business and get out of the brokerage industry as soon as possible. I always felt I was "selling out" to the decadent world of suppressive corporate raiders by being there amongst the deranged capitalists. However, I was faced with the dilemma of still needing money to live on, since I had vowed to Ellie before the divorce was final that I would never use proceeds from the class action claims for wog purposes ever again.
I stayed on with Dean Witter Reynolds for another reason. There was a rumor that the Inverrary office was going to be closed down due to lack of business, and my boss Hank Martin had been offered a large advance fee to switch over to a new firm by the name of Paine Webber.
"What a great upstat I would have if I could get some blank scripts from Paine Webber too!", I thought to myself. I remained on the job just in case Hank Martin decided to make the change and would offer me the opportunity to go with him.
Part of my hat as an Operative of the Office of Special Affairs was to stay in touch with Lavenda Van Schaick Dukoff, in order to see if she was still planning any further reprisals of terrorism against the Church. Over the years she had more than a dozen jobs, working at everything from a waitress to a telemarketing consultant, and like all other suppressives, she could not complete a cycle of action. She was very happy about my divorce, since I had always promised her that we would be married as soon as Jaime was out of the picture. Not wanting to encourage her or give her the false impression that our relationship was actually serious, I stalled her off, explaining that the breakup of my marriage had been very traumatic, and I needed a year to "collect my thoughts." I secretly had an empty pickle jar which I labeled "Thoughts", except that a long time ago I had decided to fill it up with semen instead of ideas. It was interesting from a clinical viewpoint to estimate how many live thetans were trapped in there. All I could tell you is that it smelled terrible, because I never took the trouble to wash it out. Dr. Geertz called me "anal retentive", which shows how little psychologists truly know about anything. I had no problem giving up my bowel movements to anyone, which is what "anal retentive" really means. Even now, any psychiatrist who wants a month's supply of my fecal matter need only cable me a telex or write me a letter.
So as you can see, I was finally starting to get my life together. New Era Dianetics Grade Five, or "NED" was the kind of living lightning that perpetual erections are made out of. In "Past Life Remedies", I was audited on previous existences, forgotten deaths, lost bodies, faded memories, unrecollectable parents and abandoned families. Do you think it was easy? On the contrary, it was a rocket ride through hell as I picked up all of the grief for my trillions of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles and children. Have you got any idea how many times I had sex in the last seventy- six trillion years? You'd think that I would have worn out my pecker by now! After a month of frantically flipping through the family album of infinite eternities, I felt like I had a good stiff case of deja voodoo.
What was of particular concern to me was a skin rash on my thigh. In auditing on NED, I discovered to my great shock that I had been attacked by Body Thetans. You don't know what they are? Body Thetans are degraded beings who have passed through the Between Lives Area after dropping their previous bodies, but because they have committed so many overt acts of harm in their former lifetimes, they were too caved in and confused to confront picking up any new bodies. These Body Thetans consisted of a sordid lot of political despots, criminals, drug addicts, and of course heading the list were psychiatrists, psychologists, psychotherapists and hypnotists. They were both male and female, but I could readily see an overwhelming percentage of them being women. In most cases they would attach themselves to body parts of animated thetans such as skin or hair on arms or legs, in the false hope that by doing that, they could control at least a section of a new body, since they were too full of overts and withholds on old bodies to be able to run or operate an entire new one. These were the dregs of the spirit world, deteriorated human souls who went down the dwindling spiral of life and experienced "Theta Burn- out." They were parasitic, and they often cause skin to itch and crotches to rot. It was frightening to think of how many of these Body Thetans I had on my penis!
Nancy Witkowski revealed to me in confidence that on the upper band of OT levels, Ron discovered that these Body Thetans were the primary cause of old age, since they worked as counter-intention on the body, chipping away at the genetic entity's sustenance until the body succumbed to death. For you biochemical engineers out there, Body Thetans are most closely associated with carbon compounds that are extant in human beings. Since we breathe out carbon dioxide, it is a known fact that bad breath is nothing more than an onslaught of Body Thetans hitting you in the face. Overts and withholds never smell pretty.
It was therefore very important to audit out these Body Thetans, since a clean thetan who is Clear on the Grade Chart could drive them away via the postulates of Ron's commanded intention, and prevent any new Body Thetans from landing and attaching themselves to your extremities at a later date. Perfumes and mouthwashes can make them smell better, but as long as Body Thetans are attached to you, you'll be surrounded by living death.
Since the rashes and skin irritations were occurring in the neighborhood of my groin, testicles, thighs and scrotum, I decided I would stay at least one step ahead of these tiny foxy bastards by shaving off all the hair on my balls and penis, and in that general vicinity. Doing that made me itch even more, but I still outsmarted the invaders. One time I spotted the soul of Mussolini trying to settle on my line of circumcision. I knew it was him because I had a nightmare about one of his Battle Plans in Italian. Without any pubic hair for old Benito to land on, coupled with my obsessive daily ritual of smearing my reproductive organs with insect repellant, there was no way that fascist pig was going to get anywhere near my precious war zone.
Once you start shaving yourself down there, the girls think it's sort of a "chic" thing to do, so I would not hesitate to make it a regular practice. I don't know the statistics on it, but I bet that a continuously shaved pecker is a great way to protect yourself against impotence. Try it and let me know how you make out. It sure worked for me, and I'm no different than you are. If you mess around with cheap hookers like I do, chances are they won't even notice it unless you pay them a little extra money for some additional attention.
Although Peter had high hopes for turning the Mission into a Celebrity Center poste haste, we sure got our share of strange raw meat preclears. One incident that stands out in my mind happened in the middle of January 1985, when a scraggly, long-haired, red-bearded biker came into the reception area. He said he was looking for a motorcycle bar called the Pit Stop which was located about a mile down the road on Sunrise Boulevard, but none of us had ever heard of the place.
When I saw this Harley Davidson-type freak, I just rolled my eyes and laughed out loud to Peter.
"We're in great shape if we have to depend upon a humanoid relic like him to keep the Mission afloat financially", I sneered.
"We'll see about that!", Peter boasted, taking up the challenge with a demeanor of invincibility that only a desperate Executive Director saddled with debt could have.
Within hours, this ruffian whose name was Michael Hambrick took an ability test and did a basic Dianetic intensive. Who would have believed that the poor slob had a hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket! As if that didn't shock the shit out of me, within the next three days, I found out that Michael sold his motorcycle, paid for a Life Repair, and joined staff as a trainee! Peter was so good, he could probably sell a tank of pest control spray to centipedes! In all of these years, he has never ceased to amaze me. Nevertheless, Michael caught on. His shaved beard and free-falling rectum-length hair was enough to stuff a pillowcase with. After his ominous valence of a radical Hell's Angel was gone, he looked as decent and respectable as the rest of us. We actually became close friends in a very short time. It was awesome how Peter could salvage these hopeless shmucks and make real thetans out of them!
Another such example was Barbara Koster. She was the roommate and live-in lover of Linda MacPhee, the Ethics Officer of Fort Lauderdale. For over six months Linda tried to persuade Barbara to come into the Mission to take a personality test, but Barbara was only interested in her horses. She was a groom at a dude ranch and riding stable in Davie, and it was for that reason that Linda found her so attractively masculine. She spent so much time with the equine race of foot-stomping cavalry that she actually began to look like a horse, with a long brown mane for hair, and huge oversized nag's teeth. When Peter finally broke her into Scientology, she not only saddled up a staff position as the Bookstore Officer, but she sold her own horse, converting him into five thousand dollars worth of hay for auditing. It was with these and other similar creatures that Peter resolved to create the Celebrity Center of Fort Lauderdale as the showplace of Standard Tech. Many of us old hard liners thought Peter had gone too far, scraping the bottom of the barrel and making the Mission Staff Directory look like a roster from a circus freak show with his cavalcade of madhouse stereotypes. But in short order, Peter proved to our surprise and disbelief that he could force even the most incorrigible fool to cut the mustard. I eventually mellowed out, learning to accept and even welcome Peter Letterese's new melting pot of hodgepodged hired help. For behind Peter's quantitatively superficial veneer, he was quite a humanitarian, giving a shot at immortality to anyone who could convert their physical universe obsessions into ready cash.
"Only the psychs deserve to die", he said. "We stand ready to salvage everybody else!"
Peter was so benevolent that he even knew what to do with people who stumbled in without any money. He waited until he had a carload of derelicts, and then shipped them off to the Sea Org to work off their debt to society in billion year contract increments.
"Unlike wog slave civilizations, we take full responsibility for the homeless and put them to work!", he explained.
All I could think of was how much better off we would all be if Ron would one day appoint Peter to run the world. I put a note to that effect in the Mission's suggestion box.
I had a fantastic relationship with Princess Elke Schaaf and her pimp Finesse. We went to the Broward County Fair together, and it was such an honor to be the only client of Elke's that Finesse permitted her to socialize with outside of working hours. It was such a privilege to spend time with them. Finesse was the best dressed man that I have ever seen in my life, wearing no less than twenty gold chains around his neck on any given day. His yellow and purple satin smoking jacket rivalled that of any Las Vegas showgirl. As the three of us paraded around the fairgrounds, we were the envy of all who surveyed us. I was so proud of myself that through auditing, I had gotten over all my fear of blacks that I had amassed in the race riots of 1980. Finesse looked so impressive and dignified with his beeper unit, and reminded me of a Wall Street tycoon. He managed eight other girls in his stable, but Princess Elke was his own personal whore, and I respected her for having achieved such grandeur and status. Elke's only apparent fault was that she spent too much time smoking crack cocaine rocks, but I knew that if she ever had the opportunity to do the Purification Rundown, she would give up all her drugs quicker than fire ants could eat a container of chopped liver.
We three musketeers were such a tight trio, that I was shocked when Princess Elke got arrested and Finesse refused to bail her out. She called me in tears from the Broward County Jail, needing three hundred dollars and a lawyer to get released on bond after she was busted for prostitution by an undercover cop. I phoned Finesse on his beeper number, and he pretended not to know who either of us were! I had forgotten completely how wogs usually behave under pressure. But still, how could Finesse leave the adorable Princess in prison to rot? He used to brag that she was his personal "house mouse", or favorite slut. It was incomprehensible that he could abandon her at a time like this.
I called Attorney Keith Nassetta, my client from Dean Witter Reynolds, in order to go down to the jail and spring her by putting up the bond money at my request. She promised to spend the weekend with me in order to work off the three hundred dollars that I gave Keith to set her free, but no sooner than he had her released, she jumped out of his car, and that was the last time I ever saw her again. I was devastated! What horrible overt act of mine could be lurking in a former lifetime that possibly would have turned both Finesse and Princess Elke against me?
To complicate matters, my auditor Nancy was away at Flag, and I felt all alone, trapped in a mean brain with cockeyed thoughts to torment me. The diarrhea turned on in full force like a broken fire hydrant, and it took my last bit of strength to plop down in front of Peter Letterese, feeling as weak as a four hundred year old limp dick that was begging for resuscitation.
He assigned me to Fran Hardy, a substitute auditor whose main post was the Director of Public Contact. Previously raised in the wog world as a tough, flame-headed, Irish-looking street bitch, she would stab a psychiatrist in his egg sacs faster than spit at him, and had the reputation of being the deadliest TR coach in the Scientology Continent of the Eastern United States. As Lead Coordinator for the Citizens Commission of Human Rights of Fort Lauderdale, she and I worked closely together with Dennis Clarke, and she vigorously supported my plan for the Psychiatric Rehabilitation Estates Project Force which would rid the planet of the plague of psychiatry.
Fran ran a Dianetics Full Flow Table on me, and in doing so, found that I still had an unflattened E-Meter needle from the MacDuffie race riot of 17 May 1980, indicating an earlier incident that had never been cleaned up on my "time track", which is the consecutive record of mental image pictures that had accumulated through my series of past lives.69 The time track, being the chronological history of the soul, must have had some extremely evil or very harmful acts against black thetans on it for me to continuously pull in trouble like the race riots and Finesse the Pimp into my current lifetime, according to Fran.
Lo and behold, after ten hours of intensive New Era Dianetic auditing, I found that I had lived in the year 1794 as a slave trader by the name of Argus Ghenton in Charleston, South Carolina! I was responsible for bringing in no less than six thousand, four hundred and ten Negro slaves to the United States from the territory known as French Equatorial Africa. I had been a real piece of suppressive shit!
No wonder Finesse didn't want to have anything to do with me! He must have unconsciously found out about the horrible crimes I committed against his noble ancestors! Who could blame him for being angry? A thetan intuitively knows when he has been hoodwinked.
When Peter Letterese found out about the overt acts I perpetrated on my time track, he ordered me to do a Repair of Past Ethics, and for the next month, I worked with the Mission Director of Black Community Affairs Cheryl Powell on a direct mail campaign blitz to bring young black people in for personality tests and basic mini-courses, in order to take them away from the overwhelming negative effects of mind- altering drugs, the public school system, heavy booze, and the African Methodist Episcopal Baptist Church. It was the least I could do to make up for all the damage I had caused those poor victims over one hundred and eighty-nine years ago.
Steve Goldberg was always there for me when I felt down and out.
"If you lost Elke, you just have to replace her with somebody better", he said. He knew women far more thoroughly than a coroner knows cadavers. There was never a truer friend to me than he was.
Mary Agnes Holzbach lived underneath the Las Olas Boulevard Bridge with her common law husband, Edward P. Solomon, whose real name was Mark Peterson. Like the Princess and Finesse, she was white and he was black. They had tried to survive in the South Bronx and on the streets of Union City, New Jersey, but all hope was against them and they just couldn't make it on their own. After all, they never heard of Scientology. Like everyone else with dreams of setting the world on its ass in a tropical paradise, they hitched a ride on an empty boxcar of the Florida East Coast Railway to Fort Lauderdale.
They were both very proud people, and rather than take charity from anybody, they made their living begging. While I was filling up my gas tank at the Phillips 66 on Birch Road about a block from the bridge, Mary came over to my car and asked me for a quarter. Being a good samaritan, I offered her twenty-five dollars plus a shower in my apartment, and that was the start of my next meaningful relationship.
When things were going well and they had extra money, Mary and Mark were able to stay in a flophouse called "Christian Ministry Outreach", run by a part-time marijuana salesman named Reverend Charlie Bledsoe. Reverend Charlie had four squalid rooms linked together by a broken toilet which had to be held down for five minutes in order to flush it. Sixteen splintery wooden cots consisting of two double decker rows sleeping eight people were in each room, and Reverend Charlie charged five dollars per person per night to all of his sixty-four boarders. By ten o'clock all of the beds were filled, so as a deeply humane gesture, he permitted the johnny-come-latelies as a matter of courtesy to crash out on the floor for two dollars and fifty cents. Don't worry, they weren't on the bare cement. Reverend Charlie affectionately always put down old newspapers, so that the cockroaches, termites and head lice had a harder time getting to know the "footmen", which is what everyone called the floor dwellers.
Mark and I struck a bargain, whereby he gave me the exclusive rights to Mary's body besides himself if I agreed to patronize her at least three times a week, which covered their rent in the "Animal House", which was Mark's nickname for Reverend Charlie's religious retreat, taken from the John Belushi movie of the same name.
It was incredible how much dirt and soot that had accumulated on Mary's body. There was a real woman underneath all of that filth. With the exception of her rotted, chipped teeth that was a trademark amongst all street people, she was a healthy specimen, with strong breasts and a comfortable although exceptionally sticky vagina. She enjoyed having intercourse "doggie style", and I used to make her laugh during sex by telling her over and over about my canine wedding in Palm Beach. Between you and I, she did remind me a lot of my Aunt Eva's poodle Coco, although Mary honestly felt a lot better to straddle.
Both Mark and Mary became regular signatories of class action lawsuit claim forms, although both their handwritings were marginal at best. Still, beggars can't be choosers, or at least that is what I told Ellie Bolger.
Ellie was still very terrified from the aftermath of my brutal experience at the whims of Jaime. In our divorce settlement, I had orally given my ex-wife all rights, title and interest to moneys derived from the W. T. Grant Stores claim which was an old unsettled lawsuit from 1981. The check was scheduled to come to the home of Jaime's mother and father in Tamarac under her original maiden name of Lillian Beth Tollin. Since Jaime had signed the claim form and the check was not expected to be more than five thousand dollars, I acquiesced and turned it over to her, since I felt she was entitled to an "annuity" from our eight years of cash-on-delivery wedlock. This upset Ellie, who felt that I was far too generous with a suppressive like the wrathful Ms. Nureyev. Nevertheless, as mother of my children, I stuck to my guns and permitted her to keep the money whenever the check finally came.
However, to please Ellie, I came up with a whole new list of mocked-up names which Jaime did not know about, including Agnes Holzbach and Edward P. Solomon, my latest confidantes. There was also lots of promise in the air since my boss, Hank Martin, did in fact invite me to make the switch from Dean Witter Reynolds to Paine Webber, and actually paid me five thousand dollars to move over there with him, because he was afraid that if I stayed at Dean Witter Reynolds, I might prevent him from bringing over some of his old customers. He didn't know me very well if he thought that I would do anything unethical like that.
Ellie, Peter and I were thrilled with the prospects of getting some Paine Webber claim forms in order to boost up production and increase our stats. Meanwhile, I used the five thousand dollar bonus to pay for more NED Grade Five auditing, and for my Ministerial Course.
Much to my dismay, when I arrived at Paine Webber, I discovered that none of the confirmation slips were generated at the local office. They were all mailed to the clients directly out of the main computer center in New York! I felt like a complete fool, having made scores of worthless representations to Peter, Barbara and Ellie, only to find out that I had been utterly duped! There was absolutely no sense in my staying on at Paine Webber, but I was locked in to a three year contract there due to the five thousand dollar incentive bonus which Hank Martin gave me to switch firms.
Now this really bothered me. I wanted desperately to return the five thousand dollars, but I had already spent it as an advanced payment for services at the Mission! I felt like a complete crook walking out on Hank after giving him my word that I would work with him for the next three years.
I brought over my contract to Peter Letterese, so that he could give me some solid legal advice on how I could get out of it.
"Get yourself fired!", Peter shouted as he threw the document back in my face.
"That's just not my style!", I objected. "I can't pretend to be incompetent at the job any worse than I already am! The one thing I'm not going to do is make mistakes on purpose. It's bad enough that I lose money for all my clients, but to deliberately goof up administratively is too much of an out- ethics overt act to do, even to miserable wogs who didn't deserve any better!"
Peter and I came up with a realistic compromise. He suggested that I "bingo" myself to death at Paine Webber, setting a world record for the most junk mail ever to be sent to one address.
"Eventually, those bozos will fire you because they'll catch on that you are sending the garbage to yourself, or because you'll be more trouble than you're worth to them", he calculated.
"Well, that still won't stop the junk mail", I argued. "It will probably continue to get sent to the office until the year 2000!"
"You know that, and I know that", Peter snickered, "but these are moronic wogs we are talking about. They'll never figure it out!"
And, just like all of Peter's other magnificent postulates, this prophecy turned out to be the gospel too, having the predicted effect that he said it would. Hank Martin asked me to tender my resignation, and I didn't have to pay him back a solitary dime! It still continues to bother me however, and one day, if I ever have a way to do it, I want to give him back all of the money. What I don't need is to have an overt act against him which will carry forward with me to my next life. I am a trustworthy person, and I have always been honest with people, and I never could live with the guilt of taking advantage of anybody. The one thing I can't confront is when I have cheated an innocent victim out of something. I have a reputation as a Scientologist to uphold, and my ethics have always been very important to me.
With Paine Webber out of the way, I could concentrate more on getting up the Bridge, as well as securing my certification from the Church to perform Scientology wedding ceremonies on unsuspecting wogs. How would they ever know if I slipped in some cool subliminal phrases during the vows about ARC and the eight dynamics? It seemed like an exquisite way to disseminate the Tech and to bring new raw meat into the Mission. Without passing the Ministerial Course, I was not permitted to do any of that. Therefore, the first order of business was to devote all my attention to becoming a top-notch confessional case- cracking, postulate-pushing pastor.
"You can't take the Ministerial Course", said Lisa Witt, the Case Supervisor of Miami.
"Why the hell not?", I asked. "I want to be certified as a Scientology Minister. What's wrong with that?"
"There's trouble in your Preclear Folder, that's why!", she nagged. "Back in '79, you rock slammed on the Scientology Cross when Leah Abady gave you a Joburg Security Check, and I can't give you an "okay" to do the training because of that."
"Why?", I asked. "What does rock slamming on the Cross have to do with anything?"
Lisa looked at me with subdued scorn in her eyes.
"Any time someone rock slams on a Scientology symbol, it is evidence of an evil purpose!", she hissed.
"What do you think I am, a fucking psychiatrist?", I yelled bellicosely. "I just want to be a goddamn Minister, and I don't know what all these bullshit hassles are for."
"Well, could you keep your pants on for a minute if I agreed to check you again myself?", she offered.
"Fine, you do that!", I insisted.
Unfortunately, the results were the same. Somewhere, there was trouble in paradise. Sure, it would have been very easy to blame the E-Meter. Critics of the device say it can't even measure an erection properly, but I have had too many powerful auditing sessions to believe the accusations of lunatic squirrels. I knew the E-Meter worked perfectly, and if it said that I rock slammed, the problem was with me, not with the machinery.
Lisa Witt ordered my auditor, Nancy Witkowski, to investigate why I was hanging up on the Cross during the confessional. We started running incidents from my current lifetime going backwards, looking for earlier and similar reactions.
Being a Class Eight Hubbard Standard Technical Specialist with a permanent Gold Seal, Nancy Witkowski was a crackerjack auditor. Within minutes she discovered that my wild and psychotic needle reaction was on all crosses, and had nothing specifically to do with the Scientology Cross. The Scientology Cross, after all, is like a standard Christian cross with a letter "X" emanating from where the vertical and horizontal pieces are joined together. It was the Christian cross that caused the E-Meter to rock slam.
As a former Jew before I became a Scientologist, I had never given Christian symbols much thought. I remembered Christmas time when I was eleven years old and living in New York City, when my Aunt Jeanne used to drive me through the predominantly Catholic sections of Queens like Jackson Heights and Corona, in order to poke fun at the houses that had Christmas lights and Santa Clauses on the roof. She often said a prayer to God so that a good rainstorm would come and electrocute all of the people inside, in the hope that the lights were wired faultily. Even before that, when I was four years old, I remember taking a walk with my grandfather down the streets of Brooklyn, spitting at the Churches together. But beyond these harmless events, I never had any hostile feelings toward any of the Christian cults -- in fact, some of my best friends were Christians. Certainly we Scientologists didn't care where we get our raw meat from, as long as they were not infiltrators or spies from psychiatry.
It took eleven days of auditing to move me back through time, but with Nancy's flubless TRs, E-Metering and letter perfect use of prepared lists, I was able to recall what happened to me seventy-five trillion years ago. I ran the perceptics of a wretchedly frightening incident of assisting a thoroughly evil being named Yushkipondrec as I helped him trap thetans in human bodies. I participated in the most gruesome and suppressive acts imaginable after I had personally been subjugated by the physical universe's first psychiatrist myself.
In further New Era Dianetics auditing, I discovered a former lifetime that even shocked the dingleberries off of Nancy. During a very intense twelve hour session, I discovered that I was Malchoot, the real father of Jesus Christ.
My family and the parents of Jesus' mother Mary lived four houses apart on a typical middle class, tree- lined street along a wide canal in Nazareth. I was sixteen, and Mary was only thirteen, but she was the most magnificent girl I had ever feasted my eyes upon. She had a figure that absolutely made me melt! Yet she didn't pay any attention to me, saying that I was too pale and skinny, and I should leave her alone and not bother her. She was, after all, a female of innocence and virtue, which as everybody knows, is quite a rarity.
I would daydream for hours, thinking about how incredible it would be to have passionate sex with this special girl, and I became very depressed when I came to realize that I would not have a suitable chance with her because she wasn't attracted to me.
Nevertheless, I wasn't about to give up on the idea.
I knew her schedule with ultimate precision.
In the morning, after dreaming about Mary all night, I found myself with an enormous erection.
There was a pond in the back of my house which led into a small stream with very tall reeds and palms extending to the rear of Mary's house, which as I told you before was the fourth house down along the waterway.
Mary would enter the stream each morning to bathe, exactly one half hour after sunrise.
From behind the tall reeds and palms, I would watch her undress, then sponge herself down with the soapiest foam, splashing translucent bubbles on her exquisite breasts, then wash herself while delicately applying a feathery cloth, and afterwards I would gaze at her, thoroughly entranced as she would apply an exotic layer of scented oil and perfume to every area and crevice of her captivatingly radiant body, in order to render her skin even more soft and fragrant.
And during all of this time, from behind the bushes, at a distance of about six feet away but safely hidden where Mary could not see me, I would masturbate vigorously, relieving myself from my erection that had been stimulated by dreaming about her all night and then watching her in the morning, and my semen would explode through the air and into the water like bursting firecrackers.
The birds sang and the wind rustled the leaves, and so Mary did not know that I was there; and each day I would come back to the same spot at sunrise, waiting for her to appear so that I could study her, fantasize about her, and wonder what it would be like to have her.
And some of my friends who were older wanted me to go into the center of town to frequent the houses of prostitution, but I was not at all interested in that, because I could not see myself with anyone else but Mary.
And on many occasions, when the wind blew downstream, I saw my semen float toward her, touching the pubic hair around her vagina innocently, and I bittersweetly laughed to myself that I would never get any closer to my love than that.
Being a musician in that lifetime and not a medical biophysicist, I had no way to know that my sperm would actively stay alive in the warm temperature of the stream, and could attach itself to an unfertilized egg from Mary's heavenly ovary, and cause her to become pregnant.
But that is exactly what happened on that fateful day of March 28th of the year 6 B. C. when I became the unwitting father of Jesus Christ. That was of course the real date, because through auditing, I had full recall of vividly remembering it.
Not knowing what I had done, I continued to repeat the incident, and for three more months after that, I crouched behind the bushes at daybreak, masturbating to my heart's delight while Mary took her customary bath. I was the proverbial Peeping Tom.
I would curse the Sabbath, because on that day the women were prohibited by Biblical law to bathe, and Mary did not come out to the stream. I sat at home during the entire day crying, because nothing was more important to me than seeing her. But Mary started to miss her period, and after three months, she was anxious, nervous and cross, and the least little sound or distraction tended to disturb her.
It was a very humid, quiet morning on the 17th of June, and the stream was especially still because it had rained all night and consequently the birds were not out, although the mosquitoes were attacking in full force, stinging me madly in the nuts.
And so when I climaxed heavily after masturbating rigorously and with ecstatic ferocity, I uttered a deep, panting moan; which, together with the splashing of the sperm against the water, frightened Mary, and she stepped forward to move away the leaves in front of the thicket where she was startled, noticing that semen was clinging to the hair around the opening of her vagina.
When she caught me by surprise with my penis in hand, realizing that I had placed her at the risk of conception, she screamed at the top of her lungs and ran into her house, dropping her bottle of oil along the bank of the stream.
Her father Joachim, who was eating breakfast, ran out, and saw me running towards my own house, naked and exasperated.
Joachim followed me there and told my father Amyohai, who beat me fifty times with his donkey whip.
That was the last time I ever saw the naked body of the Virgin Mary again, never having had the opportunity to fondle and make love to her. All I had left from the unconsummated affair was her empty bottle of body oil, which I kept for sentimental reasons until the day I died.
Of course, the rest is history. They used to stone unwed mothers to death in those days, and so when Mary's father took her to their family physician, he was very relieved to discover that Mary's hymen was still intact when the doctor gave her a vaginal exam. Afterwards, they brought Mary before Chief Rabbi Zacharias, who decided it would be less embarrassing and more socially feasible to blame the whole sordid relationship on God.
Nancy Witkowski was prouder than punch that she had stripped away the big roadblock that was causing trouble in my life. My success was a direct measurement of her outstanding abilities as an auditor.
As if it were not bad enough that I was directly responsible for an overt act on so grand a scale that it resulted in the planetary dissemination of such false data as the Bible, I learned further in my Grade Five auditing that the same psychiatrist Yushkipondrec who originally came up with the idea of trapping thetans within bodies in the first place had also lived in a later lifetime as the Emperor Xenu, the cruel suppressive who injected us with a brutal concoction of alcohol-glycol, packaged us in freeze-dried clusters, and blew us all up with hydrogen bombs inside volcanoes seventy-five million years ago.
You can imagine the shame and degradation that I suffered as a parent when Nancy revealed to me that the Emperor Xenu had resurfaced millions of years later as my very own son, Jesus Christ. Now I finally understood why Jaime had deprived me of seeing my children during the time of the divorce. There was bad blood in my family tree, and she must have known it all along!
Five years before at the Flag New Year's Event of 1980, the Financial Planner for the Commodore's Messenger Organization Wolly Hooker had told me that Xenu was Christ, but it did not hit home until I found out that he had been my own kinfolk! What an albatross to wear around my neck! I felt so ashamed of myself that I would have gladly crawled under a rock if I had been given the chance. How could the world ever forgive me for conceiving such a vile offspring during the commission of such a perverted act?
Nancy said that I would simply have to confront it.
"The wog world has no idea as to the scope of Christ's deception", Nancy indicated. "The Bible is nothing more than a book of lies!"
"I was never a Christian", I confessed, "but doesn't the Bible state that Jesus died for our sins?"
"Did you attest to Grade Two for nothing?", Nancy growled angrily. "Grade Two was all about overt acts and withholds. We are responsible for our own sins! Only a psychiatrist like Christ would come up with false data like that in order to try to make us wrong. He deserved what happened to him! The pain he suffered at the Crucifixion was a drop in the bucket compared to the agony he put us through as the Emperor Xenu. Do you know why Christ really died?"
"No", I answered.
"He was having a homosexual affair with his live-in lover, Judas Iscariot, and they had a quarrel about Jesus's promiscuity and unfaithfulness! Judas turned him in to the Roman authorities in a jealous fit of mad rage. L. Ron Hubbard talked about it once. He said that "There are no fights quite as violent as those that follow a great love."70
"But look at how many people believe in him for nothing, and it's all my fault!", I cried.
"Why do you say that?", she comforted. "All you did is masturbate in a ditch of running water. If you weren't the father, it would have been some other poor slob. I guarantee you that Christ would have spread his lies either with or without you."
"But look what a terrible overt act was committed against God, the Eighth Dynamic!", I pleaded. "God was blamed for a sexual act which I failed to adequately take responsibility for!"
"You're not the one who blamed it on God", Nancy consoled.
"It's because of my wild and uncontrollable passion that it happened though!", I wept.
"It's never too late to undo it!", Nancy encouraged. "At least you are starting to take responsibility for it now. You're a lot better off than you were before. I hate to invalidate squirrel religions like Christianity, but facts are facts. When you do your upper OT levels, you'll learn a lot more about it than I can tell you right now. Look at the bright side. Ron has been searching for the real father of the bastard Jesus for years, and now he has finally found you! Isn't that wonderful?"
"It's a tremendous amount of responsibility", I quivered.
Inasmuch as Nancy was certain that her auditing sessions were one hundred percent accurate, she sent me to see Lisa Witt, the Case Supervisor of Miami, for a comprehensive review.
Needless to say, the E-Meter didn't lie, and the results clearly showed once again that I was Malchoot, the real father of Jesus Christ.
"It's not as bad as you think from our perspective", Lisa Witt explained. "You were only the biological father of Christ's body. You had nothing whatever to do with him as a thetan. You should know by now that the concept of "fathers" and "sons" is all an illusion of the degraded physical universe."
"But look how intensely I will be despised and hated by the wogs when they finally find out how they have been fooled", I implored.
"On the contrary, Steven", Lisa brightened up. "Look how much you will be loved and admired by Scientologists for having the courage to confront the truth! Why should you or I care what the wogs think? That's almost as ridiculous as worrying about what the psychs think!"
"I never thought of it that way!", I remarked.
And Lisa was so right! I must have had some powerful sperm to make a girl pregnant across a flowing stream of five or six feet of running water.
"Maybe a lot of girls will want to have sex with me when they find out about how virile I was!", I told her. After the review session with Lisa, my whole outlook started to improve. The Case Supervisor always knew how to make me feel a lot better, and she had a nice ass too.
Not everyone, however, was so quick to embrace me as the fearless father of the false messiah. Peter Letterese had been a devout Catholic prior to becoming a Scientologist. He accused Nancy of running "dub-in" on me. Dub-in means "imaginary recall", or "something that isn't really there."71 Nancy was furious that Peter had insinuated that she and I had made the whole thing up. When she told me about it, we both wrote Knowledge Reports requesting a Committee of Evidence to censure Peter for his brazen invalidation of both my time track and my auditor. Peter, on the other hand, maintained that everything in Nancy's worksheets relating to Malchoot was a ton of crap, and he warned that the entire matter could become a horrendous public relations scandal if any raw meat wogs found out about it and the rumors were picked up by the psych-backed anti-Scientology press. He also charged in his affidavit that "many entry-level Scientologists on basic courses would be highly insulted if an auditor of the Church openly challenged their steadfast religious beliefs, and under no circumstances should Nancy Witkowski be allowed to pursue this line of insanity."
It came to a head on the 2nd of March, 1985. I never knew Nancy could assert herself so powerfully, but in fact she cursed Peter like a real trooper, calling him an Italian cocksucker who was still tied to the Virgin Mary's apron strings. She resigned as Lead Auditor of the Mission, and was immediately posted in the Org as a Grade Auditor at the Hubbard Guidance Center of Miami. Peter's loss was Bob Levy's gain. Bob Levy was the Executive Director of Miami.
Naturally, I followed Nancy to Miami, and at the suggestion of Lisa Witt, on March the 3rd I signed up for eight thousand dollars worth of auditor training with Ray Jourdain, the Body Registrar of Miami.
Lisa felt that because of my explosive situation with Peter, coupled with the fact that Christ only had one father and I was he, there was no doubt that my calling in life was to undo the damage I had caused the world as Malchoot by becoming a good auditor now in this body as Steve. I therefore had to devote all my free time to getting trained so that I could standardly apply every bit of Ron's Tech and Ethics without flaw or hesitation.
"At some point in the future you will be asked by many people to prove who you are on the E- Meter", Lisa Witt explained. "Owning a meter and doing basic processes is not good enough. You have to learn how to audit others! An auditor is senior to a Clear, because an auditor plus the preclear is greater than the preclear's reactive bank!"
I thoroughly agreed. The Data Access System class action lawsuit was settled, so I had plenty of ready cash with which to get trained. As a professional auditor, I could help others move up the Bridge, which would give me a great deal of social status amongst Scientology ladies. My main goal in life was to convince female staff members to sleep with me for nothing, and perhaps as a trained auditor, I would accumulate enough prestige to talk some cute, shapely thetan into it.
Ray Jourdain was a soft-spoken, clean-cut bisexual guy from Rhode Island who had a crush on me for a long time. As the Body Registrar, he was as happy as a mud-wrestling jellyfish in a raw bar to welcome me personally as a member of Miami's auditing team. Why he insisted on shaking my hand for five minutes without letting me go was something that I'll never quite figure out. Ray's boyfriend was Charlie Fox, the Warehouse Manager of the Miami Org, who like the Body Registrar, was also vehemently bisexual. Despite the fact that both Ray and Charlie often enjoyed staring at my crotch, I was able to rise above the peer pressure and keep the relationship strictly platonic.
The Lead Auditor of Miami was a pale, sullen, white-haired woman with an unsightly hairlip named Cat Fox, who incidentally was Warehouse Manager Charlie's wife. Cat, a shortening for Catherine, was about fifteen years older than Charlie, and everyone knew that they didn't really sleep together. Charlie married her because she was the best auditor in South Florida. He was such a lucky stiff, being able to go up the Bridge for free in his own bedroom!
Nancy Witkowski and Cat Fox were good friends. When Nancy told her about the ARC Break that she had with Peter over the authenticity of my auditing, Cat checked me out on her E-Meter too, and found that Nancy's results had been totally on-Source, one hundred percent perfect and flubless, and that I truly was who she said I was.
In the meantime, Peter made a dramatic move to have Nancy's Class Eight auditing certificate revoked. To diffuse the time bomb of the deep personal feelings which went awry over this issue, Case Supervisor Lisa Witt dispatched me immediately to Flag so that I could meet with the very famous Inspector General for Tech Ray Mithoff, who had the final word over whether an auditing session had been properly handled or not.
Ray Mithoff was a tall toothpick of a nerd who looked like he used to be teased as a geek in Junior High School even worse than I was. Yet, his wife Sue was a knockout, and could have landed a high priced job as a fashion model if she had ever wanted to. Their relationship was visible proof that the best sex on the planet was waiting for me at the top of the Bridge. If Sue Mithoff would have just taken the time to wrap her legs around my face, I would have had power enough to fly all the way up to Class Twelve in no time.
"One day I would capture the floating needle of a woman just like that", I thought as I stared down Sue's blouse in the reception area of her husband's office, exteriorizing hard enough to make her bra disappear. But alas, she hardly knew that I was even there.
There is something to be said about being Security Checked by a Class Twelve auditor. You don't stay in the urinal of life very long when you are around Flag's top hired guns.
I found myself on the crossroads of euphoria.
"So what's it really like being fondled by one of Ron's thetan wizards?", you ask.
Okay. Conceive yourself to be an idea without mass, without wavelength, without time, and actually without position. I mean, you are physically made up of nothing, not even an atom. Picture yourself totally weak, as if you didn't even have enough energy to leave off some gas after eating three pounds of Brussels sprouts. Around you is an infinite void, without empty space or anything else. Time doesn't exist either. Nothing moves. Nothing happens. You're just out there as a non-entity in a non-existent part of nowhere. That's total freedom, the reward at the top of the Bridge. All alone, you'd feel as bored as shit. With other Operating Thetans however, the universe is your oyster.
"One OT working by himself cannot make it. But a group of OTs operating together are virtually unstoppable", Ray Mithoff said as I got the true picture.
"Wow!", I cognited.
"If your ethics are out, there's a fly in the ointment, and no other Operating Thetan will let you be a part of their game", he continued.
"What game?", I wondered.
"Being at cause over life", Ray Mithoff whispered hypnotically. "It's lonely at the top of the Bridge if your Ethics aren't squeaky clean. If there were any question about your integrity, nobody would have anything to do with you. So whenever there is any doubt regarding your Ethics, it is vital that you have your beingness validated in a Security Check so that the uncertainty can be removed."
Just listening to him made me zoom out of my skull into space, and I felt myself floating through the rear end of a black hole. I couldn't stay in my body if he even paid me a Flag Banking Officer's ransom to do it. As he set up his E-Meter can, I could taste the sting of the electrodes. I felt my fingers in the next room as I stared straight through Ray's flimsy body, watching his heart splatter blood past his aorta with a thumping, pumping, humping sound.
As Ray did the Security Check, his questions splashed around me like twenty megaton raindrops. I was high on exteriorization the likes of which I never thought was possible as I started to Free Wheel on the merry-go-round of the Sensitivity Knob. I began tap dancing the paraplegic two-step in time with a billion other Body Thetans on the thin edge of the meter needle while my mind got lost inside the labyrinth of the Inspector General's high-toned voice box.
"Hey, Steve!", he shouted.
Nobody was home.
"Come on! Pick up your body and get back into it!", Ray commanded with the intensity of a radioactive pit bull.
Now that was a real drag. It was much safer out there, wrapped around a telegraph pole on the far side of the Gates of Mars. Who the hell wanted to get back inside a stinking human body, especially my own? I sure damn well didn't! I felt more mixed up than a lost sperm oozing around a hooker's vulva in a dazed surrealistic stupor. Finally I pulled myself together, relocating myself behind my fake eyes that deliberately prevented me from seeing at three hundred and sixty degrees like thetans are really supposed to.
"How did I do on the Security Check?", I asked.
"Well, it's true", Ray shrugged. "I'll just have to tell the Commodore that you're the Son of God's real daddy!"
"What is Ron going to say about it?", I inquired.
"Whatever he wants", Ray laughed.
After sleeping off the after effects of my glorious round trip ticket through the land of Space Opera, I awakened the following morning as refreshed as a bag lady who had just been rushed in slow motion through a hard-bristle car wash. I had Free Wheeled violently throughout the night, locked into a poorly choreographed bad dream featuring Pope John Paul II as he pulled every hair out of my testicles with a pair of lava-hot tweezers, drooling all over the operating table while he cursed me in Polish as two standby psychiatrists were injecting truth serum from their own semen into my scorched nipples.
The nightmare was so vivid that I was too scared to play with myself even once during the entire evening or when I woke up in the morning.
Ray Mithoff was waiting for me in the Senior Security Checker's office, even though I was fourteen seconds early.
"It takes a lot of confront to disconnect from your own son once you have realized that he was a suppressive", Ray Mithoff began.
"I've got two daughters, and they are very good natured", I corrected. "I hope disconnecting from them won't ever be necessary."
"I'm talking about Jesus", he barked. "You're one of the few Freedom Fighters besides Ron who can bear witness to the cruelty forced upon us by Christ when he trapped us in our physical bodies seventy-five trillion years ago, as well as when he bombed us in volcanoes with hydrogen explosives seventy-five million years ago."
"Is there something special about the number seventy-five?", I asked the Inspector General.
"Well, a year and three days from now on March 13, 1986, Ron will reach the milestone of his seventy-fifth birthday", Ray remarked.
"I don't know if it's right to blame Christ for what he did when he was Yushkipondrec or the Emperor Xenu", I protested.
"Why not?", Ray snapped, looking at me as if I were inanely stupid. "He's the same thetan, isn't he? That's like saying that you can't run New Era Dianetics processing on past lives because you were in a different body at the time! Besides, Jesus was still practicing psychiatry just like he did before, except that now he was covertly hostile, pretending to heal the sick with evaluative squirrely processes and putting the vulnerable wog population at total effect by forcing them to be afraid of the unrealities of hell unless they followed him blindly without a whimper. It's just a classic case of psychiatric suppressive invalidation of collapsed thetans on a more subtle scale but with far reaching effects. The Bible has so much false data in it that I wouldn't even recommend using the pages to wrap fish!"
"Yeah, you're right", I condescended in great awe.
"I know I'm right, and that's what I want to talk to you about", he continued. "You are a very important spiritual being."
"Why, because I sired somebody worse than the Devil?", I queried.
"There is no Devil", Ray insisted. "Hell is just one big mental image picture that Christ gave us as a cruel present for the evil purpose of caving us in after each time we die. Add one more point to psychiatry's blood-stained score card for that heap of sick suppression. Fire and brimstone are false illusions. An Operating Thetan can sit in the center of the sun for a trillion years and not get burned, so he certainly wouldn't be worried about a fake place called Hell, or any other of Christ's hypnotic implants in the mine fields of the Between Lives Area!"
"What about Heaven?", I wondered. "Isn't there such a place?"
"More psychotic suggestions designed to make you forget about your past life", he explained. "Heaven is just another fake picture that you see when you die, and was the bait that our psych slavemasters used in order to keep us trapped in our bodies life after life with false data. Both wishful thinking and faith puts you at total effect. You hope for pie in the sky and instead you get a rock slamming you in the face. Ron said, "It's impossible to be human and be right." Faith is for fools. Only intention is cause. Wishing doesn't make things happen -- Only postulates do."
"So what the hell is true then?", I demanded to know.
"Your time track, for one thing", he observed as he scanned through my Preclear Folder one final time. "Do you have any idea how vital you are to Scientology?"
"No, why?", I asked.
"Let's be logical here", he originated as he fiddled with the E-Meter's tone arm dial. "Once you are trained up to the point where the data about Malchoot on your time track can be revealed to the wog world, you are going to tell them that Christ was just an ordinary man, that you were his father, and that God had nothing to do with creating him. You've got to keep everything on a nice, easy- to-understand basic level for the drugged-up sheep out there."
"What about the part where Christ trapped us in our bodies?", I asked. "Don't they have a right to know?"
"Forget about that for now!", he ordered. "It's too steep a gradient for the average raw meat humanoid imbecile to understand. You have to keep it simple and drive home the point that Christianity is false because Christ was nobody important. The minute you talk about how evil he was in his former lifetimes, you are going to cause a ghastly ARC Break and cut the wogs up to ribbons. You can't do that. Becoming aware of truth is a slow process. You can't shock people into it. Don't you realize that ninety-nine percent of mankind is so squirreled up with lies that they think they only live once? And of those who have any reality at all on past lives, only a handful have been audited sufficiently on the Bridge to become familiar with their own time track. You're not dealing with upper level Scientologists out there in mainstream Planet Earth; you're dealing with ants. One has to approach ants on the realities of the anthill. You can't explain to them about skyscrapers when their whole world is underground and covered with dirt. They won't know what in blazes you are talking about, and they'll go right out of ARC with you! It's actually a crime in Scientology to disseminate on too steep a gradient. Hey, there are plenty of Scientologists who won't believe you too, like the guy in your Mission; what's his name?"
"Peter Letterese", I answered.
"Yeah, Peter Letterese, that's right", Ray recalled. "Even he went psychotic on your auditor because of his false fixed idea about Christ being some kind of holy spirit. Holy toilet water is what he is!"
"What's the point of telling everybody how unimportant Christ is if you're not willing to expose them to the entire story?", I asked.
"You missed the point, didn't you?", Ray grumbled.
"Okay, maybe I did", I admitted. "So what is the point?"
"Half of Planet Earth is Christian!", Ray instructed. "When you add up all of the Catholics, Protestants and Leftovers, they are all Christian!"
"So what?", I crowed in exasperation.
"You still don't get it?", Ray balked mimickingly.
"Not quite!", I acknowledged.
"Once the Christians realize that their great big messiah was conceived by you in a Nazarene love canal, where else are they going to go for guidance but to the very group that cleared up that unknown mystery in the first place?", he asked rhetorically. "As soon as the data from your time track is releasable, then half of Planet Earth will investigate Scientology, since we were the ones who stripped away all their false data for them! Once up the Bridge, they can then cognite on Christ's misdeeds, just like you did. But first we have to move them into the Orgs in droves. Don't you see, Steve? You can Clear half of planet Earth, just with the data from your time track alone!", he screamed exuberantly.
"That is awesome!", I realized as I drowned myself pompously in a sea of self-importance.
"Eureka!", Ray exclaimed. "You finally have got it!"
"So why can't we make this data available to the world right now?", I questioned impatiently.
"Did you see what happened when you ruffled Peter's feathers at the Mission?", he cautioned. "Until you are trained, you won't know how to deal with all of the counter-intention that will come your way when all the shit about Jesus hits the fan. You have to be armed to the teeth with Standard Tech to ward off the quagmire of entheta that will be thrown in your face by die-hard Christian demagogues. You'll have every television evangelist condemning you to their non-existent "hell" before you finish explaining how the E-Meter works. No, I'm afraid that you'll have to go all the way to Class Twelve in your training, and move completely through OT Seven in your auditing before I can allow you to reveal a time bomb like your case data to the world of simpletons and faith freaks that are festering around out there."
"But that could take twenty years!", I argued.
"Nonsense!", he cried. "The way you are producing income, it might take two or three at the most. You'll need a complete L. Ron Hubbard Library, auditing, training, and money put aside for the War Chest. There's nothing to it. For less than two million dollars, you could set half the world free!"
"What does the War Chest have to do with my problem?", I questioned.
"It takes a lot of money to train every Christian in the world to use an E-Meter", he winced as if I should have known that fact. "And we also have to fight the psychs, who will step up their efforts to quash and destroy us because we are telling people the truth."
"Why should the psychs care about what we say to the Christians?", I disputed. "Most of them are atheists who believe only in drugs and shock machines."
"Yes, that's true", Ray acknowledged. "But who are their customers? Which group generates their primary source of income?"
"Wog Christians", I cognited.
"Now you're cooking with gas!", he smiled.
"I feel a lot better now", I sighed.
"I don't know if you realize it or not, but you're the real Antichrist that all the wogs have been looking for in their Bible! Malchoot the Antichrist, that's who you are! We finally have someone who can do something about all of the suppression that has been plaguing the global reactive bank for two millennia!"
"That's truly fantastic, but do you know what I can take for a loose bowel movement?", I pleaded. "I can't handle all of this excitement!"
"Lots of confront", he prescribed sympathetically.
I finally had a reality factor on my life as Malchoot. I realized that the only way to repair my past ethics of that embarrassing lifetime was to mount the most vigorous campaign possible against every psych on the planet. I became consumed with revenge against Jesus and his squirrel mental health practitioners. I thanked God that Ray Mithoff had shared his insight into my Preclear Folder with me.
Ray Mithoff and Diana Meredith DeWolfe Hubbard Horwich were the best of friends. When Ray discovered that Diana was supervising my income program of acting classes, he decided to share my good news with her. Their conversation was written up in Ray Mithoff's Knowledge Report, which Ellie Bolger obtained from Diana and shared with me several weeks later.
"I don't believe any of it", Diana told Ray. "This guy Steve is as shallow as they come. He's a pervert and a sex degenerate. Have you seen the write-ups on all of his overts and withholds? Look at this stuff! Intercourse with dogs and fourteen year old runaways! Come on, Ray! You can't possibly believe all this Christ horse shit. He's probably running some kind of pathetic false-report dub-in on you."
"Well, it's consistent", Ray defended. "What kind of a guy masturbates behind bushes but an aberrated voyeur? People don't change from one lifetime to the next without extensive auditing. His second dynamic was way out back then and it's still out now. Who do you think was around in those days to do a Joburg Security Check or to audit him on the False Purpose Rundown? Pontius Pilate? Besides, I've checked him out myself at length. The data is beyond reproach."
"We'll have to verify it further before I authorize this drivel to be sent to Dad", she warned.
"I've already sent a courier to the Commodore", Ray revealed with an air of swift efficiency.
"Oh, that's just great!", Diana steamed. "You'll do just about anything to give him another heart attack!"
On the morning after the L. Ron Hubbard Birthday Event, I was busy in my ninth floor room of the Fort Harrison packing my bags to return to Fort Lauderdale. While I was pressing out my underwear with my portable steam iron, the phone rang. It was Ray Mithoff.
"You can't leave!", he said frantically.
"Why not? You said that the Security Check was all finished", I answered.
"Things are different now", he indicated vaguely.
"Can you be a little more specific, Ray?", I protested with a great deal of confront.
"It's not our decision anymore. The Commodore himself has ordered a battery of confessional actions to be done on you", he stated.
I gasped as my heart started panting at a mad rate.
"Ron knows?", I squeaked.
"Yes!", said the Inspector General. "It's a whole new game now."
Ordinarily I would have resented being put through five more Security Checks, and would have raised all kinds of Cain about being overrun to death on a process that was flat already. Similarly, Ray Mithoff would have probably felt invalidated to pieces if anyone else suggested that any of his confessionals had to be rechecked. But for Source, both of us would have eaten elephant shit if Ron asked us to. It was such an overwhelming honor that L. Ron Hubbard even knew my name! I never thought I would admit this, but being acknowledged and validated by Ron was a hell of a lot better than sex, although I wasn't about to give that up either.
For the next three days, I was dissected and put back together again by the best case crackers on the planet.
First, the Case Supervisor of the Hubbard Guidance Center of the Flag Service Organization Ann Glushakow ran a supplemental Security Check verifying the original data in my Preclear Folder when I rock slammed on the Scientology Cross.
Secondly, the Solo New Era Dianetics for Operating Thetans Case Supervisor for the Flag Service Organization Margaret Supak ran a Whole Track False Purpose Rundown on me, which also yielded some very good indicators.
Thirdly, I was routed up to the Case Supervisor for OT Seven Richard Reiss, who spent the bulk of two days taking me through a complete Whole Track Security Check, and listed out every principal incident that occurred on my time track within the last seventy-six trillion years. Needless to say, I was buttered all over the universe during that confessional rundown.
If that wasn't enough, my fourth action was to run every ARC Break, overt act, withhold, and service facsimile of making others wrong during my lifetime as Malchoot. The Case Supervisor Class Twelve of the Operating Thetan Executive Rundown L-12 whose name was John Eastment was the Tech terminal who got me through all of that. Interestingly enough, before the session, John asked me if I had any ARC Breaks of my own, and I actually did have one. It was the 17th of March, and I strenuously objected to the Saint Patrick's Day dissemination theme at Flag.
"How can the Church of Scientology acknowledge the beingness of a Catholic Saint?", I demanded. "You are all bowing down to Jesus and kissing his fucking ass!"
John Eastment started to laugh.
"You are confusing a valid dissemination program with the perception of acknowledging an irrelevant historical wog!", he cried. "We're not validating a thetan named "Patrick" for anything during this event, nor are we recognizing the arbitrary label of "Saint" placed upon him by misguided squirrels and suppressives."
"Bullshit!", I screamed. "You are having an open house at Flag celebrating Saint Patrick's Day! That is so damn hypocritical! Saint Patrick has something to do with Christ!"
"I am not going to dignify your ARC Break with a long interchange of Q&A", John replied. "The purpose of today's event is to reach out to raw public on their own reality level and draw them into the Org. Are you willing to forsake the immortality of all those thetans who might respond to the event today just because you are offended by the significance of their wog symbol?"
"No, of course not", I admitted.
"Very good", he said triumphantly. "The reactive mind identifies happiness with various pleasure moments associated with holidays. If we can Clear the planet more quickly by exploiting events like these, so be it. I don't give a damn how we disseminate as long we drive the wild hoards of bodies in here. Christmas is another example. It is the day which celebrates the birth of your own bastard son, who in his very first lifetime created the original trap of body death, and then stuck everybody else in it. Even the English language gives it all away. Did you ever notice that the name "Christ" takes up exactly half the letters of the word "psychiatrist?" Just a coincidence, right? I don't think so. He was once known as "Jesus the Psychiatrist." Some wog who never knew about Method One Word Clearing took the fourth, fifth, ninth, tenth, eleventh and twelfth letters out of the word "psychiatrist" and invented a new name for the son of a bitch!"
"Holy shit! You are right!", I cognited.
"Sure, we always put up a big Christmas tree at Flag to get raw meat in", Ray continued. But if there is any group of thetans who can keep Christ out of Christmas permanently, it is the Sea Org. And now we have you, living proof that we can offer up to the world that Jesus was just a case of two thousand year-old artificial insemination!"
"I guess you haven't found the Virgin Mary yet", I assumed.
"Oh, she's probably out there somewhere", John sighed. "I'm sure that she'll turn up sooner or later. Maybe you can find her. Meanwhile, do you feel better?"
"A lot better", I grinned.
"Do you still have an ARC Break over the Saint Patrick's Day Event?", he asked.
"No, it's all gone!", I laughed with deep relief.
As expected, John Eastment's session with me confirmed all the previous results of the other auditors.
My fifth and last terminal was Hansueli Stahli, the Qualifications Secretary of the Religious Technology Center, who did a final Check on every former action done on the Malchoot data, including a review of my in-depth session with Ray Mithoff. I noticed that copies of my folder were being sent to David Miscavige, to Diana Hubbard, and of course to Source. There is nothing half-assed about Standard Tech! It is the most thorough action on the planet, I can assure you.
After the review, Hansueli Stahli routed me to the Director of Special Affairs for the Flag Service Organization. I had no idea that it would be my old friend Lyman Spurlock, who once tamed and subdued Lavenda's sister. It was so great to see him again! He sure had come up in the world since the good old squirrel-bashing days of the Guardian's Office. We gave each other a big fat hug.
In a brazen style that was so typically Lyman's, he warned me that the Malchoot data was so strictly confidential that if I communicated it or disseminated it to anybody, I would be expelled from Scientology forever. I signed a Security Pledge never to divulge my time track to any other preclears or staff members unless I was directly on their auditing lines. With that out of the way, Lyman wished me well and sent me back with a faceless Messenger to see Ray Mithoff again.
Ray offered me a glass of decaffeinated herbal tea in a mug from the Monkey Room of Old Saint Hill in East Grinstead, England.
"I can't stress how vital it is for you to get trained as soon as possible. I need you to get through Class Five by Book One Day, which you know is May the 9th. You may be asked to participate in one of the new pilot rundowns that Ron is developing right now. Participation is by invitation only, and there will be no cost at all to you."
"How can there be no cost to me?", I said in great surprise. "Where is the fair exchange then? If I am invited to do a special rundown, I want to pay for it. I've got to keep my ethics in. Who is the Registrar?"
"Ron", he whispered.
"You heard me, Steve."
"How do I get to do it?", I fluttered excitedly.
"I have no idea", he shrugged. "If Ron wants you to do a rundown, he'll simply let you know."
"But how? When?"
"What will be, will be", Ray cackled philosophically.
(Continued next section)
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