Lonesome Squirrel

by Steven Fishman

14: For Less Than Two Million Dollars, You Could Set Half The World Free


(continued from previous section)

My final order from Ray Mithoff was to go to Israel at my own expense and get some subjective reality on my life as Malchoot. I made reservations with El Al Airlines for the following month.

When I returned to Fort Lauderdale, Peter Letterese had a big apology for me. The word had spread fast that the top Tech terminals at Flag had fully validated my numerous Security Checks. Although I forgave Peter quite easily, Nancy did not. She stayed on at Miami and refused to patch up her ARC Break with Peter. With Nancy gone, the Mission began to have financial difficulties. Even under normal conditions, Peter was forking over three times the rent that he used to pay when we were at the old location on Andrews Avenue. Nancy had been the main source of auditing revenue over the last four years, and she took the bulk of her preclears with her to the Org. In a highly frightening measure of austerity, Peter placed the Mission in a Condition of Emergency and cut all staff pay to nearly nothing. Fran Hardy and Reggie Monce both resigned from their posts, and Peter had to do most of the auditing himself. To make up for the lost auditing income, he focused his attention mainly on the courseroom, vigorously promoting basic courses and services to the rawest of raw meat wogs. Peter made Motorcycle Mike Hambrick the Director of Training, and hired a very sexy Courseroom Supervisor with long brown hair named Collette Atzel who I instantly wanted to take to bed. Unfortunately, she was married to Mark Atzel, a staff auditor from Miami, and like all the rest of the women in the world, she didn't even notice that I was alive. Peter instructed Collette to leave two buttons wide open on her blouse, and sent her to give out free personality tests at a blue collar bar named "Danny's" located a block away. Within three weeks, the courseroom was filled to capacity with construction workers and truck drivers, and once again the Mission was flourishing and prospering. There was no obstacle too great for Peter to handle.

In the meantime, Leah Abady and Nancy Witkowski took turns auditing me, since Nancy was running back and forth to Flag doing her False Purpose Rundown Auditor Training.

I spent a lot of time auditing out my overts and withholds when I lived four billion years ago in the Marcab Confederacy, which used to be the planet located between Mars and Jupiter until Christ blew it all up and it became known thereafter as the asteroid belt, containing fragments of dead rock. L. Ron Hubbard describes the Marcab Confederacy as a "sort of decadent, kicked-in-the-head civilization that contained automobiles, business suits, fedora hats, telephones, and space ships. It was a civilization which looked like almost the exact duplicate but was worse off than the current United States civilization."72

In the Marcab Confederacy, my name had been Insangoma, and I had worked in an evil post as a suppressive psychiatrist for Christ, who in that lifetime was known as Prelate Hecate Mogul Udex. The psychiatrists ran the planet with a clenched fist and an iron lung, and we were collectively known as the Marcabian Supremacy. My job was to program vicious, abhorrent, and hideous dream sequences into my victims, causing them to be slaves to their psychiatric masters. As the Dream Programmer for the Marcabian Supremacy, I lived a lifestyle that rivals any present day Sheik or Sultan. I forced women to love me by implanting them with fierce hypnotic suggestions, and then kept them locked up in electronic cages until I had the urge to rape them. God, I miss that place.

Hundreds of thousands of years later, Marcab declined decadently, going down the dwindling spiral from an extremely workable Confederacy to an autocratic, despotic Empire, and Christ resurfaced again as the merciless Emperor Xenu. He wanted to own and control all of the bodies on our planet. By that time I had joined Ron as one of his Loyal Officers. When Xenu caught us, we were among the first to be injected with a solution of alcohol-glycol and freeze dried in clusters with thousands of other forsaken thetans who Xenu considered to be either criminals or non-conformists. He then packaged us in boxes and shipped us off to Earth, where as you know we were forced to explode in volcanoes with hydrogen bombs and other nuclear material. When Xenu finally succeeded in owning and controlling all of the remaining bodies on Marcab, he had no more game or purpose. In a fit of psychotic rage and apathetic boredom, he blew up his own planet, and became the last living refugee of his burning Empire of ashes to arrive on Earth, bringing with him all of his lies, deceit, and treachery.

In my auditing, I discovered that I had worked for Christ in other planets during earlier lifetimes as well. On some of these posts, I had been the cruelest of villains.

For example, on Otai Keola as the Psychiatrist Voltimand, I addicted the entire population to drugs at Christ's request. Unlike the substances of Earth, the ones I used to inject into the bodies of the Otai Keolans actually increased their ability to work, while at the same time enforced both conformity and obedience. Those who had the rare side effects of dronishness or non-productivity were put to death for the benefit of society. It was another example where Christ gained power and made slaves out of everybody he came in contact with.

On the planet Ixolia, there were two categories of life forms. There were the higher intelligences with an I. Q. of over 150, and the lower intelligences who like myself, didn't quite make the grade. Inasmuch as Scientology has since proven wrong the century-old wives' tale of the psychologist which falsely states that intelligence can never be changed or altered, Ron somehow didn't tell us at the time, and we were tested only once. If only the Ixolian psychologist had given his victims a series of I. Q. tests before and after "treatment", he would have found, much to his dismay, that uniformly his brand of therapy made people far more stupid.

In any case, our proverbial genius the Christ set up a massive factory where he brutally suppressed the lower intelligences, breeding them all for food. Children were raised in incubators and force-fed through the stomach until they reached puberty, at which time they were slaughtered and served up as dinner for Jesus and his cohorts of higher intelligences to eat. As I indicated, I was on the receiving end of the punishment in Ixolia, turning out quite a few times as human pat' for Christ's prune-faced wife, since that was her favorite dish. She found something very appealing about ground up human intestines. As soon as the selected bodies were killed for the menu, the sprung thetans were shoved into the torsos of new babies so that they could be grown life after life for the same exact purpose. I spent over four million years being raised time after time as a sumptuous meal for the smart, the rich, and the famous. I predictably went into apathy over it after a while. Leah revealed that when Christians offer up wine and a wafer to represent the blood and the body of Christ, all they are doing is dramatizing their stuck pictures from Ixolia when Jesus actually ate their bodies and drank their blood during their last supper before their next lifetime. All satanic rituals originate from various occult prayers which the higher intelligences said before eating the lower intelligences for dinner. I realized that there is nothing new on Earth today that hasn't been done or tried before, with the exception of Scientology. This was the first time in seventy-six trillion years that anyone has mapped out a route to escape from the trap, instead of forcing us deeper down into it like the psychiatrists.

"Ron is the best friend that mankind ever had", I said.

"Yeah, and Christ is our worst enemy!", Leah added.

It seemed that every time I found a civilization where I had done some act of horrendous evil, Christ was right in there pitching as he pulled my strings. When I was a victim, it was Christ who was the cause of my pain and suffering.

On the planet Arslycus, Ron and I had been fighting underground, trying to set the thetans free. When Christ captured us in a gruesome battle, we were both sentenced to an eternity in prison, building roads in space. For the next ten thousand lifetimes, I was given the job of polishing the same brick, day after day. When the body I was operating became too old, weak, and feeble to work, I was forced to drop it so that it could be killed, and I was instantly shoved into a new body and made to continue waxing and shining that identical gold brick. The slang term of "goldbricking", which according to The American Heritage Dictionary means "shirking or avoiding assigned duties or work", has its origins on Arslycus. After ten thousand lifetimes of doing the same task, most of my enthusiasm had completely disappeared. In an act of not-so-quiet desperation, I eventually removed the air cover of Arslycus, killing Christ, the rest of the population, as well as myself. However in doing it, I was thereby able to set everybody free. It turned out to be an act of great courage and fortitude, and Ron was exceedingly proud of me for it.

Earlier on the time track, there had also been some very beautiful places that made me very happy. Demagorga was one such planet, where thetans could change the color of the oceans simply by making a postulate. The clouds had a beautiful flavor of cinnamon which I still remind myself of every day at breakfast.

I also enjoyed a wonderful life on Avodelegadra, where I had a two million year post as a Spatial Conceptualizer. I kept the entire planet in perfect order, and I even made love to my wives according to size place. The shortest one always came first. Leah disclosed that this was the reason I had married Jaime, who had only been five feet tall. When I met her, her height had unwittingly reminded me of my nostalgic lifetime on Avodelegadra, where everything was always so neat and clean. I was probably extra harsh with my ex-wife because she failed to live up to my preconceived Avodelegadran expectations.

My greatest accomplishment of doing the Whole Track Life Repair Rundown was when I discovered that I had been the Archivist of the Universe on the planet Montaluxa, maintaining the records in the Library of Truth and Knowingness. Montaluxa, which was loosely translated by Leah as the Mountain of Light, was where I first was appointed as Ron's Loyal Officer. It was a majestic place where Source data was truly loved and respected, and where psychiatrists paid heavily for their crimes against humanity. When Nancy Witkowski returned from Flag, she ran me on a recall process which examined the beauty of that planet, unviolated by Christ until he savagely invaded and destroyed the place. He ransacked the Library, casting it into infernal flames. There I sat, devastated and alone, abandoned amongst the wreckage and the cinders.

After the auditing was completed, I wrote a Success Story which had the happiest of endings. After sixty- one trillion years since the fall of Montaluxa, I finally found at long last that I could resume my post in life as an Archivist of Scientology Data. Hope and joy was once again possible, due to the truth and wisdom of Source!

Part of the grave and solemn responsibility of being Malchoot, the real father of Jesus Christ was in getting my ethics in. During a profound demonstration where I had to construct corrupt churches out of clay, I cognited that a great deal of evil and wickedness was still being perpetrated in Christ's name. The "animal house" or Christian Ministry Outreach where Mary and Mark slept each night was a prime example. Reverend Charlie Bledsoe was robbing the poor street people blindly, selling them grass and other psychiatric dope, and then getting a big fat tax write-off because he had established his den of iniquity as a Christian Church, following the footsteps of his mentor and proteg' Jesus.

When I wrote this all up as a Knowledge Report for Nancy Witkowski, we both knew that the only decent thing left to do was to burn the house down, as this was the greatest good for the greatest number of dynamics. I gave one hundred dollars to Mary and Mark in order to torch the place, telling them to make certain that no one was hurt. But as it turned out, they gave most of the money to a drifter named Gene Gates who used to sell newspapers on the very same corner where I bought my first Dianetics book in 1974. Gene had a personal grudge against Reverend Charlie because he once made him sleep outside in the rain after Gene had accused the slumlord of shortchanging him on a double nickel marijuana bag. Gene Gates was only too happy to take his revenge against the mercenary Minister.

On the 29th of March 1985, the Christian Ministry Outreach was burned beyond hope of recognition. Although Detective Tom Magnifesta of the Fort Lauderdale Police Department investigated Mark and Mary for the fire, it was Gene Gates who was eventually arrested for arson.

Nancy and Leah were both proud of me for my upstat in getting my ethics in by handling the ill-effects of Jesus within the stupefacient wog society. I was now ready for my trip to the Promised Land where I could swing into action, getting in touch with my former lifetime as Malchoot. After all, you don't get to be a good Antichrist by just sitting around the house being a lazy couch potato. You rise above the reactive bank and see the world, boldly taking the Cross by the horns.


It was so strange going to Israel as a Scientologist instead of as a Jew. Yet, there was a calmative sanctuary in the bowels of the Mideast madness, because there existed an Org in Tel-Aviv. I was pleasantly surprised and relieved to find out that it wasn't called a Church, but rather the "Scientology Shalom Center." Now here is where public relations truly made sense. What Jew would ever be caught dead in a Church? Shalom Center means "Center of Peace", and this didn't go against my grain in the same way that Churches were starting to do. Ever since I found out about my spermatozoidic connection with Jesus, I began to get psychotic over the word "Church" when it was used to describe an Org in Scientology. But just as John Eastment had revealed, we have to Clear the planet in the quickest way we possibly can, and in the United States, Christian people hypnotically flock to Churches. It was incomprehensible to me that half the wog world had been so pathetically brainwashed. That reality was something that I would just have to learn to live with until the data from my time track would change everything and set them free from Jesus permanently.

The Scientology Shalom Center at 158 Disengoff Street was so wonderful! Here was a whole team of dedicated Israeli Scientologists, with a fresh stack of Dianetics books printed in Hebrew! I felt like I really belonged there as I went to work organizing their bookstore in size place. I also became very friendly with Avram Yousilevsky, the Director of Special Affairs for Israel. I invited him out to lunch, and he took me to an obscure place where I ate a falafel and noodle pudding casserole that I savored with great glee.

On the following day, I drove to Jerusalem, and visited the spot where my estranged illegitimate son was Crucified. All of my mental image pictures from two thousand years ago came flooding back to me as if it had just happened yesterday.

When Jesus was a grown man, I confronted him and finally told him that I was his real father. He flew into a violent tantrum, condemning me to hell, and proceeded to beat the living shit out of me until I was nearly unconscious. Then, he savagely urinated in my face while I was laying on the ground, just like I had done in 1981 to the Mission Holder of Hawaii. I never knew until that moment where I had gotten that great idea from. I guess you could say that Jesus and I had a pretty intense ARC Break. I didn't know a bloody thing about the perils of psychiatry in that lifetime. I was a simple musician who had switched careers during a midlife crisis and opened up a chain of whore houses in Jerusalem. Still, I recognized that my son was a very evil man. I was not about to forgive him for attacking me.

When the Roman soldiers arrested him, I was the one who went along to identify him. After I fingered him to the Man, one of Christ's henchman who looked like Jaime's karate teacher cut my right ear off.

Quite coincidentally, a couple of years ago I had my hearing tested, and my ear doctor told me that I had a partial hearing loss on the right side. Now I knew why.

Anyway, to make the long story short, I knew it was foolish to get mad when it made more sense to get even. I paid a Roman Centurion two gold pieces so that I could hammer a rusty nail into Christ's left foot. When I recalled the incident as I stood alone in the hills of Golgotha amidst a bunch of Palestinian grandmothers doing their laundry, I remembered that I enjoyed nailing the bastard so much that I had a massive erection as my son's blood spurted all over my white robe. No matter how hard my housekeeper tried, she couldn't get the stain out. They didn't have Liquid Tide with Bleach back then. Anyhow, I wrote everything in my Knowledge Report for Ray Mithoff. It's all on file at Flag in case you want to see it sometime.

While in Israel, I went cruising for prostitutes with my friend Bobby Rosen from the brokerage house, who also went along with me on the trip in order to share expenses. We found an open outdoor flesh market on the outskirts of the town of Herzliya near a place which was oddly enough called the Mandarin Hotel. I picked up two Palestinian hookers and took them home for the night. It was not like I was taking sides in any political issue. This was simply a matter of economics. The Israeli whores charged too much. They asked seventy-five. I was able to Jew down the Arabs to thirty. The girls I rented were two cute fifteen year olds, but God, did their pussies stink! I don't think they had washed themselves in a whole month. I didn't know whether to ejaculate or to vomit. My friend Bobby didn't want either one of them. Then again, he didn't speak much Arabic.

On July 29, 1985, I finally completed all my New Era Dianetics auditing and my Expanded Grades. Nancy Witkowski dispatched me to Flag at the request of Ray Mithoff, who ran the final eligibility check so that I would be qualified to do one of the highly confidential L. Ron Hubbard Pilot Rundowns. Lieutenant Commander Ron Norton of the Flag Service Organization asked me to sign a pledge of confidentiality with a penalty of expulsion from the Church if I revealed the materials in the Pilot Rundown to anyone except my immediate Case Supervisor. I eagerly signed it, although I had no idea who my Case Supervisor was or how to reach him. After all the Security Checks were finished and the documents were signed, I expected to start the Pilot at once. However, Ray Mithoff told me that this was a level of Solo Auditing, where I was responsible for auditing myself.

There was only one problem. I had never learned how to do that! As soon as Ray realized that oversight, he sent me directly to the Flag Registrar, and I was signed up for the Solo Auditor's Course Part One, which was a non-confidential level with loads of drills on how to hold the two cans with your left hand, read the E-Meter with your eyes, and write the results down with your right hand, all at the same time. Well, it could have been worse. They could have always asked me to chew lead and spit bullets while doing pirouettes. After three twelve-hour days of grueling practice at the Hubbard Guidance Center, I think that I could have even trained my penis to hold the cans and piss on the worksheets. I was finally ready.

But after all that preparation, not a damn thing happened! Ray Mithoff just told me to go home and wait.

"What do you mean, "wait"?", I spewed.

"Like the old adage says, don't call us; we'll call you!", he mocked.

"Did I do something wrong?", I asked in outraged shock.

"No, you were too beautiful!", Ray replied.

"So then why can't I start right away?", I panicked.

"Just go home and don't ask so many inane and stupid questions!", he shouted.

Now this was far more shit than I could take! I felt like screaming my head off and reading everyone the riot act. I wrote up a twenty-eight page Situation Report, and I was about to hand-deliver it to Lisa Witt in Miami, when I cognited that I was probably being tested!

"They must be verifying my pledge not to disclose my eligibility!", I thought to myself. "It's some kind of Ethics deal! They want to see if they can trust me!"

And so I did nothing, unless you call sitting by the phone, biting the skin off my fingers a normal, healthy, thetan activity. Still, there was no news. I began to get more and more ARC Broken and upset, and I found myself doing obsessive things like masturbating eight times a day.

As you might have supposed, my love life crashed again too. Mary Agnes Holzbach left both Mark and I in the lurch, and she ran off to North Carolina with a Lumbee Indian who we used to call the "Trash Man", because he used to sew his own clothes together from things he found in garbage cans. Mary and Mark had been living on the edge again ever since the "animal house" burnt down, and that kind of anxiety had placed an awful strain on their relationship. Sadly, Mark left town too and went back to the Bronx, and once again, I was forgotten and alone.


However, on Monday, July 29, 1985, I received a manila envelope from a Jack Mitchell of Whispering Woods Ranch, 1871 O'Donovan Road, Creston, California 93432. At first I thought it was just some more junk mail from Father Flanagan's Boys' Town. But when I saw the thirteen handwritten auditing sheets of Solo set-ups and case supervision for the Time Pilot Rundown with the words "ML, Ron" scrawled at the end, I physically crapped in my pants. "ML" is a shortening for the words "Much Love" in Scientology, and there was no doubt that the long-awaited confidential level had finally arrived directly from the Commodore!

Neither David Miscavige or Diana Hubbard had believed in me enough to entrust me with Ron's address. Ron had actually sent it to me himself. He didn't arrange for me to pick up the data from Ray Mithoff at Flag, nor did he dispatch a closed-mouth, hush-hush, vaginally-crazy-glued Messenger to deliver the package to me personally. What we had here was the power of simplicity. Ron just went ahead and used the United States mail, and didn't even bother to send it registered or certified! There were three first class, twenty-two cent stamps on it, and it was stuffed in the mailbox of my condominium along with "Clothed With The Sun", a monthly nudist booklet from the Naturist Society, as well as my Girl Scout magazine and an advertisement for seedless grapes from Publix Supermarkets.

Perhaps Ron trusted me because he needed a friend and was as lonesome as I was. Maybe he was just thanking me for contributing the ideas of Bingoing our enemies or the psychiatric concentration camps. It could have been that he hated Jesus every bit as much as I did for having trapped us in our physical bodies. It was very plausible that he wanted to show me his gratitude for the time that I removed the air cover from Arslycus. To this day, I still do not have any idea why he honored me with the invitation to do a level which changed my life forever. If any of you understand the reason why, then please write to me. I really need to know, and of course I love to receive mail anyhow. In any event, I loved Ron from the bottom of my bosom, and both his intentions and his postulates were more important to me than my immediate life. Only a committed Scientologist can honestly conceive of the true meaning of Source.

The L. Ron Hubbard Time Pilot Rundown was simply called "Time" for short. Doing "Time" took more time to do than the time I had would allow. In his instruction sheet, Ron ordered me to send my auditing reports, worksheets, Dianetic Flow Tables and Folder Summary Reports directly back to "Jack Mitchell" at the Creston address. It was so peachy to have a communication line with the Commodore. I could think about very little else.

If the entire world would have just left me alone and gone away, I could have crawled into my private cocoon and would have done nothing else except my Solo auditing. However, my wedding business kept interfering with it, and if that were not enough, my father demanded that I spend more time helping him out in the shoe store now that I wasn't a stock broker anymore. On top of everything else, Barbara Letterese was always pestering me at odd hours of the night in order to notarize some vital document or to coach some new student on his TRs in the courseroom. Naturally, I always obliged and assisted my local Mission, as was my required duty as an unquestioningly Loyal Officer and a Kha-Khan of both mercy and virtue.

Despite the fact that I was vacillating on cloud nine twenty-four hours a day, I sensed that there was something horribly wrong at the Mission. The courseroom was always filled with students and the auditing appointments were forever booked up with new preclears, but yet the staff were underpaid and seemed to be suffering rather badly. Peter was endlessly and continuously complaining that the Mission was still broke and on the verge of bankruptcy. It just didn't add up.

The most evident example of this was Motorcycle Michael Hambrick, who had lost a great deal of weight and looked like a pale zombie most of the time. I had never been a thetan who could neglect my fellow man, and no one either in or out of their right mind could have ever accused me of that.

"What's wrong, Mike?", I asked. "You look terrible."

"No, I'm okay", he said proudly.

"That's not true", I argued. "It's Steve you're talking to now. Tell me why you seem so weak and sick."

Michael hesitated for twenty seconds.

"If you have to know", he began, "I haven't had anything to eat in two days."

"What the fuck is going on?", I screamed. "Don't you have any money for food?"

"No, not until the Mission takes in another seventeen hundred dollars", he said shamefully. "Our stats are down this week, and you know how Peter gets when that happens."

"That is a crock of bullshit!", I yelled. "Here is a five dollar bill. Now go over to Taco Viva and get a burrito and some enchiladas in your gullet!"

I could see the pain in Michael's eyes. He was far too hungry to refuse my money, despite the fact that he made a token attempt to put it back into my hand. I insisted that he take it however, and sent him expeditiously out to eat, covering for him in the courseroom until he got back. When Peter saw what I had done, he raised all kinds of calamity with me, accusing me of disrupting the morale of the staff.

"You can't run a Mission with dead bodies plastered all over the Org Board!", I shrieked in downright defiance.

"You had better stay the hell out of this affair, or I'll throw you into Non-existence!", he threatened. "After all I have done for you, how can you interfere with the way I am running this Mission?"

"Peter, you are starving your staff members!", I remarked. "Didn't you eat today?"

Peter turned his head away from me in shame.

"Yeah, you had a nice lunch. I can tell from your breath. Lasagna, wasn't it? Meanwhile, Michael, Denise, Cheryl, and Chuck are all going without anything in their stomachs!"

"Their stats are down!", he screamed. "Do you expect me to violate Ron's Policy and reward downstats?"

"Well, your stats are down too then!", I protested. "And I don't see you punishing yourself or your wife by starting some new fad diet! I think we have a little bit of a double standard here!"

"If you're so interested, why don't you donate thirty thousand dollars to the Mission from your next settlement check?", he grunted. "I don't see you sticking your hands in your pocket to help us."

"I just gave Mike five dollars for food!", I chirped.

"Just stay away from him and everybody else!", he warned. "I can't have my people running to you whenever they get hungry. What are you trying to do, create a welfare state here? This Mission has a big nut to crack every month. The rent is over three thousand dollars!"

"Well who the devil asked you to move us away from Andrews Avenue?", I continued. "We were doing just fine over there."

"We are going to make this place into a Celebrity Center, that's why! Look, I am not going to take orders from you, no matter how many friends you now have in high places!", he shrieked. "I don't care if you turned out to be God's father, his uncle, or even his twin brother! As far as I am concerned, you are a little pussy-whipped faggot who gave over a half million dollars of our money to your grubby Jew ex-wife! If you hadn't fucked us out of all the cash which I taught you how to make, we wouldn't be having this conversation now, would we? You had better leave this whole thing alone, before I have to do something drastic that we will both regret!"

Although Peter was right in saying what he said to me, I still couldn't ignore what was going on. My mistakes with Jaime had nothing to do with Michael's starvation. I felt compelled to investigate.

Chuck Weiss was the Treasury Secretary of the Mission of Fort Lauderdale. Formerly a Jewish mama's boy, we both had a lot in common. I laid all my cards on the table, and I asked Chuck if he would help me uncover the reason why the Mission was having such a serious financial problem that Peter had to deprive the staff members of food.

Fortunately, Chuck had plenty to eat. Unlike Michael, he still lived at home with his parents and had a separate source of income. Denise resided with her husband Reggie, who had found employment in a wog job after he and Peter had their falling out. But poor Michael slept on a cot in the warehouse in back of the Mission building, and had no one to depend upon but himself. With all of that, he was so enamored with the Tech and dedicated to Clearing the planet that he kept on going day after day as if he had just eaten a ten course lobster dinner. I vowed that I would get to the bottom of the mystery and help the poor guy out.

Lo and behold, Chuck began to find some very hard-to-ignore discrepancies in the books. For example, Peter had bought a four hundred dollar dress from the Mission's funds for Barbara to wear at the recent Book One Birthday Event in Miami. Now that truly was disgusting. How could he buy lavish gifts for his wife when Michael was suffering from malnutrition?

Chuck Weiss discovered where the money was going. Peter had set up a "Celebrity Center Reserve Account", and was regularly making cash deposits. Even though the purpose of the supplemental bank account was ostensibly to provide funds which was supposed to convert the Mission into a Celebrity Center, Chuck found out that Peter was paying a lot of personal expenses from this account, including his electric and telephone bills from the luxurious ranch in West Fort Lauderdale where he lived. Unfortunately, Chuck was only able to find two statements, since Peter had directed the bank to mail all of his correspondence to 5000 Southwest 148th Avenue, where he was Lord of the Manor in the opulent style of a country gentleman, which seemed far above the expectations of an impoverished Executive Director of the Fort Lauderdale Mission who couldn't even afford to even pay his hired help in stale sandwiches.

Chuck Weiss promised me that he would write up a Knowledge Report when his investigation was completed, and would thereafter send it to the Flag Banking Officer of Miami, whose name was Leona Littler.

In the meantime, I wrote a similar Knowledge Report on my own, and sent it to the Flag Banking Officer of Scientology Missions International in Los Angeles. I also sent a copy of it to Ron, but in care of the L. Ron Hubbard Communicator at Flag. I didn't want to use the Commodore's home address in Creston, California for anything except the confidential Time Pilot Rundown, which I had not completed yet because of all this annoying "DEV-T", or developing traffic that was preventing me from getting my vital Solo auditing done.

Predictably, Peter started ganging up on me when he sensed that I was the force behind the investigation. He wrote numerous Situation Reports, nattering that I was spending large sums of money on whores, and complained to Ellie that I was not paying enough attention to the class action notices in the newspaper. He even accused me of failing to order back copies of the Wall Street Journal for the week that I missed when I went to Israel, and for not keeping the Class Action Log Book up to date! Ellie told me to keep on producing and not to worry about Peter, and that she would straighten him out once and for all.

In the meantime, Michael still wasn't being fed properly, and I suggested to him that he apply for a staff position in the Sea Org.

"At Flag you'll probably get to eat caviar, Chateaubriand and pheasant-under-glass every night", I assured him. "You'll also be a lot closer to Source Data, and in no time you'll be much higher up on the Bridge than you possibly could be if you stay around here playing Peter's undernourished nursemaid to a bunch of entry-level wogs."

And so, Michael Hambrick took my advice and applied for membership in the Sea Org. However, the Sea Org Recruiter of Miami turned him down, disqualifying him because he once had been a habitual user of LSD, which can turn on pictures of the time track violently at any time and as a result, produces insanity. As I was training to be an auditor at the Miami Org, I volunteered to audit Michael Hambrick on the effects of LSD. When I ran a process on him called "Attitudes, Emotions, Sensations and Pain for Each Drug", I pulled one of Michael's "missed withholds", or "something which people nearly found out about."73

Apparently, Michael had been attracted to Scientology because he sought the same thrill he had attained on marijuana, LSD, and other hard core drugs. I then ran him through a powerful exteriorization process and got him torpedoed out of his body, at which time he cognited that being set free was a lot more euphoric than any "high" he had ever achieved on drugs. What I accomplished with Mike was getting him back on track without the false purpose of drug substitution getting in his road.

In his Success Story, Michael wrote that due to my help, his entire beingness as a thetan had been revitalized. I cognited that the greatest joy before me in Scientology was in helping others to become more able. I finally had reality on the fact that an auditor is truly senior to a Clear, because an auditor makes or produces Clears if he audits flublessly according to one hundred percent Standard Tech.

On the way home from the Miami Org after that marvelous session with Michael, I stopped to have dinner alone at one of my favorite restaurants in Fort Lauderdale, which was the Casa Vecchia on Birch Road. They only had valet parking there, and since I did not think it was appropriate or reasonable to give the uniformed attendant a dollar tip, I left my car in the municipal lot four blocks away near the Las Olas Bridge where I had once met Mary Agnes Holzbach.

While walking to my car after dinner, an odd man wearing nothing but a skin-tight bathing suit and a white handkerchief sticking out in the back of his shorts crossed the opposite side of the street in order to talk to me.

"Want to party?", he asked.

"I don't do drugs!", I snapped ferociously.

"No, I mean with me!", he clarified.

"You're not really some kind of homosexual, are you?", I questioned in shock.

"I can be anything you want me to be for twenty bucks!", he laughed.

"No, I like girls", I explained, busting his bubble. "Are you in Liability?"

"What's that?", he wondered.

"Well, you've got a rag hanging out of your back pocket", I continued. "Where I come from that means you're in a very low Ethics Condition, except the towel is supposed to be gray, not white."

"A very low what?", he chirped squinting. "Are you sure you're not on Angel Dust?"

"What the hell is Angel Dust, a furniture polish?"

"You are some kind of funny freak, man!", he giggled swishingly. "The dangling white rag is my high sign that I'm open for business, like the light on the top of a cab."

"Yeah, well I've got to go", I saluted, walking away from him.

"Wait! I've got a lady for you! Would you pay thirty bucks for a female?"

I turned around and looked at him suspiciously.

"You said it was twenty", I sneered.

"That was for me! I'm twenty. Twenty Dollar Jim they call me. But my sister is thirty."

"Your sister?", I scoffed.

"Well, she's my roomie", he nodded. "We sort of live together."

"Aha!", I exclaimed. "You're not really gay after all! You're just in some kind of a gay valence!"

"A gay what?", he chuckled.

"A synthetic personality; a mock-up", I added as I did some word clearing for him."

"A gay valence, huh?", he flitted. "You sure talk funny. Where are you from anyway?"

"From the Org", I replied.

"I should've known. From the Org! I'm from there too. So, do you want to meet a nice sweet lady or what?"

"Why should she charge thirty if you're only twenty?", I asked again resentfully. "Isn't that sex discrimination?"

"Do you want to file a complaint with Equal Opportunity or do you want to get laid?", he proposed.

"It's just so unfair that women think they can get away with charging more!", I sparred.

"You can have us both for forty-five", he compromised.

"I don't want you at all!", I screamed. "I don't even know what men do with each other!"

Twenty Dollar Jim's roommate was a succulent sex kitten named Lida Mayo. They both lived together in Room Six of the Seville Motel on Seville Street, one block from the beach. Jim worked as a salad preparer during the day at the Marlin Beach Hotel, which was predictably a hangout for other males with gay valence problems. Lida didn't work at all, and that is why Jim kept his night job.

But besides being a beautiful California-type blonde with a sultry voice who enjoyed wearing a straw hat in the shower, Lida was very intelligent. Much to my amazement, she even owned the book Dianetics! Was it possible that I finally found a girl that I could take to bed who also had some theta awareness? Regrettably not. She never read the book, having bought it from "some girl" who was selling them at the Greyhound Bus Terminal. It had probably been Barbara Koster, the new Bookstore Officer.

"She was high-pressuring me!", Lida complained. "After a half hour of sales-pitches, I just gave her the four bucks."

"You are a wise investor", I said. "It's up to five now."

I took Lida back to my apartment, because making love to her in front of her salad man was not my idea of a good time, even though he sort of liked the concept.

"How can you live with a homosexual?", I asked her.

"Oh, can't you tell he's bisexual?", she said tastefully.

"Still, aren't you afraid of getting AIDS?", I asked. "If he has one homosexual contact per night, he might be in a high risk group."

"If he only had one john per night I would dump him!", she responded as she licked some cigarette ashes off her fingernails. "He'd better do ten tricks a night if he expects me to stay with him! I like to buy sexy lingerie, and that costs a lot of money!" "Ten tricks a night?", I gasped. "You'd better take him to the Public Health Clinic and have him checked!"

"He always washes himself afterwards, you dummy!", she cooed. "The guy is real clean. After all, he handles food all day, right?"

Lida was quite a fantasy in bed. She knew exactly how to touch me. Do you have any idea how good it feels to have your balls squeezed while you go in and out?

"Don't push so hard!", she cautioned. "I have an infected Fallopian tube and it really hurts!"

"Are you sure that your gay boyfriend didn't give that to you?", I reprimanded, waving my index finger in her face.

"What are you, some kind of asshole? He's not the only man I sleep with! Stop worrying so much. Just keep humping and have yourself a good time. You can even watch me douche afterwards if you think I'm dirty or something.

So Lida became my next in-depth serious love. I vowed to accomplish two things with her. I needed to get her away from Twenty Dollar Jim, and to make her read Book One from cover to cover.

"Reading Dianetics is even more fun than this!", I urged as I was having an orgasm.

"Who's having fun?", she said honestly.


Eventually Lida Mayo did leave Jim after he ran off for a three day lost weekend with a seventy-year old retired Army General who had his own sailboat and lots of cocaine in the hull. Not willing to be humiliated any further, she accepted my invitation to move in with me. As a gesture of good faith after she unpacked, she lowered my price from thirty dollars to twenty-five, which was one of my greatest accomplishments of the summer. Although she refused to give up her absurd Christian faith, she went with me to many Scientology events, including an "OT cruise" to the Bahamas on the Sea Escape with a group of Commodore's Messenger Organization Scientologists among which was my ex-governess and upstat home wrecker Bonny Mott, who had flown in from Clearwater for the occasion. Lida stood by as we practiced our thetan abilities on the ship, causing strange phenomena to occur like the reappearance of the sun after it set in the West. Bonny told Lida and I that within a year, Scientology would have its own ship, and that top management was already involved in negotiations to purchase the cruise vessel "La Boheme."

Lida also enjoyed going with me on Sundays to visit my children, and became very friendly with Elysia Skye, my youngest. I often took my two daughters to the Mission of Fort Lauderdale in order to play with the clay whenever I had to update the Class Action Log Book on the status of the various outstanding claims. As always, Denise kept the Log Book in the Hubbard Communications Office and made it available to me whenever I needed to see it. My girls looked forward to the fun of making things out of the clay until my suppressive ex-wife found out and put a stop to it.

I eventually landed Lida a job as a nude dancer in a strip tease joint near my condo known as "Gum Wrappers", and there she did very well indeed. Sometimes in the evening I had to leave my apartment for an hour while Lida brought up her male clients from the club, but on those nights when she asked me to make that sacrifice for her, she never charged me a penny for "seconds." Therefore, I encouraged her to bring home as many dates as possible and as often as she could. This eventually turned out to be my own undoing, since she met some very handsome and wealthy debonair dude, and without even giving me two weeks' notice, she split with him to California.

Like a broken record, I was once again adrift in a sea of loneliness, still hoping to meet that one special mermaid who would help me weather out the storm.


On the 9th of November 1980, I was summoned to Flag in order to renew my five year contract of employment. I met Ellie Bolger at her tiny little room in the Sand Castle Motel, where she was blow- drying her toenails and chewing on some escarole and a radish.

"One day you will take over my post", she predicted as she tried to stab the roughage out of her teeth. "I am actually grooming you for it."

"What are you going to do at that point?", I asked.

"Kick the Rockerfeller family in the nuts and stop all of their psychs from interfering with our plans to Clear this planet!", she outlined in no uncertain terms. "I don't want to remain on finance lines forever, you know. An executive should be hatted in all phases of upper management."

Once her nails were dry and she finished picking her nose, Ellie walked me back to Flag where we went up to the Presidential Suite, which had just been completely renovated.

Gone were the drab navy blue and gray colors of before. The seven room apartment was done over in hues of coral and beige, with all new cherry wood furniture with hand cast decorative moldings and wall treatments to match. Flag Crew had installed a cedar-lined closet in the master bedroom, and there was now a stereo system, a VCR, and a portable computer in a separate wing called the "media room." They even included a russet-colored Mark Six E-Meter to match the dining room candles. I wept incessantly at the magnificence of it all.

"If only the kitchen had a microwave", I sobbed profusely. "Then it would be totally perfect."

"I'll see that it's done!", greeted Marc Yager, the Inspector General of Administration, who had been too preoccupied with a tennis match on television to properly acknowledge us when Ellie whisked me inside. "Yes, a microwave should do nicely in here."

Soon, Lieutenant Commander Holly Sheridan arrived, and introduced herself as Diana Hubbard's personal representative. She was followed by the L. Ron Hubbard Communicator International and the Fields Financial Planner for the Continental Liaison Office of the Eastern United States, who both stood frozenly at attention until the five-foot-three-inch Commanding Officer of the Religious Technology Center David Miscavige arrived. Mystifyingly, the grandfather clock chimed ten times as if it knew that David had just walked in. There was probably some Body Thetan stuck inside the timepiece who was doing whatever it took to make amends and get his Ethics in.

"Gee, I remember this place when Diana used to stay here", I remarked, trying to break the silence of the disconcerting dead air. "It sure looks a lot better now."

"I'll be certain to tell Diana you said that", Holly Sheridan quipped with an air of sarcasm that could slaughter a billy goat.

"I meant because of the new renovations, not --"

"We can't waste too much time with this crap", David interrupted. "I have to take my car in to be serviced. Marc, let's get started."

The Inspector General Marc Yager cleared his throat after a failed attempt at choking on his own saliva, as David briskly cut him off.

"As you all know, the Commodore has taken an interest in Steve Fishman's case. It appears as if Steve's auditing data will be directly instrumental in stripping away the entire myth of Christianity, and as a result, can provide the impetus for us to effectively Clear Earth."

Everyone applauded except David Miscavige and I. He was too busy looking at his wrist watch, and I did not think it was appropriate to clap for myself.

"So we are here today to renew the five year contract of Steve Fishman for his post of Fields Financial Planner of Fort Lauderdale", Marc continued. "Who has those income targets? Ellie, do you?"

David Miscavige placed his right hand out like he was running on battery acid, and a Messenger handed him a brown leatherette document case with two sea horses engraved on it, together with the words "Standard Tech." He opened the portfolio and took out a page of notes which were neatly typed on Religious Technology Center stationery.

"Why don't we all sit down", David insisted.

I took a chair in between Ellie and Holly. Somehow I always felt more comfortable around women.

"Bring everybody some pear nectar! There is some in the refrigerator", David ordered to his short-skirted Messenger, who looked either very Filipino or poorly Hawaiian. The servant returned within fifty seconds, with seven translucent copper stemware glasses on an eighteenth century sterling silver tray.

"Don't fill these up so high next time, Lucy", he criticized. "Can't you see that two drops spilled on the silver because of that?"

"My apologies, Sir", she bowed as the refreshments were served.

David seemed annoyed that Lucy gave the drinks to the two ladies before he received his, but he didn't say anything. Anyone could see that he was making a sincere effort to become a perfect gentleman.

We had to finish our nectar quickly and wait for all of the glasses to be taken away and the Messenger to be gone before David was willing to say another word.

"Your new contract expires on 9 November AD40", David finally began. "It calls for the production of one million, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, plus five hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars in pledges. What are these pledges for? Does anybody know?"

Ellie stood up reluctantly.

"Commander, that was money which was stolen from us by Steve's ex-wife in his divorce settlement", she explained.

"That doesn't make any sense!", he argued. "How could that have happened?"

"Well, Peter Letterese was supervising him at the time, and --"

"Who the hell is Peter Letterese?", he interrupted violently.

"The Executive Director of Fort Lauderdale, Commander Sir."

"Make sure I get a report on that incident, Ellie", he barked Napoleonically.

"Excuse me, Sir", Holly Sheridan interrupted as she raised her hand. "Diana sent you a copy of that report last February."

"I don't have time to worry about what Diana did or didn't do right now", David stormed. "But I want to see the Ethics Folder on this troublemaker Peter. He sounds very PTS."

"Of course, Sir", Holly and Ellie said in unison, which startled David slightly.

"So what's the total on this contract?", David demanded.

"Two million, two hundred and eighty-five thousand", Marc calculated in his head.

"So that is what you are going to produce, Steve", David postulated with the authority of Little Caesar himself. "Are we in good ARC over the final figure?"

"I have no problem with that amount, Sir", I said stoically.

"Good!", he wallowed. "Okay, so out of the one and three quarter million, we have three games going."

"Games?", I repeated, not sure that I had gotten the word right.

"That's right, games!", he reiterated. "First, you've got a game to have the most Source Data on the planet. That's called the "Library Project." That includes all your bookstore items, tapes, course packs, hat packs, insignias, E-Meters, auditing forms, etcetera. I also want you to buy a Scientology car badge. We've got a big push on those right now. They're only seven and a half bucks. So you know what to do about the Library, right? Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars will cover it completely. If it's more, it's more. Someone said that amount would be sufficient. Who was the one who said that?"

"Ken Delderfield", Marc Yager answered.

"That's right", he acknowledged. "Kenny knows how much everything costs. So lets set a target date for the Library at year's end 1986. How does that sound to you, Steve?"

"No problem!", I purported as if I were Alf.

"Okay, next we have a half a million bucks for auditing at Flag through OT Seven by top notch Class Twelve auditors", he ordered as if he were at a cattle auction. "Because of the Malchoot thing, I can't have you getting flubbed upon by some gung-ho clown that's going to overrun you with your rudiments out in some squirrel caged Class Four Org!", he warned. "I wonder who we're going to get to audit you. Oh, I suppose we'll figure all that out later. It's not important right now. John Eastment did a good job with you though. You can't get quality like that outside of Flag. Go through Ron's birthday of '88 on that target time-wise."

"That will be fine, Sir", I gazed, totally exterior from David's spellbinding oratory. "Five hundred thousand by March 13, 1988", I repeated. "That's easy."

"Then after that we'll need one million dollars for the War Chest to audit out the fourth dynamic engram!", he raved. "It's your responsibility to get every Christian in here, even the stubborn ones! You caused this whole mess, so let's see you Clear it up! How does that sound to you, boy?"

"Boy" he called me?

"I'm older than he is", I thought to myself.

"You've got yourself a deal, Commander Sir!", I shouted, offering David a handshake, which he ignored.

"That pledge has to be paid back too", he warned ominously.

"I'll have it all done way before the 9th of November, 1990", I promised. "It's a piece of cake!"

"Well, just don't choke on it then!", he scowled. "No, you're a good kid. You'll make it!"

"Yours is by far the biggest game that any thetan is playing on Planet Earth today", Marc Yager added.

David told the L. Ron Hubbard Communicator to be sure that the Commodore received a copy of my signed contract. The reminder seemed excessive, since that was the only reason why the Communicator was invited to be there.

"Make sure Fishman does it, Ellie!", David groaned sternly.

David patted me on the head like a puppy dog as he left the room.

"Always wear your hat as a thetan", he grimaced.


Flag was always such a colossal world of contrasts. In the evening, I liked hanging out in the lobby of the Fort Harrison Hotel and soaking up all of the theta energy. It was fun to just plop down into one of the many gold velour sofas and stare at the brown octagons in the carpeting until I went exterior. On quite a few nights I enjoyed being a shimmering reflection in the glass which adorned the numerous chandeliers of the main foyer, looking down at my vacant body as I sat there in hopeless anonymity. At Flag I could be anything I ever wanted to be, and as I intently admired the stately mustard and beige Corinthian pillars overlooking the sitting area, I often had the vision that I was the Ethics Officer of the Roman Coliseum, feeding the psychiatrists to the lions as a crowd of Operating Thetans roared in wild appreciation for me. The pleasure moment would not last too long, because there were always six or seven survey takers with their dinky little clipboards and weather-beaten pencils ready to tap me on the knee and take me over to the Elk's Building on Garden Avenue for a confidential briefing on such things as doing a five year Interneship in the Advanced New Zealand Organization or sponsoring the International Hubbard Ecclesiastic League of Pastors in Tanganyika. I found it impossible to say "no" to these adorable but wormy people! They had their stats to pull in, and I literally was besieged with guilt every time I had to turn them down. If I were a woman, I would probably be forever pregnant, since as a man I never believed in birth control. Well, how could I? My first sexual experience occurred when I was fourteen years old, when Cousin Richard paid ten bucks to get me laid by this Venezuelan prostitute named Patricia. It was a disaster. The condom got caught in her uterus and she had to be rushed to the hospital. I vowed never to wear a prophylactic again.

All I ever wanted out of life was a normal, healthy relationship with a girl who I could either force or pay to gently love me. Is that too much to ask for? And what really frosted my buns was that some of the cutest women in the world were at Flag! I wish I had an earth-shattering cognition for every time a female knockout in a Sea Org miniskirt came over and talked to me, and it turned out to be another four hour debriefing on some obscure project that cost fifty thousand dollars and would keep me busy for the next ten years of my life. Didn't they understand that all I wanted to do when I had some extra free time was to sit in the fucking lobby by myself and stare at the carpeting? If I were in a mental institution they wouldn't stop me from doing that, would they? Why couldn't the bloodhounds just leave me alone? It wasn't fair! I had to dodge survey takers at every turn in my own religious retreat. Don't you think I felt ashamed of myself, having to hide from thetans who I loved and respected for what they were doing? I couldn't help it if there simply wasn't enough time or money to support every single pet project in Scientology. What was such a big deal if I just wanted to crash out in the lobby on those soft gold couches and relax! But no! I had to be bombarded with well-intentioned leeches trying to find my correct "buttons." Instead of worrying about my buttons, perhaps if I opened up my fly and whipped out the little fireman they would have left me in peace by myself. But how could I do a thing like that in a public place under my present circumstances? Ordinarily I wouldn't have thought twice about it, but at the moment I had twenty to twenty-five little water blisters all over my phallus. I certainly couldn't trust a wog doctor to examine me. It would have set me back three years on the Drug Rundown if I took any suppressive medication. I was drug-free and damn proud of it. Still, there was no way I was going to permit my pecker to fall off because of whatever new plague I had. The proper thing to do was to make an appointment with Andrew Bardy, the Flag Purification Officer In Charge who was also the Assistant Medical Officer of the Flag Operations Liaison Office.

I don't have the foggiest idea whether Andy was a licensed physician or not. I just wanted him to prescribe an auditing process that would take the stupid water blisters away. I would be lying if I told you that I wasn't worried about getting AIDS, even though I knew that there was really nothing to fret about, because Scientology would always be able to cure it.

Andrew Bardy was a fellow with a square face who had the kind of unkempt hair on his head that most of us would be proud to have growing on our ass. Although Andy received his degree in medicine working as an orderly at a hazardous waste disposal site in the Dominican Republic, for the right price he was able to secure a valid diploma from a prestigious correspondence school in Santo Domingo specializing in irrigation therapy. He must have been very bright, because he had all of his credentials plastered on the wall without ever having to learn a word of Spanish. Nevertheless, I was very impressed with any guy who was able to do a full electrocardiogram with an E-Meter.

"So, Andy?", I wavered petulantly. "Do I have AIDS?"

"I don't know", he diagnosed. "When is the last time you had chocolate?"

"I can't eat that sticky stuff", I said instinctively. "Hershey Bars and Reese's Pieces both make my face break out in zits."

"Okay, no chocolate. Very good", he continued. "How long ago did you have your last soda?"

"About eleven years ago at my Cousin Bradley's Bar Mitzvah", I confessed. "Why do you ask?"

"Just answer my questions", Andy reproached. "What about coffee? How often do you have that?"

"I've never tasted coffee in my entire life!", I languished. "The smell of beans always bothered me, and I certainly wouldn't have put any milk in it, because that is how I was murdered in my last life."

"That is great news!", Andy cheered.

"What, that I was murdered?"

"No, that you never drank any coffee!", he boomed. "What about tea?"

"I had a cup about a year and a half ago", I said repentantly.

"Now that could be serious", he mulled glumly, jotting down notes on a worksheet about what I had just disclosed."

"But you're not a habitual tea drinker, are you?", he asked.

"God, no", I flinched. "I hate the taste of it unless its flushed with honey and lemon."

"What do you drink?", Andy wondered.

"Fresh squeezed orange juice, fresh squeezed pineapple juice, fresh squeezed pear nectar and Martinelli's apple juice", I revealed.

"Martinelli's is a very good brand", Andy agreed. "I know how hard it is to persuade wogs working at a fruit stand to squeeze apples for you and then extract all of the pulp without getting some typical reactive mind argument. Every time I walk beyond the boundaries of Flag I go into culture shock!"

"I envy you", I denoted sadly. "I have to live out there with all of that insanity."

"I can see why you are so anxious about diseases", he quivered.

"Oh, I know! Did you ever think about how many billions of Body Thetans hide between the sheets of toilet paper in public rest rooms, waiting for just the right opportunity to attach themselves to one of your hemorrhoids?", I quaked.

"I hate when that happens", Andy comforted. "I hardly ever go to the men's room anymore."

"Do you know what else I don't like about standing up to urinate?", I complained. "It always feels like the water from the bowl is defying the force of gravity and creeping upstream into my penis. Does that ever happen to you?"

"Sounds like a side effect of psychotherapy", he orchestrated.

"So what's the verdict, Doc?", I whistled. "How many years have I got left before I have to trash this mock-up?"

"You'll probably outlive the Gerber baby", he laughed.

"But what if I'm bitten by a gay mosquito?", I said trembling.

"You can't possibly ever come down with AIDS even if you have the virus!", he diagnosed perspicaciously.

"I don't know what you're talking about!", I replied.

"That's the story of my life", he conceded. "Misunderstood words kill more people than either coronaries or lumbosis. We'll just have to clear that all up!"

"What the devil is lumbosis?", I asked.

"It's a very famous Scientology disease",73 he revealed comprehensively, saying nothing more about it.

Andy then waltzed me to the Flag Registrar so that she could eagerly debit my account five hundred dollars for an Eligibility Prepcheck, which was a generic type of confessional giving me the right to hear a confidential briefing. Old Guardian's Office Agents always pass those things with flying colors. When I returned to the Flag Operations Medical Office, Andy sat me down on an old bamboo drum and put some spectacles on the rim of his nose in order to appear more authoritative.

For the next two hours, Dr. Bardy disclosed that caffeine was the catalyst for the AIDS virus. During the Second World War, a Nazi psychiatrist by the name of Dr. Josef Mengele created the virus while experimenting on Jewish prisoners at Auschwitz Concentration Camp.

The Nazis wanted Dr. Mengele to develop a virus which could be used as a biological weapon to wipe out races of bodies which they considered to be genetically "inferior." Had Scientology been in existence back then, they would have learned that the diverse structural features of bodies mean absolutely nothing, since an Operating Thetan can run any type of body he or she wants to, whether it is a plant, an animal or one of the human varieties. The theory of a "master race" is just another offshoot of the misconception known as the "cult of the body" rather than the causative awareness of the spiritual beingness known as the thetan. But since the Nazis were sources of trouble under the suppressive domination of German psychiatry, they had no access to any fundamental or basic truth about life.

Dr. Mengele did not have the chance to finish his experiments on the Jews because the war ended in 1945, so he retired to the jungles of Bolivia until he was contacted by several other high-ranking ex-Nazis who were employed by both Interpol and the Rockerfeller Foundation at the same time. All together, they established several gruesome slave camps in Brazil along the Amazon River, and it was there that Dr. Mengele finished conducting his inhuman experimentation on indigenous tribesmen of the area and their families.

According to the data which a brave Scientologist by the name of David Gaiman of the Guardian's Office successfully retrieved during the famous break-in at the Max Planck Institute of Psychiatry in Munich where the information was stored, five hundred Brazilian Indians were deliberately injected with the AIDS virus which is commonly known today as HIV-3. Half of that group, or two hundred and fifty people were given a steady liquid diet of coffee and Coca-Cola, but the other two hundred and fifty guinea pigs were restricted to natural juices, milk, and water. Within seven years, all but three of the two hundred and fifty people who had an intake of caffeine were dead. In the control group, there was not one person with symptoms of the disease.

As hideous and shocking as the study may sound to the faint at heart, the evidence was overwhelmingly conclusive that caffeine was the catalyst for the AIDS virus. A catalyst, of course, is that substance which triggers a chemical reaction without itself being the direct cause of the reaction. It is the straw that breaks the camel's back.

"It doesn't matter worth a hoot if you have the virus or not", Andy explained. "As long as you avoid all forms of caffeine, you will never come down with a full-blown case of the AIDS disease!"

Now this was great news! It meant I didn't have to stop seeing any of my whores, especially Lida, who I suspected had given me the water blisters. Furthermore, after the Psychiatric Rehabilitation Estates Project Force was established, we would be able to inject all of the psychs with the AIDS virus and give them nothing to drink but Expresso coffee with a chocolate bar for dipping as an aperitif.

Andy also wrote a prescription for a diet of no salt substitutes, margarine, or artificial sweeteners.

"Despite the campaign of misinformation on wog television, there is nothing healthier for the human body than real butter, real meat, real sugar, and real salt!", he said.

"I always went in for solid health food like that", I agreed.

"You don't think Ron is going to stop cooking his tenderloin Texas steaks smothered in salty butter just because he has a problem with high cholesterol, do you?", Andy asked.

"I wish I could be a real man, just like Source", I sighed.

"And don't forget that the honest taste of sugar is plenty good for you! Crap like Nutrasweet and Equal causes cancer!", he warned. "The psychiatrists will stop at nothing in their attempt to wipe out the entire population with their drugs-in-food campaign. They've already killed more rats in their laboratories than the number of mice and men living in the entire New York City Subway System."

"That is disgusting!", I shrieked.

"I know!", he agreed. "Rats are thetans too!"

"What about sex?", I asked inconspicuously.

"I would rather see you monogamous", he decried with an aura of paternalism, "but as long as you avoid caffeine in all of its forms, you have my blessing to make love as often as you want to, as long as it doesn't interfere with either your auditing or your training."

"I still have problems with these blisters on my penis", I begged. "That is why I came to see you in the first place."

"Oh, you silly fool", he chagrined. "You never should use the same razor blade to shave your testicles that you use for your face. Don't you see what you are doing? You're defeating your own purpose, removing Body Thetans from your cheeks and planting them on your privates. Use two different razor blades and the blisters will disappear in no time."

"Do you think it's a good idea to continue shaving down below at all?", I quizzed perplexedly.

"Absolutely!", Andy screamed. "Don't you know that cutting hair off any part of your body stimulates hormonal growth? Not even many Scientologists have seen Ron's in-depth studies on the aging process. Removing every bit of hair off your body stimulates the genetic entity to revitalize itself by replacing what was taken away. Now, I'll admit that the idea may not be very socially acceptable in the wog world, but it's quite a lot healthier actually."

"Just a minute, Andy!", I intervened. "I don't see Scientologists shaving their arms and heads like the Hari Krishnas. If it's such a worthwhile action, why is it so uncommon?"

Andy looked at me as if I truly went off the deep end.

"Since when did we Scientologists start worshipping the body? Our purpose is to raise the awareness of the thetan, making the able more able where it benefits the greatest good for the greatest number of dynamics. Okay, you asked me how to prolong the body's life and health, and as your Medical Officer it is my duty and responsibility to give you the hot dope on it, but it is really of no importance to either of us, if you only stop and think about it", he clarified. "I am obligated to provide you with Source Data when you request it, but if you fixate or dwell upon what I have said, you are no better off than an insane professor of forensic psychiatry who takes apart a brain in order to find the mind!"

If I were the President of the United States, I would give Surgeon General Everett Koop a good swift kick in the butt and set fire to his Quaker faker beard. Imagine disseminating all of that wicked false data about homosexuals being in a high risk group, and promoting "condom-phobia" as a panacea for AIDS? I would honorably appoint Andrew Bardy in his stead and tell the whole world that coffee and soda drinkers were the true group at risk. If Rock Hudson were not a compulsive coffee drinker he would still be alive today, and Dynasty would have never been taken off the air. By withholding the truth about AIDS, it is organized criminal psychiatry that must be held accountable for the death of that marvelous and talented actor.

Andy explained that the psychs have a vested interest in concealing the hidden secret about caffeine because the insurance companies are paying them so much money to console the AIDS victims with prefrontal lobotomies and electric shocks. The drug cartels do not want anyone to know the truth, due to the large sums of cash they extort in Government grants for research. If all of you started sending in claims for class action lawsuits when I did, we would have stopped the psychs and their corporate bloodsucking parasites from killing so many innocent people by now! I swear to you on a stack of Dianetics books that if I ever get those concentration camps built, I'll make every psychiatrist, psychologist, psychotherapist and hypnotist swallow a caffeine suppository every day until their urine turns into embalming fluid. I hate it when anyone gives death a bad name.

Andrew Bardy wished me well, and told me that he was making my briefing session a permanent part of my Preclear Folder. If you ever need a good doctor, go to Flag. Trust me on this one. You'll come out the other end feeling like a brand new thetan.


My next step was to meet the International Justice Chief, a hero of a man named Paul Laquerre. Andrew Bardy routed me up to him at his temporary quarters in a dank office behind the upper mezzanine of the Crystal Ballroom, which encompasses the entire span of the tenth and eleventh floors of the Fort Harrison with the exception of the Presidential Suite.

Paul Laquerre had the imposing look of an executioner from the Louisiana State Penitentiary. His heart of stone could slice through injustice like a Samurai warrior carves up butterfly shrimp. His eyes were reputed to make silly putty out of the most secure beingness. A stern look from the dark side of one of Paul's postulates and all nine United States Supreme Court Judges would melt just like the leftover soap scum in curdled cream of hummingbird soup. As the Highest Ethics Authority on the Planet, a discerning glance from the lint in his navel could cast more aspersions upon you than the collective legal opinion of the entire Harvard Law School.

Present at the inquisition was Ray Mithoff and also Ellie Bolger, who thrived on following me around wherever I went like a bad penny. In all fairness to her though, Ellie never did get to accompany me to the midnight showing of "Nuns and Nazis" at the Triple-X Pussycat Theatre on Columbus Drive in Tampa.

"Be thankful that you are a Kha-Khan", Paul Laquerre stuttered as he twisted his tongue in writhing venomous happenstance.

"I try never to rest on my laurels", I shivered as I felt a cumbersome disembowelment coming on.

"Do you know where you would be if you weren't?", he harassed with typical rhetorical hanky- panky.

"Well, I'd have some Ethics problems", I ventured to say.

"You'd be on the outside looking in with all the rest of the suppressives", he congenialized. "As it turns out, your status as a Kha-Khan is only recognized by the Third Dynamic. Our group may be temporarily able to forgive your atrocities tenfold, but what I would like to know is how you can live with yourself?"

"Nobody else wants to live with me!", I harangued, causing Ellie Bolger to lose her TR-Zero and blink incessantly at my insubordination.

"I'm not amused", Paul expounded. "In the last six years, you have somehow managed to accomplish the nearly impossible feat of allowing over five hundred thousand dollars to slip through your fingers that not only would have gotten you all the way up the Bridge at the old donation rates, but would have tremendously benefitted your Mission, your Org, and many International expansion projects. Instead, where did the money go? To a wog witch who no doubt would qualify for the all-time downstat of Highest Paid Prostitute Ever in the Guinness Book of World Records."

"You're talking about my ex-wife, right?", I stated with an air of uncertain validity.

"Oh, are there others we don't know about?", he guffawed with the snideness of a farting hippopotamus.

"God, I hope not!", I spurted out in the hope of adding a little comic relief to the tense environment.

"The next five years during your renewal period had better be a lot more ethical than your first six", he sneered. "Although ludicrous enough, you are not entirely to blame. Your supervisor, Peter Letterese is quite a swashbuckling highway robber in his own right, isn't he? I have seen copies of your Knowledge Report over his wife's four hundred dollar dress, and for that I thank you. I'm afraid that is just the tip of the iceberg as far as his criminality is concerned."

"Then you're investigating him?", I asked.

"That's not your hat!", Ellie interrupted. "Mind your business!"

"Officially, no Orders have been issued yet on Peter", said Paul. "Clearing Earth is a deadly serious activity. You happen to be one of the most important pieces still left on the chessboard."

"That's a relief!", I heaved. "At least I'm not just a pawn."

"Everything you do from here on out is critical!", he adjudicated. "You are a representative of Scientology to the outside world of muck and mire. I want every step you tread to be as if you were more careful than a blind elephant walking on a tightrope of thin ice! If you are holding out any hope of being the spokesman who can strip away the misapprehensions of fixed Christian ideas to half of this global community of thetans, then you'd better start acting like one of us instead of some sewer rat with an enflamed libido. Gain some respectability for yourself, damn you! Stop cavorting with sluts and philanderers! There must be some way you could become better adept at having a healthy, ethical relationship with an on-purpose lady Scientologist instead of that cesspool of corruption within which you embellish yourself continuously! The world will be watching you from now on. Can't you understand that?"

"I'll give it my best shot, Chief!", I winked.

"What an uptight pompous ass!", I thought to myself as I left the salon. "He's nuts if he thinks I am going to become a monk because he's walking around with a jealous hard-on."

"He's very dangerous -- watch him!", Paul whispered to Ellie in a voice tone just a hairline too loud for me to ignore.

"Yeah, and you can go fuck a vacuum cleaner!", I screamed silently so I could have the last word. I may have respected him, but I damn sure didn't like him.


When I returned to Fort Lauderdale, I got some very grim news. My old alcoholic housekeeper Freddie Hinrichs was dying. I was very nostalgic for the days of yore when she used to switch my Chivas Regal bottles for Seneca Apple Juice and then wet the bed in a drunken stupor of delirium tremens. I blamed myself when I allowed her to drive home while she was intoxicated back in September of 1980. Not only did she smash up Jaime's car, but she wound up in the hospital where she had to have a blood transfusion. As it turned out, the plasma was tainted and she developed all of the symptoms of AIDS.

Predictably, Freddie had always been a coffee and soda addict. I took her to the Miami Org, but there was nothing that they could do for her at that late stage. Bonny Mott drove in from Longboat Key where she had been working on an undercover mission for David Miscavige. For the minuscule fee of five hundred dollars, Bonny offered to run a touch assist on the sick woman. Freddie was reluctant to part with her life's savings that she was keeping for her granddaughter, but Bonny warned her that if she were dead the money wouldn't do anyone any good anyhow, and so Freddie allowed Bonny to audit her. A day later, Freddie was rushed to the hospital, from where she never came out alive.

"You'd better get Freddie to sign the Magnuson Computer Class Action Lawsuit right now!", Bonny said. "Once she goes into a coma you'll have to forget about it!" Freddie had signed the original request for the Proof of Claim Form. It was too important a settlement to ignore, since the check was supposed to be one hundred and twenty five thousand dollars when it was scheduled to be paid.

The head nurse at Imperial Point Hospital did not want to let us in at all.

"Only immediate family members can visit with AIDS patients", she said regimentally.

Bonny Mott pushed me out of the way.

"We are ministers from the Church of Scientology", she explained. "Freddie Hinrichs is one of our parishioners and we simply have to go in and pray for her!"

So, with oxygen tubes up Freddie's nose, and with Bonny and I wearing sanitary face masks, Freddie signed the claim form, pathetically weak and nearly too exhausted to press down heavily enough with Bonny's Hubbard Guidance Center pen which contained the motto that read "Scientology Works."

In a fit of exertion that was a testimonial to Freddie's will to survive, she signed the mocked up name of "Pearl Blashinsky" on the document and smiled with a tender look of heartfelt sadness which told me how proud she was to muster up enough courage and strength to help me in her final hour of life. I put a ten dollar bill into her purse as a "fair exchange fee" for her signature, and with tears flooding my eyes, I blew her a kiss of love and bid her a fond farewell.

"How could we be so pitiless, getting her to do this on her deathbed?", I asked Bonny as I sobbed a sea of ammonia.

"Oh, cheer up, you nut!", Bonny giggled as she gave me a big hug. "She's about to be set free. Her next lifetime will be a lot better for having helped us, you'll see. Besides, stats are stats."

Bonny was such a darling, always knowing how to make me feel better with her own special recipe for compassion.


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