by Steven Fishman
17: Crusading For Source Perforce Of Course
In May of 1986 I just wasn't feeling very well. Having been betrayed by my psychologist in my last life, I had no one to talk to about sex anymore. Dusty Hipps would always listen, but that's what she was paid to do. What insight into life could I attain from a seventh-grade dropout anyway?
The last part of New Era Dianetics Grade Five shook me apart worse than a Tabasco sauce enema. I couldn't tell where my auditing started and my nightmares ended, yet I knew that somewhere underneath it all, I was having a great time because my Success Stories always said so.
Some of my Body Thetans were very suppressive. They caused my back to ache and my nose to snot without any warning whatsoever. I used to make deals with them when I wanted to go to sleep. Some of them enjoyed it when I told them a bedtime story. Others simply waited until I zonked out and railroaded me through hell and back. My dreams became impossible, and they even tried to stop me from masturbating before I went to bed.
A typical nightmare began with a loud snap and waves of light, followed by Jesus and Dr. Geertz riding naked on a zig-zagging chariot. A cherub came out and blew his horn at point-blank range in my right ear while he cracked his whip against my penis. After about five hours of that routine the cherub ran away, but Dr. Geertz came after me with a portable barbed-wire electrified fence, backing me into a corner until the Great God Throgmagog dumped blackness all over me. I was locked inside an inkwell with no way out, and I started coughing, choking and spinning around in the dark and was not permitted to stop Free Wheeling until I completely forgot who I was. It was only then that I was allowed to wake up after what seemed like years later.
Now you may ask who the hell the Great God Throgmagog is.
L. Ron Hubbard talked about him quite often.
"He doesn't exist in the physical universe because he's everywhere at once", Ron wrote profoundly. "He's in all the drinking water. If we say the Great God Throgmagog caused it, the condition can never be erased. People get very upset with him because they can never penetrate the causation. Never being able to penetrate the causation, they cannot eradicate the condition, so the condition goes on forever."84
No wonder my dreams got worse!
During the day I walked around with literally trillions of Body Thetans stuck to me like flypaper. Every time that I made love, I picked up more of those little devils, and even the ones which I succeeded in disentangling myself from were glued to the inside of my zipper, waiting for their next opportune moment to savagely attack me again.
Why the hell would Body Thetans want to watch me seduce a flat-chested fifteen year old? They couldn't have had the same peccadillos and perversions as I did, could they?
Nancy Witkowski had a cure for it all.
I mocked up two new valences who I sentimentally named Harry Sebakovitch and Mylo Canderian, Ph.D., after two of my first class action claimants.
"Isn't that sort of schizophrenic?", I asked.
"Now don't start using that filthy psych language around here!", she chastised.
Between you, I, Harry, Mylo and the lamp post, that made matters much worse. The two valences picked up entire clusters of Body Thetans, and since they were all inside of me battling it out for control of my unworthy body, I had to referee the bloodiest fights as trillions of degraded beings within me started ganging up on one another. When they began to interfere with my sex life, I knew that I was in real trouble. What the devil would you do if seven hundred and thirty-two billion Body Thetans told you that they had a headache when you were just beginning to get an erection?
To make matters worse, the International Justice Chief Paul Laquerre sent me a written order, demanding that I stop my promiscuity, and commanded Fred Hare to enforce it.
His right to interfere with my romantic flings was solemnly justified by one of Ron's Policy Letters entitled "Executive Misbehavior".
Ron wrote in Executive Misbehavior Policy # 1: "No Executive who begins or persists in a sexual relationship with a person hostile to or open-minded about Dianetics and Scientology may be retained on post or in the organization."85
So unless I was dating a committed Scientologist, and by that I do not mean the kind who is suppressed within the lethal environment of a rubber room, it appeared that Ron was not about to change his mind and give me his approval from his current position located either three feet in back of the Between Lives Area, from his favorite planet Arcturus, or inside the fetus of his next proud mommy.
In the same Policy Letter, Ron added, "In the past, executives in three instances have seen fit to associate themselves with persons of the opposite sex who were antipathetic to Scientology and have continued with them a 2D (sexual) relationship."86
Now I know why the Org had so many gay men. Ron specifically limited his policy to members of "the opposite sex." Obviously homosexuals did not apply to these rules, so this Policy Letter granted far more freedom and beingness to those thetans who were slightly queer.
Ah, but Ron talked about three instances, didn't he?
Well, Executive Misbehavior Policy # 2 stated that "Any Executive who engages in activities for which he could be blackmailed may not hold any Executive post."87
That didn't apply to me. What could I be blackmailed for, not wearing a condom?
Then, there was Executive Misbehavior Policy # 3.
"Any person who places personal interests and situations above the interests of the group may not hold an Executive post",87 Ron concluded jovially.
And he was damn right. Had I allowed my feelings for any woman to cloud my good judgment, I would have deserved to be thrown out of the Org on my libidinous ass. Never once did I ever allow females to influence my thinking. I knew that they were out there to serve mankind, and I had more sense than to get into compromising positions with any of them unless it felt good.
Nevertheless, I had fallen head over thetan in love with Dusty, and my apprehension that I was violating Ron's Policy made me very uptight indeed. I asked Nancy Witkowski for further guidance, and subsequently bought another full intensive of New Era Dianetics Life Repair auditing as insurance against my susceptibility toward human frailty.
In order to cool my passion whereby I could operate effectively on post, Nancy had me mock up a sea of vaginas, reeking with the decaying stench of bitter raw fish. She commanded me to brazenly rub my face into the pubic hair of these ominous Venus Flytraps, whereupon the sensation felt very much like steel wool and made my nose bleed. In compounding this wild imagery, Nancy ordered me to inhale a solution of Hydrogen Sulfide, which approximated the smell of rotten eggs. In my Success Story, I expressed my permanent revulsion for the female human body, and I declared how wonderful it was that I could now get on with my true purpose, which was flying quickly up to the top of the Bridge, untainted by the degradation of humiliating ladies.
I might have given up swooning over female corpses completely and forever, but above all I was profusely in love with Dusty as a sex object, and as a result, I still wanted to make love to her, although I rationally insisted that she shave all of her feminine hair off. Unfortunately, this did not help very much because I continued to smell a weird toxin emanating from her, and this impediment began to take its toll on my sexual prowess and ability. I don't know why women I loved had to sabotage my virility all the time. I suppose the psychs would call it a "castration conspiracy", but it was all their fault by limiting us to two sexes when they originally forced us inside our bodies some seventy-six trillion years ago. If there were about seven or eight sexual choices to select from, then perhaps we would not be so damn inhibited!
The only thing that seemed to help me cure my endless anxiety was an aphrodisiac. I went to a urologist named Dr. Ronald Cohen who put me on Yohambine, a medicinal herb that kept me hard as a rock all of the time. It might have been some kind of steroid, I don't know. I was as happy on that stuff as a pig in shit until Nancy found out about it in a Security Check and made me spill all 71 pink pills down the Mission's toilet. She threatened to make me do the Purification Rundown if I kept running to quack doctors for advice. And boy, was the Flag Medical Officer Andrew Bardy pissed off at me when he read Nancy's slightly biased Knowledge Report.
I had to take matters into my own hands.
For five dollars extra, Lisa Lawson agreed to help me by talking in a sexy voice to my Body Thetans in order to arouse them so that they would leave me alone and go to her instead. Lisa never had any auditing, so Body Thetans did not seem to bother her, which just goes to show you how low her perception of reality was. Dusty was even more of a failure, and too much of an imbecile to even get into communication with any of them. I was finally able to overcome the problem myself by using my one thousand watt vibrator during intercourse. The Body Thetans thought that they were being exposed to psychiatric electric shock therapy and ran away, which proves that when you know the Tech, you can handle anything, and you don't need mind-altering trash like drugs to make your love life wonderful. I think it's about time that we give Ron the credit he deserves for being the best sex therapist the world has ever known. Even women can learn something from him, despite their lack of sensitivity.
There is always a rat in every crowd. Dave Dewey, the Dissemination Secretary of Fort Lauderdale found out about my part in the financial investigation of Peter Letterese. This tall, emaciated dork without a chin wrote up a Knowledge Report on me and gave it to Peter, who promptly threw me into Treason and banished me from the Mission forever. He also called up Vicki Kirkland, who was the Certificates and Awards Officer of Miami, and demanded that my auditing certificates be yanked and confiscated from me. She countermanded his order because of my ever more tenuous status as a Kha-Khan, and added another notch against my permanent record.
Storming aghast in a torrent of ARC Breaks, I wrote a Situation Report to Frank Thompson, finally informing him that Peter had been starving Michael Hambrick and some of the other Mission staff members without a whimper of compassion for their basic human necessities.
Although Frank repealed my assignment of the Ethics Condition of Treason, he did not give two shakes of a thetan's tail about whether Michael had enough to eat or not.
"This is a hard universe which demonstrates the survival of the fittest", he admonished in typical Third Dynamic fascist style. "We cannot play nursemaid to an out-ethics wimp who does not have sufficient ability to confront the inhibition of his basic rights of survival."
In other words, if Michael could not stand up to Peter and demand to be fed, then he did not deserve to eat.
Okay, I'll buy that. It sounded very causative, but it did nothing to handle Peter Letterese's criminality.
My bright spot on the horizon was Ellie Bolger.
"I have had it with Peter's meddlesome attempts to interfere with your production!", she said.
Immediately, she phoned her friend Robyn Mathieson, the Scientology Missions International Justice Chief, who commanded Frank Thompson to issue a "Non-Enturbulation Order" on Peter Letterese which once and for all expelled him from the Mission and permanently barred him from ever returning.
The reasons for the Order were quite numerous, citing that Peter was under a Committee of Evidence Investigation by the Flag Banking Officer of Scientology Missions International for "theft of parish funds", for imposing off-Policy sanctions including deprivation of pay, food, and basic needs to staff members, as well as for crashing the Master Card and Visa franchises of the Mission. Both my Knowledge Reports and Situation Reports were attached to Frank's Order as evidence.
In a surprise raid in which I did not participate, Frank Thompson bodily threw Peter Letterese out of his office into the street on the 3rd of July, 1986. Peter was declared a Tiger, which in Scientology is very much a nasty thing. A Tiger, according to Modern Management Technology Defined, is "a staff member who has been repeatedly associated with goofed projects and operations and who actually has caused such to occur. He is a person who is a continued out-ethics individual who has failed to get Ethics in on himself. He is someone who is not about to let the Org or staff succeed."88
Additionally, Peter was threatened with prosecution in the criminal wog courts if he did not repay the one hundred and eighty-thousand dollars. Very little of the money was actually recoverable from Peter's slush fund known as the "Celebrity Center Account." Nevertheless, no criminal complaint was ever filed on Peter outside of Scientology.
Instead, the Scientology Missions International Justice Chief Robyn Mathieson sentenced him to the RPF's RPF at Flag, or the Rehabilitation Project Force's Rehabilitation Project Force, where Peter was segregated from everyone else without training, auditing or pay.
According to Ron, someone assigned to the RPF's RPF is only allowed to work on "mud boxes in the Engine Room."47 But since when did Flag have an Engine Room? It was a hotel, not a boat! I assumed that they would have to leave him there to rot until the Freewinds was ready to set sail. In the meantime, the rules of the RPF's RPF demanded that Peter only receive six hours sleep. Without the mud boxes to work on, perhaps he could catch a few more winks.
"Good riddance to bad rubbish!", I cheered to Michael Hambrick. In celebration of catching the Tiger by the tail, I offered to take Mike out to have anything he wanted for dinner. Modest as he was, all he asked for was a hot dog, since he didn't have time to leave the Mission unattended for too long.
Frank Thompson noticed Michael's dedication also, and appointed him the Acting Executive Director In Charge of the Mission until the investigation of Peter's corruption could be resolved, despite the fact that Michael Hambrick was also facing charges before a Committee of Evidence for failing to bypass Peter and handle his suppression according to the Danger Formula. In essence, Michael was facing expulsion from Scientology for not preventing Peter from starving him!
In the meantime, Nancy Witkowski was upset with me because I wasn't doing enough to stop Christ.
In the Hubbard Communications Office Bulletin of 5 May 1980, L. Ron Hubbard wrote: "For those of you whose Christian toes I may have stepped on, let me take the opportunity to disabuse you of some lovely myths. For instance, the historic Jesus was not nearly the sainted figure he has been made out to be. In addition to being a lover of young boys and men, he was given to uncontrollable bursts of temper and hatred that belied the general message of love, understanding and other typical Marcabian Public Relations. You have only to look at the history his teachings inspired to see where it all inevitably leads. It is historic fact and yet man still clings to the ideal, so deep and insidious is the biological implanting."89
As Larry Wollersheim, Jesus was resolute in his attempt to bring the Church of Scientology down to its knees by virtue of his forty million dollar lawsuit. With Nancy's encouragement, I signed up for the Religious Freedom Crusade known also as the Battle of Los Angeles. The purpose of it was to mount a strong legal defense for Scientology and prevent Wollersheim from prevailing in his most suppressive criminal act against us.
The Crusade could not have come at a better time for me, since I was scheduled to go out to the American Saint Hill Organization in Los Angeles to do my Saint Hill Special Briefing Course anyway.
While in California, I learned to confront what I never could face as a stock broker. I sat on the phone "cold-calling" Scientologists all over the country, and personally raised sixteen thousand eight hundred dollars in credit card pledges on behalf of the Office of Special Affairs for the Scientology Defense Fund.
My eyes flood with tears of sentiment when I reflect back on the 28th of August, which was the evening thousands of Scientologists stayed up until dawn during the All-Night Candlelight Vigil. The Commanding Officer of Legal International was a bulldog-faced attorney by the name of Earle Cooley, who appropriately declared Larry Wollersheim our "Public Enemy Number One." With our postulates aimed toward our enemy's jugular vein, there was no way he was going to vanquish us in our quest for justice. Edward Parkin, the Lieutenant Commander of the Office of Special Affairs International briefed the group on "Crusade C-Routing", which was the chain of command routes for the Crusade. My superior officer was Deborah Truax, a Letter Registrar from Golden Era Productions who had a nice smelling neck.
As Deborah was "C-Routed" or posted with me under Freddie Ulan, who was the Lieutenant Commander of the Citizen's Commission on Human Rights, she assigned me the hat of calling the home of a deadly psychiatrist named Jolly West between midnight and four in the morning, as he was one of the SPs whose "expert witness" testimony was being introduced as evidence against Scientology. We certainly did not want the bastard to get a good night's sleep before the day he had to testify for Jesus in court. It was so much fun harassing Dr. West, and I once again felt useful, the way I used to do in the good old days of the Guardian's Office when thetans were thetans!
Jolly West had his telephone number changed twice while I was out in Los Angeles, but fortunately, we had preclears employed by Pacific Bell who always had access to his new unlisted number.
Still, the high point of the Crusade for me was when I was given the opportunity to rummage through the garbage room in the office building of Wollersheim's squirrel attorney, the evil-purposed Charlie O'Brien. I found some handwritten notes including the names of some of Wollersheim's witnesses! Promptly, I turned that data over to Deborah Truax, and I was given an award of "Very Highly Commended" for my valor and bravery. I would have loved to intimidate the witnesses whose names I found in the trash, but that noble act was reserved for Sea Org members within the Office of Special Affairs who had proven themselves worthy of such an honored upstat.
Through it all, I was eager to do my share.
At the Los Angeles Court House, my job was to provide positive public relations data about Scientology to the wogs who were waiting to be called into the jury room. Having personally donated five hundred dollars to the Way To Happiness campaign, I was eligible for this "special duty." There were wog magazines in the jurors' waiting room such as People, Newsweek, U. S. News and World Report, and Time. I gathered them all up, and threw them in an unobtrusive waste basket in one of the clerk's offices. Then, I gallantly replaced the empty shelves with Source, the magazine of Flag; Advance, the journal of the Advanced Organization of Los Angeles; and Celebrity, the presentation of Celebrity Center International. I also left several hundred personality tests which were given to me by the Director of Public Contact of the Org of Orange County, California.
I must have done something terribly wrong, because we lost the legal case. Christ strung us up by the nuts again, and we were kicked in the ass with a forty million dollar judgment including punitive damages.
When Ron was planning his death in 1980, six years before he voluntarily dropped his body in January 1986, he wrote: "I will return not as a religious leader but a political one. That happens to be the requisite beingness for the task at hand. I will not be known to most of you, my activities misunderstood by many, yet along with your constant effort in the theta band, I will effectively postpone and then halt a series of events designed to make happy slaves of us all."90
Oh, how depressed I was. How could we have lost the Battle of Los Angeles? Why, dear Source, did we lose the Crusade?
The world was scheduled to come to an end on September 9, 1997 at 2:42 in the afternoon. Ron promised to return as a political leader, but due to the shocking data that I had found in the Time Pilot Rundown, I was unsure as to which century he would be joining us. Consequently, I knew that it was up to me to salvage the planet all by myself. I could just feel it in my bones. It was something that I alone had to do, pure and simple. The psychs would have called me a megalomaniac, but between you and me, I was only being realistic.
On the Saint Hill Special Briefing Course, I was trained as an auditor so flublessly that even my urine started to come out at perfect ninety degree angles to the commode.
I also did my Solo Auditing set-ups at Saint Hill in preparation for the OT Levels which I had planned to do after I attested to the State of Clear. Understandably, I spent a great deal of time auditing out my past life ARC Breaks that had plagued me when I was Mordecai Kusvitz.
Just to refresh your memory in case our time tracks did not overlap, after being the only survivor in my family to get through Auschwitz while still stuck in my body, I wanted a change of scenery and headed out to the south seas, where I decided at the relatively promising age of 50 to retire, courtesy of my war reparations pension check from the West German Government. Once in Tahiti, on the tropical island paradise of Moorea, I nursed myself back to health by marrying a Dutch girl who was seventeen years younger than me by the name of Gabrielle Von Mierers, who had just been dumped by an Italian gigolo sailor named Milazzo.
When the honeymoon was over three years later, Gabrielle fell in love with a Danish longshoreman with occupational muscles named Lars-Kristoff Johannes, who was five years her junior. When I learned the truth of their adulterous affair, I slapped Gabrielle in the face and forbid her to ever see him again. In a fit of frustration, she poisoned me with milk and married Lars-Kristoff after I died. I think she fell out of love with me because she did not like my thick Polish accent. I suppose it turned her off sexually, now that I think about it.
During the Saint Hill Special Briefing Course co-audit where preclears "twinned up" and audited each other while they were training on Class Six, I cognited that possibly Gabrielle Kusvitz Johannes might be still alive!
"Imagine how great it would be to have a reunion with my wife from a past life!", I told my Case Supervisor, Ken Shapiro. "After all, she was only thirty-three years old when I married her in 1945, so that would make her about seventy-four right now."
I explained to Ken that my interest in her was no longer of a sexual nature, so he didn't have to worry about me raping an old lady. It was very important that my auditor understood that I was pursuing this area to repair my past life overt acts, and that in my present lifetime I very rarely became interested in any women over the age of seventeen.
"When they reach that age, they are over the hill", I told him.
My obsession with why Gabrielle murdered me preyed on my mind twenty-four hours a day.
"Is it because I had a shorter penis during that lifetime?", I asked myself. I remember how much the Rabbi took off when I was circumcised.
I even went as far as to write a long letter to my estranged wife Gabrielle, telling her that I was a relative of her late husband Mordecai, and that I would be willing to come to Tahiti to visit with her if she would allow it. I kept my communication on a very low gradient, not overwhelming her with any data about past lives or the time track. I just wanted to get into good ARC with Gabrielle, not to exceed her level of reality.
My problem was that I had no idea where to find her, nor did I know if she still lived in Tahiti or for that matter whether she was alive at all.
Magnanimously, Ken Shapiro offered me his help. He revealed that he knew a Sea Org member who had come from the capital city of Papeete, and was now attached to Bridge Publications International, the Org where all of Ron's books, bulletins and policy letters were published. Consequently, Ken took the letter which I wrote and promised to enlist his friend's help in finding the last known address of Gabrielle. It wasn't anything I was able to do on my own, because Tahitian telephone books were French, and as far as I could tell, I never had spoken that language in any of my former lifetimes. In one particularly vivid dream, I had discovered that I was fully able to rattle off the Prayer for the Dead in Abyssinian, but that would do me no good in helping me locate my ex-body's ex-wife again.
"What have you got to lose?", Ken said poignantly. "If we find her, you certainly won't have to worry about paying her any alimony."
During my training I also rose to the stellar status of Briefing Course Officer, and for fifty-five dollars, I was given the honor of buying a beautiful white shirt with the initials "BCO" engraved on it in Sea Org Blue, as a testimonial to my achievement. Next to my Kha-Khan medal as well as everything written and spoken by Ron, my Briefing Course Officer shirt is my most treasured possession. I always have the dry cleaner preserve the Tech by using heavy starch. Please promise me that if you are in the neighborhood when I drop my body, you will wrap my shirt around me before throwing my corpse out to sea. I always dress for dinner, which was a habit I picked up on Ixolia.
On the Practical Section of the Briefing Course, I demonstrated my thesis both in clay and putty, which was admittedly quite remarkable, even for me. In Scientology we don't merely observe life, we handle it. I cognited that the laugh track on television sitcoms was nothing more than mass evaluation. We are told by psych media suppressives when to laugh at their jokes, which is a vicious means of enforcing reactive bank agreement with their degraded "wog-think." What right did they have to put a laugh track there for us? If something were truly funny, I would have laughed at it on my own. No one but Ron has any right to tell me what should make me hysterical.
Further on in my training, I traced this phenomenon back to its basic incident, which was mass hypnotic implanting by the Emperor Xenu. Xenu made a pretty rotten deposit in my reactive bank back then, and now I was going through some rather heavy withdrawal.
The sitcom laugh track turned out to be a psychotic dramatization of OT Section Three Incident Two, reinforced through automatic hypnotic suggestions during the Between Lives Area after the thetan drops his body. There was nothing funny at all about the jokes on television. I was so relieved to finally understand why anyone in the world would be stupid enough to laugh at Roseanne Barr for any other reason than her weight!
I was very proud of receiving my Hubbard Senior Scientologist Gold Seal. It was so cute! I was now a full- fledged Class Six Saint Hill Special Briefing Course Graduate Auditor! Since you weren't there to congratulate me, I kissed myself in the mirror for over an hour on behalf of both of us.
When I arrived back in Fort Lauderdale, was I happy to find that my old conquering hero Fred Hare returned to take over the crashed post of Peter Letterese! In fact, not only was Fred the new Executive Director, he also held the Heavy Hussars Hat of Mission Holder, which made him very, very important.
What's a Heavy Hussars Hat, you ask?
What did you think it is, head gear for Russian construction workers or something?
The function of the Heavy Hussars Hat "is to move in heavily where there is a threat of great importance to any Org or to Scientology, after the usual lines and posts have goofed. The term comes from the old cavalry purpose of Hussars who were held in reserve until a battle line was dangerously bowed, at which time they were sent in to straighten it out."91
Fred Hare was a Hatted Heavy Hussy of the '80s. He didn't need to ride in like a knight on a horse. On the contrary, all he had to do each night was to charge up his E-Meter and handle all of the horses' asses with Security Checks.
His very talented and capable crippled wife Dori was nepotistically assigned the position of Ethics Officer, whereas the former Ethics Officer Linda MacPhee went to the Miami Org to fill the position of Citizens Commission on Human Rights Officer In Charge of Miami. The South Florida area had its disproportionate share of psych vermin to confront, and I knew that any girl who had the courage to get me in trouble when I gave her that fruit punch while she was sweeping the sun off the sidewalk was brave and fierce enough to handle our deadly and formidable suppressive enemies.
I spent a lot of time with Linda putting order into the chaotic environment by anonymously calling the Southern Bell business office to disconnect the telephone numbers of quite a few prominent South Florida psychiatrists. Although only a temporary measure to justifiably harass them, it allowed us to express our outraged discontent and to protest their continued barbaric existence within mainstream thetan society. If anything, at least the initiative served to shut down their businesses for a few days and therefore may have forestalled some deadly electric shock therapy, more evil-purposed wholesale drugging, and an overwhelming preponderance of rampantly intentional slaughter of the insane.
Fred was his jovial old self, a team player to the very end. He eloquently ordered me to reinforce the cover-up of my joining Scientology on February the 8th of 1986 with additional surveys and Success Stories for the mini-courses and basic services that I had documented while Peter was still in power. Dori Hare was a wizard. She tore some of my Success Stories to shreds, stating that my language "was too well versed in Scientology terminology for a raw meat wog coming into the Mission for the first time." After several attempts, I had achieved a mixture of the correct "flavor" and "texture" which she needed to back up my Preclear Folder. Perhaps I did not realize how different I sounded after seven years, but a Saint Hill Briefing Course Graduate Auditor does write a lot more expertly than a fresh new "body in the shop." It was so odd to have to learn how to communicate like a slimy wog again, even if it was just for show!
Doing that exercise made me realize how superior we were as beings to the reactive mind dwellers "out there" in the decadent world of the psychiatric-controlled media. I never wanted to act like an idealistic zealot, but we were engaged in an immortal struggle for survival, utilizing the postulates and the causative will of the thetan over the pollution and suppression of the stinking reactive bank. There is a great purity of the spirit in that, don't you agree?
One only has to remember the words of L. Ron Hubbard that he wrote in advance of dropping his body.
"I will soon leave this world, only to return and complete my mission with another identity", he wrote in a fling of sweetness and light. "Although I long to stretch my arms back in repose on some distant star in some distant galaxy, it appears that this is one dream that will have to wait. But my return depends on people like you doing these materials (of the OT levels) thoroughly and completely so that there will be a genetically uncontaminated body for me to pick up and resume where I left off; a body free of religious mania, of right/wrong dichotomy and synthetic karma."92
With Ron on my side, I could survive anything, including one of Fred Hare's four hour Security Checks. He wanted to be certain that I was completely unblemished with the taint of Peter's criminality, since there was evidence which suggested that some of the money from my class action lawsuit production had been used to line Peter's own coffers.
Accordingly, I had to write up my hat as Fields Financial Planner once again, and issue a Knowledge Report on all unpaid claims that were outstanding, as well as the status of each wog who signed them. After five days of steady work, Fred Hare shook me vigorously with both hands, indicating that I was as clean as a polished brick on the Planet Arslycus.
The only news about Peter came from Ellie Bolger, who Peter tried to illegally contact while he was having his Ethics repaired in the RPF's RPF at Flag. Obviously that lazy bastard was still failing to confront his fall from grace. I wish I had been his Master At Arms. I would have buggy-whipped his bloody butt until the last layer of his wretched skin fell off.
Fred Hare was simply a dream come true. In no time flat he restored the Mission to its former eloquence and grandeur by hiring back Nancy Witkowski and Fran Hardy. Michael Hambrick was still under a Committee of Evidence, but we all knew that he would prevail, despite his prior reasonableness toward Peter's suppression of his appetite.
The day finally came that our floating vessel was unveiled before our sentimental eyes at the Flag Land Base. Not wanting to miss the gala celebration, I checked my ass into the Casa Suite on the ninth floor at Flag, which was newly decorated in a shade of purple so bold that it made the burial shrouds at a Catholic funeral service very pale by comparison. You don't know how careful I was so that I wouldn't stain the bedspread while I took the time out from all of the excitement to play with myself. At Flag, I always had the idea that thousands of thetans were looking at me all the time while I was alone in my room. OTs could easily penetrate the walls and therefore I felt slightly self-conscious. I would use the psych word "paranoid" to describe the feeling, but then I would be forced to wash my mouth out with soap.
I had no idea that the Freewinds was so beautiful. All I wanted to do was throw my body away and sail off into the sunset. What a wonderful goal that would have been for me!
"After I reach the top of the Bridge at New OT Eight, I would be able to drop dead and have my body thrown overboard from the poop deck of the Freewinds in a tear-jerking Scientology ceremony!", I told Barbara Koster, who went with me to the event.
"Don't be so overly dramatic", she warned. "Immortality does not warrant such a grandiose production."
"I just want to make a big splash in case I wind up next time as a Body Thetan stuck to a sea urchin's intestines", I assured her.
After the prolific speeches about the ship were sadly over, I stood on line in back of Flag's auditorium so that I could shake the hand of David Miscavige. I thought it was so fantastic how efficiently he got rid of Bud Fields and had him dumped in the bay of Longboat Key because Bud had stood in the way of Total Freedom.
David was in no mood to stop and chat with me, because when you are only five-foot-three, people are always literally breathing down your neck, no matter how insignificant you think you are. Nevertheless, he did remind me in passing that my Battle Plan called for me to own 1,000 of Ron's taped lectures by the year's end.
"Keep your stats up!", David threatened cheerfully as he pushed me away from him.
I wasn't offended. I only hated it when women found me repugnant. The last thing in the world that I was worried about was being rejected by a rude worm in a white suit with bad breath.
Later in the evening, Ellie Bolger gave me the honor of introducing me to Jan Logan, the Senior Sea Org Recruiter for the Flag Service Organization. What an experience that was!
Jan's hands felt like an infected white liver. Be that as it may, she had Command Intention exuding from her pores while her ability to confront life was frothing from the sides of her mouth like a mad dog in heat. With short dyed blonde hair protruding from a host of unsightly black roots, she resembled a feathered refugee from Miami's Parrot Jungle, all resplendent with mites and bedsores. Although quite skinny from nearly three unconscionable decades of the Sea Org's austerity diet of Chicken-in-the- Bedpan or whatever the hell they ate, the bags under her eyes looked like they weighed in at several pounds each. A chain smoker with the hacking cough of death warmed over, Jan seemed quite ready for a body bag as a dried up dreadnought dumpling of forty-five.
Ron had personally recruited her in Rhodesia during 1962 to help him Clear Earth without even giving her a shovel or a back-hoe to work with. The Admiral loved her country because besides being Buddha, he had also lived a lifetime as Cecil Rhodes, the homosexual founder of Rhodesia. Jan Logan enjoyed a full and active life in Scientology since then, and managed to get put into the Rehabilitation Project Force only once in twenty-four years, which was nothing short of a miracle.
"Why aren't you in the Sea Org yet?", she grunted. "With stats like yours, you have a responsibility to join us."
"Peter Letterese always gave me a runaround about the Sea Org. I've been ready to come aboard for several years now. Go get me a billion year contract and I'll sign it immediately!", I exclaimed.
Ellie Bolger seemed very disturbed at all this.
"He's not qualified for the Sea Org", she interrupted.
"Why not?", Jan and I both asked at the same time.
"I never took any LSD in my life, and I'm certainly don't have any kind of criminal record!", I pleaded. "I no longer have any unpaid debts, and I never broke a staff contract with any Scientology Org."
"That's funny, Steve; real funny", Ellie moaned, tapping her fingernails on the wall. "You conveniently overlooked the fact that you have been seeing a suppressive psychologist for the last eighteen years. What do you have to say about that?"
"That's a low blow, Ellie!", I argued.
"Is it true?", Jan asked.
"Well, I've never once been institutionalized, have I?", I mumbled in my own defense.
"And before that you went to a psychiatrist in New York!", Ellie added.
"I was only fourteen at the time!", I shrieked. "Do you know how much junk mail I sent that bastard?"
"Steve, you should never withhold data from a Sea Org Recruiter", Ellie chastised. "Jan could haul you into Ethics for that."
"If I can't join the Sea Org, why did you introduce me to her in the first place?", I hissed.
"So you could help bring other people in who are qualified", she explained.
"I'm not so sure if he is really exempt", Jan said to Ellie.
"Have you ever had electric shocks?", she asked me.
"Hell no!", I quivered.
"Psychotropic medication?", she continued.
"I'd rather be dead!", I stated honestly.
"Ellie, he might be eligible after all", Jan indicated.
"After eighteen years of hypnosis?", she laughed.
"Oh, listen to this! I was faking it!", I confessed. "You've got to believe me!"
Jan looked at me with great skepticism.
"I'll tell you what I'm going to do", she plotted. "I'll have a talk with the Senior Case Supervisor Folder Review In Charge for Flag, and together we'll decide whether you are qualified to join up or not."
That was the best I could hope for, although Ellie sure as hell put a big damper on me.
"Why did you mess things up that way?", I inquired of Ellie angrily after Jan walked away.
"You are some stupid ass!", she yelled. "If you go run off and join the Sea Org, who is going to handle all of your class action lawsuits?"
"I didn't think about that", I sighed.
"That has always been your trouble!", she growled. "I promise you that once your Battle Plan targets are fully met, I will personally guarantee that the Sea Org will welcome you with open arms, no matter how much damn psych hypnosis you have had in the past!"
"As long as you vouch for me, I'll accept that -- but I'm going to hold you to your word!", I warned as I started to cry. "Don't you know that all I ever wanted was a job in the Archives section of the Sea Org, putting Source Data in size place and chronological order?"
"You just be a good boy and keep your production up, and you can depend upon me to fulfill your every desire", she smiled with a wave of unparalleled insincerity.
When the Data Access Systems class action check arrived in September for thirty-six thousand two hundred twenty-four dollars and twenty-six cents, Fred Hare helped me obtain another hefty chunk of my L. Ron Hubbard Library, which was conveniently resting in an inconspicuous closet in Denmark. Ellie made arrangements for me to fly at once to Copenhagen, where the European inventory of Ron's tape recorded lectures were stashed at the New Era Publications Org.
"Don't you dare get distracted at the airport by all those well-dressed Danish hookers!", Ellie warned, watching out for me like a big sister. "You will be met by the Director of Income for New Era Publications, whose name is Thomas Bucher. He will have a limousine waiting to drive you to a nearby hotel."
"How will I recognize him?", I asked as if I were the protagonist in some cloak and dagger spy novel.
"That's a stupid question", she said honestly. "He'll have a Dianetics book in his hand, of course. I expect you to do the same."
Thomas' limousine turned out to be an old, beat up 1974 Volkswagen which could hardly accommodate my suitcase, let alone us. But despite my antagonism toward Nazi cars due to the ghost of Mordecai still rattling my chains, I rather liked the Director of Income. He was, after all, a close personal friend of Diana's, and he was very knowledgeable about the fabulous world of financial planning.
"Did you know that Americans cannot be extradited from Vaduz for any reason?", he began.
"What is Vaduz, a brand of vaginal cream for women?", I asked.
"No, my friend", he clarified. "It's the capital of Liechtenstein. That's the only place on the planet where money is really safe."
"Not true!", I argued. "The safest place for money is in the hands of the Flag Banking Officer!"
"Yes, you've got me there!", he laughed.
The D'Angleterre Hotel overlooking Kongens-Nytorv Park was only one block from the Org. After settling into Room 108, I called the Dansvenska Escort Service and ordered "any girl younger than nineteen who does not require the use of a rubber." Margot was every bit of twenty-two, but since women lie about everything else, I certainly could not expect her to be frank about her age. I had never paid one hundred and fifty dollars for sex before, but I didn't have any idea where the Puerto Rican section of Copenhagen was, where obviously sex would have been a lot cheaper.
Then an amazing thing happened. Margot, who was a typical Danish blonde who looked like a model in a hosiery commercial, didn't even bother to count my money. She put in in her purse and proceeded to undress us the way I wanted her to.
"Aren't you going to check to see if I gave you the right amount?", I asked.
"You would never cheat me", she said with an accent thick enough to slice pumpernickel with.
"But how do you know that?", I gasped. "Surely not all of your clients are honest."
Margot walked over to the desk and picked up my copy of Dianetics, which I had used to make myself known to Thomas at the Copenhagen Airport.
"Anyone who reads this book would never steal money from a fellow human being", she remarked.
"Are you a Scientologist?", I questioned excitedly.
"No, not me", she sighed. "I had a boyfriend once who read all of these books. And he was the most decent man I had ever met."
"What happened between you two then?", I wondered in curiosity.
"Like the rest of them, he turned gay", she cried regretfully.
"That hasn't happened to me yet", I assured her.
"Well, I won't be the cause of it, I assure you", she promised.
Even in prostitution, you get what you pay for. I can easily say that Margot's sexual performance was flubless, her TRs were in solid, and she conducted herself according to one hundred percent Standard Tech. The girl didn't even look like a hooker. The truth be told, she looked more like an auditor. Her loins smelled as good as Nancy's.
After buying every L. Ron Hubbard reel-to-reel tape that I didn't have already, I went to Thomas Bucher's office to discuss some other pressing business.
Ellie Bolger and I had talked about setting up remailing services in Europe, as well as training other upstat Scientologists to work as Field Financial Planners who could be hatted to send in class action lawsuits as I did.
It was therefore my idea that we establish a Fields Financial Planning Briefing Org Network, where I could prepare other carefully selected staff members to get jobs at stock brokerage offices in order to secure more blank confirmation slips from different companies throughout the world.
Thomas was fascinated with my ideas, and agreed that it was vital that I started expanding my field of operating terminals.
The only step in the way was to secure the approval of the Director of Special Affairs for the Advanced Organization of Saint Hill of Europe and Africa, who was a matronly but ever so repulsively masculine woman named Birthe Heldt.
Birthe would not commit herself to anything. She gave me good acknowledgements according to the Tech, but I didn't have the foggiest idea as to what she thought of my suggestions, or even of me for that matter.
"We will do an evaluation on it", she replied brusquely.
"Who is this "we" business?", I challenged. "There is only you and I here, and I have already given my approval on getting people hatted on doing acting classes. So what do you think?"
"We shall see about it, and that is final!", she repeated with the stubbornness of a crazy-glued nun.
"I guess it would be easier for me to ask a fierce mountain lion for sex than it would be to get you to sanction my plan, wouldn't it?", I joked.
"We will let you know in due course!", she maintained.
"About which part of my question?", I insisted, trying to be a good pain in the ass.
Predictably, Birthe sent a Knowledge Report through to the Director of Special Affairs of Miami about my sarcasm.
"Why did you ask Director Heldt about having sex with wild animals?", Bev Flahan asked reprimandingly when I returned from my trip.
"Well, all the cats and dogs were too busy", I explained.
"You're pushing your luck, Fishman", she warned.
"Damn you!", I yelled. "Even Ron had a sense of humor, or haven't you ever listened to any of his imitations of psychiatrists on tape?"
Bev Flahan took her paperweight and slammed me on the knuckles with it in an unexpected lunge.
"Read this Policy Letter!", she roared. "Let's just see what Ron really says about your idiocy!"
The Source reference was called "Jokers and Degraders." In it Ron wrote, "A recent investigation into the backgrounds and case condition of a small handful of people who were joking about their posts and those around them showed a somewhat sinister scene. In some cultural areas, wit and humor are looked upon as a healthy release. However, in the case of Orgs, this was not found to be the case. Intentional destruction of the Org or fellow staff members was the direct purpose."93
Ron was right. Clearing the planet was a vitally urgent and deadly serious activity. There was no time to enjoy what we were doing. With the psychs gnawing at our heels, only an insane person would dare laugh.
Conditions had changed.
Now that L. Ron Hubbard had dropped his body, he was no longer a stand-up comic. Furthermore, since the Admiral was cremated and the vast body of Source Data had been converted to ashes, Ron's legacy was nothing to sneeze at.
Nevertheless, life was only a game.
[Contents] [Next chapter]