Lonesome Squirrel

by Steven Fishman

20: Charity Doesn't Begin At Home


The road up from Enemy was the road through.

Frank Thompson ordered me to demonstrate and prove that I was less of an Enemy than our other Enemies. Was I?

So off I went to the Broward County Public Library, armed to the teeth with single-edged razor blades, with the heroic assignment of slashing out every derogatory reference which was negative to either Dianetics, Scientology, or L. Ron Hubbard.

"Hitler had the right idea when he burned the books written by Sigmund Freud and the Jewish psychoanalysts", Frank Thompson said informatively. "However, he never completed the cycle of action by destroying the rest of the psych trash scribbled by the Christians. Unfortunately, we are not the Government yet, so we are relegated to using razors instead of blowtorches."

Frank was a complete genius.

You have no idea how many lies were circulated about us in the house of smut we nonchalantly call a "library." Of all things, we were ridiculed as a "cult", and we were accused of "behavior modification", "thought reform" and "brainwashing!" Reading that slander in a public place -- one in which wogs supposedly revere as a sacred institution, made me want to crack open the skull of every psychiatrist on the planet and splatter their brains all over the Dewey Decimal System card catalogue boxes.

Even dictionaries and encyclopedias were polluted with suppressive psych filth, accusing us of "worshipping a race of thetans" and calling us "science fiction amateur psychologists!" Just because L. Ron Hubbard was the greatest science fiction writer that the world has ever known did not give these prevaricators the right to imply that Scientology Tech was nothing more than one giant science fiction story! Ron's breathtaking science fiction writings are taken from his own personal memories of the history of the thetan along the time track. Consequently, Ron's Science fiction is historical fact, not fantasy.

And how dare they have the colossal gall to compare us to the insane psychologist who would like nothing better than to put us all to sleep? Furthermore, the insidious comments that I had seen referring to our alleged practice of "worshipping a race of thetans" showed how very little they understood about the basic nature of life and livingness. There can only be races of bodies, never of thetans. A thetan is exterior to the physical universe and all of the meat bodies within it by definition unless he postulates otherwise.

Seeing the cruelty of all of these squirrels as they impugned and profaned us in their illiterate scandal sheets gave me a shock which reached right to the heart. With a prodigious frenzy I slashed, ripped, cut, tore, and knifed those barbarous, vicious lies out of every suppressive book that I could lay my hands on. I found negative references against Scientology in sections of the library under the deceptive titles of philosophy, psychology, theology, sociology, and even the occult! There were literally reams and stacks of false data about Ron in the indexes and biographical references as well. All in all, the wog world and its madness made me sick to my stomach.

At least I was finally taking responsibility for expunging the Fort Lauderdale area from a shitload of disgusting vermin, written by crazed psychotics who were trying to stop us from setting man free. What hurt me most of all was the fact that society had been so caved in by psych suppression that they very well might have believed all of those lies written about the Third Dynamic, had I not performed my brave and valiant deed of carving out the psychiatric malignancy of the evil printed word.

With my single-edged scalpel, I felt like the Surgeon of Truth, slicing through the very core of confusion. I was finally learning how to behave like a decent and worthwhile Antichrist. I didn't stop with one branch of the library. No, I had always been a real sucker for completeness. I went to every tumorous outgrowth of the Fort Lauderdale Public Library system, bar none. Some had little or no references against us of any consequence. But then again, what surgeon in good conscience would ever permit a single cancer cell to spread when he had the power of permanently cutting it out?

It was no easy job, let me tell you. On several occasions I was caught slashing the books; once by a little kid who ran and told the librarian, and then another time by a volunteer worker who noticed me while she was sneaking around the shelves. On both those occasions, I had to make a hasty retreat, and it took a lot of courage to return to the same library several days later in order to finish the job. I quickly learned the art of sitting in the remotest section of the building, preferably at a desk that was closed in on three sides, such as where audio-visual equipment was commonly located. By the time I had purged every last falsehood about the beautiful and precious Scientology religion, I was quite a pro at it.

I took breaks from the tension too. I mean, after all, how much deception can one person take? Whenever I was too stressed out, I relieved my hostilities by defacing pictures of Jesus with a thick black magic marker. That sort of took the pressure off, if you know what I mean. I also wanted to score some extra brownie points with my auditors so they wouldn't think that I was just sitting on my ass while I was still stuck in my lower Ethics Conditions. It was important to me that Nancy Witkowski and Leah Abady both knew that I wasn't allowing Christ to slide by me without a fight. Scrawling black graffiti on his pig face didn't admittedly amount to very much, but it was certainly a hell of a lot more than most other people were doing about him.

My mission was a howling success.

Frank Thompson was so impressed with my cache of three hundred pages of Enemy propaganda against the Church that he upgraded me from Enemy into Doubt.

To go from Doubt to Liability, I was posted under my favorite hero Humberto, who was working with the Office of Special Affairs trying to stamp out a squirrel attorney in Los Angeles named Barry Van Sickle of the law firm of Cummins and White, who our intelligence sources discovered was representing a very notorious suppressive who had betrayed the Church from one of the highest positions of authority within the Scientology organizations. Although Humberto never trusted me enough to tell me what the traitor's name was, I didn't care, because sending the vicious lawyer junk mail and harassing his secretaries on the phone made me feel alive again, just like in the good old days. I never found out who Van Sickle represented or why we hated him so much, but I am certain that if our upper International Management wanted the attack done as part of our Battle Plan, it was certainly justified. Anyway, I gave old Barry a good run for his money, no matter which SP bastard he was intimately connected to.

"When the Third Dynamic runs the planet, attorneys will no longer be necessary, since only honest men have rights", Humberto profoundly stated with a prophetic glint in his eye.


Liability was only a stone's throw from being eligible for auditing again. All I had to do was work my way up through Non-Existence, then Danger, and finally Emergency, and then I would be home free, ready to do my long-awaited Clear Certainty Rundown. In the meantime, I kept accumulating the money from the class action lawsuit settlements in the bank, and in spite of the fifty thousand dollars that I squandered on the Allante, I had three hundred and thirty-thousand dollars again by the middle of June 1988.

My relationship with Michael Hambrick steadily improved, as he saw how helpful my Knowledge Reports had been in his effort to clear his name. At long last, Michael compiled enough evidence to completely vindicate himself, and Peter Letterese was finally declared a Suppressive Person. He had committed other crimes while working for the Way to Happiness Foundation, which was a Public Relations Org designed to make a positive impression about L. Ron Hubbard in the wog community. The Way to Happiness Campaign promoted a common sense code of conduct which frowned upon unethical practices and harmful behavior, making people aware of the decline of the moral fabric in our civilization due to crime, dishonesty and drug abuse, which of course were all a direct result of psychiatry.

"A study of 867 psychiatric patients discharged from Bellevue Hospital in New York found that they had a higher arrest rate and a higher felony rate than the general population",114 was an excerpt from the Way to Happiness Sales Kit, in an article entitled "Psychiatry's Failure."

Silver-tongued Peter Letterese had convinced several Scientologists to donate large sums of money to the Way to Happiness Campaign at the expense of going up the Bridge. This was a Suppressive Act, since he actually persuaded people to re-credit money which they had on account toward their Grades and OT levels and use these funds to distribute Way to Happiness booklets, guaranteeing him some very fat sales commissions.

"How could anyone be so gullible and brainless as to believe someone like Peter?", I asked Michael.

"Somebody ought to shoot that son of a bitch once and for all!", he replied as he gave me a copy of Peter Letterese's Suppressive Declare, permanently expelling him forever as a Scientologist.

"And to think that I was about to be taken in by him again!", I said in utter amazement. "What a fucking jackass I must be!"

"You won't be seeing Peter at any more of Ron's parties!", Michael added, laughing in his syrupy Southern drawl.

And speaking of parties, I decided to bring Steve Goldberg to the Freewinds Relay Office Event on June the 25th at the Radisson Mart Plaza in Miami. Somehow, I hoped that Goldberg could be salvaged as a thetan, since he had really been going downhill as of late.

His statistics in life were pretty horrible. He made a living selling bootlegged copies of X-rated videotapes. Imagine duplicating the films on his own VCR equipment and selling them to the underground market in direct violation of our copyright laws! He had literally thousands of these illegal tapes piled up in his apartment. I'm telling you, the man was an absolute criminal! It's a good thing that we had safeguards against that kind of piracy in Scientology. Ron laid the law on the line when he said, "No Org, franchise, group or individual except the Scientology Publications Organization may copy any Dianetics or Scientology tape."115 It was for that reason that I refused to allow Goldberg to borrow any of my L. Ron Hubbard lectures, despite the fact that he often wanted to listen to them. The sick bastard had absolutely no respect for anything or anybody, and he would have not hesitated for a moment to violate our Policy prohibiting the duplication of Ron's tapes.

Besides being a total slob, he was a sex pervert! Goldberg used to enjoy it when women walked all over his body with spiked heels. He had an ongoing fantasy about being suffocated with a plastic bag over his head while a nude girl melted a hot wax candle over his penis. He actually got his fat, zits-infested girlfriend, Elaine Rodriguez, to defecate all over him. From various indications, the man was not entirely normal in my estimation. Dusty and Lisa never wanted anything to do with him once they realized what kind of scuzzbucket he was, and they were really not that selective about who they screwed around with.

He had even been stopped by two officers of the City of Hollywood, Florida Police Department for masturbating while driving naked. What kind of degenerate friend did I have, anyway? He must have been awfully stupid to do it so openly. I had an old pair of pants at home that I had cut the pockets out of, and when I wanted to do play with myself while watching the girls along the side of the road, I just wore those pants without any underwear. In this way, I could stick my hands in my pocket and get at myself pretty easily without causing any bad public relations with the suppressive wog police. If I were fortunate enough to pick up a young prostitute, she could stick her hand through my cut pocket-hole and keep me excited until we arrived at my apartment! Stewart Williams, the Personnel Procurement Officer of Golden Era Productions, had taught me that neat trick back in 1986 when I worked with him at the Wollersheim Crusade. There was so much that Steve Goldberg was missing out on in life, not having friends in Scientology as I did who knew the front line techniques of survival in our reactive-bank society.

Nevertheless I was the eternal optimist, and I wanted my best friend to creep out of the mire of degradation if it were at all possible, despite the enormous odds against him.

"There is no reason in the world why you can't be as normal and happy as I am", I told him on the way down to the Freewinds event on that special Sunday night.

My longing to jump aboard the Freewinds and be close to Source had to be stronger than the most strung out druggie's craving for crack cocaine. I would have given my right arm just to be permitted to clean the toilets in the ship's staterooms. Quite frankly however, I don't think that I could have gotten very much cleaning done with only my left arm.

Ivy Kimmich was the guest speaker at the event. As a proud member of the first group of New OT Eight completions, she spoke of some of the miracles which she personally experienced in auditing this monumental level. She had been able to leave her body for several days at a time, travelling in her native state as a thetan across space, checking up on her two little children who were still in Clearwater with their father. She had given her oldest child a personal message, and when she returned home, the kid repeated it to her verbatim, proving that she had been there without her body. Her revelations were so magnificent that I could not contain myself from weeping with joy, knowing how much incredible excitement awaited me at the top of the Bridge. Steve Goldberg was too busy trying to look up Ivy's crotch to appreciate the profound message that she was endeavoring to convey to him.

"Maybe if I were at OT Eight then I could see those freckles on her ass right through her dress", Goldberg sighed.

"How do you know that she has freckles on her ass?", I asked.

"I did what everybody else is doing around here", he disclosed. "I just made a postulate, and there they were! Ivy's ass would not be nearly as sexy if it had no freckles on it."

Steve Goldberg was clearly trying to make a mockery out of the marvels of our Tech, and this started to piss me off. He even had the balls to attempt making a date with Ivy Kimmich, knowing that she was happily married with two children.

"You are really embarrassing me!", I whispered in his ear. "You can't say those things to Ivy! She's one of the most respected thetans on the planet, and besides, she can hear your thoughts and read your mind."

"Well that's good!", he answered, "because I just thought about how much I would like to sharpen my dick between her teeth."

"Stop it right now!", I shivered. "I'm going to get punished for your outburst of depravity. OT Eights are very sacred people. You don't go around letting them hear all of your sick thoughts! If she labels you a Suppressive Person, with her abilities she could postulate your heart to stop ticking quicker than you could squash a cockroach. Don't play around with fire just because she's so pretty and you like her body. The power of a New OT Eight can be very deadly! They are trained to make things happen just by using their causative power of intention."

"You are full of shit!", Goldberg cursed as he walked right over to Ivy Kimmich.

"Do you have a minute?", he asked her.

"Sure!", she answered with good ARC. "Did you enjoy the event?"

"I've got a question for you, Ivy", he began. "If it's true that people who have completed OT Eight can cause things to happen just by making postulates, then how come you haven't won the Florida lottery yet?"

"That's too small a game for me", she smiled. "I don't have any trouble with creating money, because I earn over three hundred thousand dollars per year in commissions as a Field Staff Member for the Flag Service Organization, bringing other people in to do their services."

"That means she sells over three million dollars per year in auditing and training", I explained. "The commission rate is ten percent."

"Oh, I gross at least three million!", she said happily. "But in answer to your friend's question, the statistics on lotteries are very interesting indeed. Although Scientologists make up less than one percent of the United States population, we have actually won more than seventeen percent of all major prizes in various state Lotto games. Of course, that was before New OT Eight was delivered. I expect that those stats will start skyrocketing now."

"If that's really true", Steve Goldberg continued, "why doesn't the Church just assign a bunch of OT Eights to the job of winning lotteries, and just pay for everybody to be audited?"

"Oh, we have the capacity to do that quite easily", she revealed. "However, that would be a violation of Ron's Policy. There would be no "fair exchange" if we just gave auditing time away. People getting it for nothing would consider it to be worthless, since they did not pay for it. Auditing only works when the preclear knows with certainty that it is valuable to him. Also, If the Church made auditing free for everybody, that would be a slap in the face for those like me who have earned their right to go up the Bridge. We do not reward downstats in Scientology. Now, there is nothing wrong for an OT Scientologist to pay for his own upper levels by winning lottery games. All you have to do is to move out of your body, go into the future, and either read the winning numbers as they appear or cause your own pre-selected numbers to come out by simply postulating or intending them. Then, all you would do is to come back to present time and place your bet. There is nothing complicated about it. If a thetan has restored those lost abilities to himself, then he surely can use his power to the fullest advantage. However, the most ethically and causative way for you to move up the Bridge right now is to bring others into Scientology and pay for your auditing with the Field Staff Member commissions. We can have a Cleared Earth much faster that way because you would be doing your share to help us boom planetary dissemination."

Steve walked away in amazement.

"That girl is smart!", he remarked. "She had an answer for everything!"

"She's at the top of the Bridge!", I reminded him. "You didn't expect her to talk like Dusty, did you?"

"That's the kind of girl you should marry", he indicated.

"Are you crazy?", I asked. "I could never be worthy of someone as perfect as Ivy! With all my faults, I don't even deserve to kneel at her feet!"

"Well, I'd sure like to lick her feet when they are nice and dirty", he whined, inveigling me with his idiocy again.

"For your own protection and mine, please just shut up!", I warned him again.

Ray Jourdain came over to us, and tried to persuade Steve Goldberg to do one of the new OT Hatting Courses aboard the Freewinds as I had every intention of doing myself.

"What's an OT hatting course mean?", he inquired half-heartedly.

"It's a course that gets you hatted to operate as a thetan", Ray explained. "A good one for you would be the "Power of Simplicity" course", he added.

"How much is it?", Goldberg scoffed with an air of ridicule.

"It's actually priceless", Ray responded, "but you can do the full course, together with first class accommodations for a cruise to Curacao aboard the Freewinds for a little over three grand."

"If you think that I'm going to spend three thousand bucks for a cruise to some jerky island where they don't even have kinky sex, dominatrixes, or any S&M, you're out of your mind!", he charged. "And not only that, you want me to go to Scientology school, learning how to get out of my body and fly into fucking space? Now I've heard everything!"

"What does "S&M" mean?", Ray asked with great curiosity, ignoring Steve's skepticism.

"What kind of shmuck is this?", Steve laughed, looking at me. "He doesn't even know what sado-masochism is!"

"Oh, my God! A psych word!", Ray cringed, appearing as if he were about to vomit.

"That's what I am up against with him, Ray", I apologized.

"You're such a phony, Fishman!", Goldberg objected insightfully. "All of a sudden I'm a real freak in front of your Scientology friend here, but for the last thirteen years you never put me down even once for being into S&M!"

"What would "S&M" mean in our language?", Ray inquired of me as he tried to make a serious effort to understand Steve Goldberg a little bit better.

"In his case, he's talking about a Desired Flow-Zero Enforced Overt Have", I said.

"Why didn't he say so in the first place?", Ray regretted ruefully. "Steve, I don't know anything about those confusing psych expressions."

"You can consider yourself lucky that you're out of touch with wog society", I said jealously. "I have to live in it daily and it really stinks!"

Steve Goldberg looked at us both in angry awe, as if we had just arrived from the Planet Zorch.

"I have never see two bigger assholes in my whole life!", he vilified. "Steve, when you are ready to leave, please let me know because I've had it with these morons!"

"This bird is even more strange than your father!", Ray replied as Steve got up to take a walk. "Can't you bring any normal people to our events?"

As I saw that Steve Goldberg was totally hopeless and that he didn't have the slightest reality on increasing his awareness of his own immortality as a thetan, I left him to his own devices and signed up for two weeks of OT Hatting aboard the ship with Lottie Adler, the Freewinds Relay Office Registrar. I wanted to take the "Route to Infinity" course, since Infinity was the direction toward which I wanted to permanently go anyway. It had to be a hell of a lot better than hanging around an imbecilic cheap Jew like Goldberg, with his sick world of criminal activity and offbeat sex. It was incredible how very little we had in common with one another. I still had not forgiven him for convincing me to purchase the stupid Allante. The car title had not arrived yet from the Department of Motor Vehicles in Tallahassee, and I knew that I would never be eligible for auditing until I turned it over to the Org and got rid of it. Every time I drove that trash heap, it represented a thorn in my side since it was literally a roadblock to my Bridge. I was so humiliated about the car that I parked it three blocks away from the Miami Org, so that no one would remind me about what a damn fool I had been in buying it in the first place.


I kept having nightmares of being raped and sexually abused. They weren't ordinary bad dreams, of course. I was Free Wheeling very intensely, unable to back myself out of the nightly horror.

"Why should I have these weird images of continuously being sodomized by men?", I asked my old friend Denise Monce Macha who worked for Flag Crew. "Do you think there might be any connection between my Repair of Past Ethics in the sauna and these absurd visions?"

"Now don't start thinking like a dumb psychologist!", Denise warned me. "You'll really cave yourself in if you get into that kind of a squirrel cage!"

"So what is causing these dreams then?", I asked.

"I'm not your auditor, Steve", she replied with warm indifference. "How the hell should I know?"

"But that's just the point!", I protested. "I'm still not eligible yet to go back into session. How can I find out?"

"Steve, as much as I have always liked you, I don't feel sorry for you at all. As soon as you get the title to your car, you will no longer be in Danger, and with three hundred and thirty thousand dollars in your Bridge Fund, I'm sure that whatever is keeping you up at night will soon blow off and get flattened", she said snottily, dismissing my anxiety as a nuisance.

"I can't take one more day of this Free Wheeling, Denise!", I pleaded. "Last night I dreamt that I was gang banged by Jesus Christ and twelve of his boyfriends. I'll tell you; I'm glad that I had a chance to hammer a nail into his foot --"

"Shut up! I don't want to hear your sick shit!", she interrupted. "That's between you and your auditor. Why do you want to get me involved in all of your crappy garbage? I've got my own problems! If I were in your shoes, I would do some Solo Auditing and scan some of your recent past lives. You'll find out more about the nightmares that way than from bothering the hell out of me. Have a little consideration! While you are still in Danger, you are putting me in Danger by talking about your case. After all these years, don't you know that aberration is contagious?"

"Maybe I ought to place myself in quarantine so you don't catch my thetan germs!", I snapped vindictively.

"Now don't be cute!", she yelled. "One more crack like that and I swear to Ron that I'll write you up for Degradation, and you'll be right back in Non-Existence or worse. The Ethics Officer here at Flag makes Frank Thompson look like a little pussycat, so don't push your luck!"

Denise was right!

There was a brand new Mark Seven E-Meter in the New Civilization Suite at the Fort Harrison where I was staying, and that night, when I put on my thetan wings and Solo Audited past the reactive bank through lifetimes gone by, I found an incident where I had lived as a woman in the small town of Paleokastritsa on the Island of Corfu in Greece during the early 1730's.

My name was Gesiropagoutika, a beautiful princess of a girl, with the exception that my breasts looked like fat, impacted string beans. I had been engaged to a compulsive gambler nicknamed Podikipsito, which literally meant "Baked Rat." My fiancee eventually fell deeply into debt, and when he couldn't repay the loans, all of his goats were confiscated, and in an act of spite I was viciously gang raped and sold into slavery as chattel by several of his creditors. When I became pregnant, I was classified as unwanted merchandise and shortly thereafter drowned at sea. My nightmares of the rape came from that unsavory lifetime, and as Denise so brilliantly forecasted, none of the bad dreams had anything whatsoever to do with Charlie Fox.

When I returned to Fort Lauderdale, I decided to buy a Mark Seven E-Meter myself, since it had an easy- to-read black needle shaft, a Digital Tone Arm position readout, and an increased sensitivity knob.

"With this new, improved model and all of its funky features, you'll be whizzing out of your head a lot quicker than if you were playing Russian roulette with only one bullet!", Leona Grimm coaxed enthusiastically. It didn't take very much pressure on her part to make the sale. I was a pushover and real proud of it, too! Three thousand dollars was a very cheap price to pay for anything with a Digital Tone Arm. I would have gladly spent double the amount for it if she had asked me. Anyway, now that my old Mark Six E-Meter was obsolete, the standards of Standard Tech just got a little tougher, that's all.

Leona warned me that I could never get to the top of the Bridge without a Mark Seven because the new equipment was going to be a prerequisite for auditing New OT Nine when it was eventually released. It's a damn shame that Ron never lived to play with his brand new toy, especially since it was required for the very same OT levels which he developed without the use of one. I sure hope that he didn't overlook anything using an old machine which didn't even have any trade-in value.

I also became highly obsessed with going to Greece, so I could revisit the farmhouse where I was raped by those male chauvinist pigs. It was very important that I eliminated the charge on that incident which had followed me from body to body through my time track. The only dreams I wanted to have about sexual violence was where I was doing the raping, not the other way around. I wasn't even planning to tell you that I had lived once as a girl, because that was a darker period of my time track. And so it was, for as I recalled, going on the rag once a month was not my idea of a good time. They didn't even have Maxi-pads in those days. I was lucky to use some goat skin dipped in olive oil.

I was equally as fascinated with seeing the town square of Malaga, Spain, where I had been hung as the adulterous Catholic Priest known as Father Delfino Garcia. A thetan can live with just so much insanity and then he gets fed up with it. I made up my mind that I was going to Spain and Greece during the summer to straighten out my past lives, once and for all.

"You're quite the jet-setter, aren't you?", Charlie Fox nagged when he heard about my plans for my mission into time. "I have to sweat my buns off wrapping packages in the warehouse for eleven hours a day while you are off in Europe somewhere, checking out your old watering holes."

"If you are voicing any complaints about your post, I'm afraid that I'll have to write up a Knowledge Report accusing you of Nattering",117 I warned him. Two could play at his bitchy game.

Humberto was much more upsetting to me than Charlie, however. The title to my Allante had gone lost, and Humberto was completely furious that I had not received it, and that after three months, I was still driving the car.

"I think you're holding out on me, boy!", Humberto screamed accusatively.

"If you don't believe me, give me a Security Check!", I propositioned bravely. "Don't you think I would rather have my Ethics Condition in Normal Operation than to keep that lug-nut car?"

"Normal Operation?", he balked. "You're still in Danger! You haven't even worked your way up through Emergency yet!"

"I've been meaning to ask you how I could possibly do that", I suggested opportunistically.

"Well, I just happen to have a hat for you to wear", he beamed. "Frank told me that you're going to Spain next week."

"Actually, I'm leaving tomorrow for Greece, and then in one week I'm going to Spain", I clarified. "I want to get some reality on several of my dead bodies that are still haunting me."

"How luxurious!", he shouted with a hint of inner sarcasm. "And this trip of yours, is it fully paid for?"

"I charged it to my American Express card", I replied.

"And you speak Spanish quite well too, if I recall correctly", he added.

"I'm pretty fluent in it", I acknowledged. "I once talked to a hooker from Panama for the entire night without speaking one word of English."

"Well, I'm going to upgrade you to Emergency and re-activate your Office of Special Affairs Staff Status, because I need you to deliver an envelope for me while you are in Spain. Now, I'm really not supposed to be doing this for you until that matter of the car is taken care of, but I have no choice. A round-trip plane ticket to Spain with no advanced notice costs over eleven hundred bucks, and frankly, if you are going over there on your own, you could help us by saving the Org the expense of paying for a plane ticket."

"It is my honor and my duty to serve the Third Dynamic, Humberto, and I would gladly drop my body for Scientology if I had to!", I saluted. "I won't let you down. And as soon as I return, I'll turn over the Allante to the Org, so please trust me!"

I felt like a Scientology Freedom Fighter again. I couldn't believe that Humberto was actually giving me a second chance!

I passed my Courier Mission Orders Security Check, and I was posted as an L. Ron Hubbard Heavy Hussars Hat Courier Missionaire assigned to the brave task of Damage Control, and I was subsequently approved for my routing to the Madrid Org.

My briefing was done under the highest and strictest security, where my reactions were assessed on the E- Meter during the interview, as I was still considered a slight risk because the clouds of Dr. Geertz and Keith Nassetta were forever hanging over my head. I signed a Pledge of Confidentiality and reaffirmed the Code of a Scientologist, and accordingly I promised never to betray the nature of my mission, so please don't say anything to anybody, whatever you do. In fact, maybe you ought to just tear out the next few pages and shred them after you finish reading what I wrote, so that the data doesn't fall into the hands of a psychiatrist.

Narconon was being attacked in Spain.

What is Narconon?

The name Narconon comes from "Non-Narcosis" or "No Drugs", and is the most effective drug rehabilitation program in the world today, with the exception of the undertakers. Curing drug addicts is a seven step process, which starts with a drug-free withdrawal, then a TRs course, followed by the Purification Rundown, a Student Hat Course, a Way to Happiness Course, an Introduction to Scientology Ethics Course, and then finally a body routing to the nearest Scientology Mission or Org for auditing and training.

Nevertheless, according to John Duff, the President of Narconon International, "Narconon is quite independent of the Church of Scientology."118 However, just between us chickens, it wasn't so.

It was just this very threadbare separation of Church and Narcs that caused all of our problems in Spain. You have to understand a little bit about the Spanish people. Most all of them had all been pitifully brainwashed by my bad boy Jesus, and the Catholic Church over there didn't like competition anymore than psychiatrists did.

Since the Church of Scientology handles mental aberration and strips away false data from suppressive religions at the same time, the time-worn unholy alliance of psychs and Christians sank their savage teeth into our benevolent efforts to get thetans off drugs, out of their bodies, and into the Orgs in droves. You see, neither psychiatrists nor Catholic priests would have any customers if people were set free, would they? Of course not.

From my point of view, I didn't give a damn whether people knew or didn't know whether the Church of Scientology and Narconon International had interlocking directorates or for that matter had ever even heard of each other. We were going to take over the world eventually anyway, so what the devil was the difference if people found out in advance that we were in the habit of slow-cooking our druggies in the saunas. The wogs would all know sooner or later, so who the hell gave a shit if the news leaked out early? I sure didn't care.

Well, it turned out that there were some pretty heavy suppressive bastards running things in Madrid, including a City Magistrate who was connected to several brand-name psychs, as well as the head honcho Catholic swindler in the Vatican who also happened to own most of the real estate in Spain even though he was Polish, and therefore didn't want us stirring up the natives with our good old-fashioned ARC.

Now had things been different and had Narconon made a practice of referring their preclears to the Catholic Church instead of to the Church of Scientology, I doubt whether Christ's modern-day gangsters would have pulled in their markers and started riding shotgun all over our ass. However, we weren't about to share the wealth with our enemies. Narconon's completions provided a worthwhile customer base for the Orgs, and rightfully so too, for all our hard work.

The straw that broke the squirrels' back was a Scientology- supported charity known as "TAIM", or "Tecnicos Asociados de Investigacion y Mercado", which received funding from the Spanish Government to compile drug abuse stats and to survey drug treatment results throughout Spain. I don't know what the big hullabaloo was for, because we certainly didn't squander the money on nonsense. All of the Government grants from that idiotic charity were funneled back to Author Services, Incorporated, where our four brave leaders David Miscavige, Norman Starkey, Pat Broeker and Diana Hubbard Horwich could use the funds properly, helping the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics in our quest to Clear the planet. They surely didn't put the money in their own pockets, if that's what you're thinking! Although I can't vouch for Norman Starkey, I know for a fact that Pat Broeker didn't use one cent of Narconon's drug money to buy his red Ferrari. Rumors had been flying around Flag that he made a pretty decent living at the crap tables of Las Vegas, so he had no need to dip into the Church's kitty to support his opulent lifestyle.

Anyway, Narconon was cleaner than a baboon's ass. We weren't stupid enough to jeopardize our respect in the community by getting caught in a scandal which was backed by a few Castilian head shrinkers. Look at all the suppression we had to put up with!

So why did we get involved with the TAIM Charity in the first place? Why did we bother doing drug research for the Government of Spain at all? Do you think we really gave a damn about drug treatment programs other than our own? Not for a minute. We just needed the names of drug addicts so we could bring those spaced-out preclears into Narconon for treatment, that's all. But look at what a worthy cause that was! Wog drug programs do not work. We knew that! In fact, the corporation most interested in putting Narconon out of business was our old evil-purposed arch-enemy, I. G. Farben, the Nazi company who manufactured the Zyklon-B gas that killed hundreds of thousands of Jews at Auschwitz.

Now why should they have cared about Narconon? Were there that many Jewish cocaine addicts in the world? Not hardly. I. G. Farben also manufactured Methadone, the drug promoted by psychiatrists as "the solution to heroin addiction." Originally named "Dolophine" in honor of Adolf Hitler, Methadone causes depression, paralysis, vomiting, insomnia, stomach cramps, as well as hot and cold flashes.

I. G. Farben didn't like any program that would get people off drugs, especially their own. The only place that I would have been willing to inject Methadone was into my psychologist's penis! Who knows, Dr. Geertz might have truly enjoyed that.

So between the Nazis and the Catholics, we had our hands full. It was as if we were fighting World War Two all over again!

Anyway, some snoop from Interpol found out that the TAIM Charity was wholly-owned and controlled by Scientology, and in fact, the corporate resolution of the TAIM charter had the beautiful autograph of my beloved Diana Hubbard Horwich on it, as well as the signatures of Inspector General External for the Religious Technology Center Jessie Prince, and Inspector General Internal for the Religious Technology Center Captain Greg Wilhere.

My job was to zip over to the Madrid Org and deliver to the Executive Director a new set of corporate charters for the TAIM Charity that did not show any connection to any of the top International Management personnel at Scientology. I was clearly also involved for sentimental reasons because Diana Hubbard Horwich, my Senior Divisional Departmental terminal was being threatened. She had my sympathy too. Flowing hidden money to Author Services, Incorporated was absolutely vital for the expansion and preservation of Source Data, and as far as I was concerned, the Spanish Government could stick their stupid charity laws up their collective Iberian asses.

"Any attack against Scientology is an attack upon me personally, and I shall fight our enemies to the death!", I vowed to Humberto. "Where did this "TAIM" Charity idea come from anyway?"

"Just some Public Relations crap created by Fran Harris, the Flag Banking Officer of Author Services, and Julia Breuer, the Commanding Officer of the Flagship Service Organization", he bragged. "They wanted a non-affiliated "independent" survey on drug research and so we gave it to them, that's all. Our own Narconon staff members conducted the drug surveys anyway, but the Spanish Government wasn't about to pay us to do the job unless we either conformed to their ass- backwards wog charity laws or we changed our religion. The Spanish Inquisition is still going on over there, except now they are persecuting Scientologists instead of Jews. The City Magistrate of Madrid was probably Torquemada in one of his former lifetimes!"

"He sounds more like Torquemada's psychiatrist", I replied.

My hat was quite simple. All I had to do was to give the sealed envelope to the Executive Director of Madrid, and after he opened it in my presence, I was then obliged to show him the exact three spots where the forms were supposed to be signed by the officials.

"Can't this guy find three blank spaces where the new signatures should go without any help from me?", I wondered. "Are they a bunch of dummies or something?"

"Spaniards are not as smart as Cubans", Humberto smiled, as he proudly referred to his own ethnic heritage. "Anyway, orders are orders."

The new signatories were the Executive Director of Narconon Los Molinos, the Deputy Commanding Officer of Expansion for Iberia Antonia Navarro, and the Commanding Officer of the Office of Special Affairs of Iberia Enrique Ayuso. They represented a cross section of our upper crust in Spain.

For four hours I was drilled on my Mission TRs, including what I was to say if I were caught and detained by the Madrid Police, who incidentally were monitoring all entrances and exits to the Madrid Org on a twenty-four hour per day surveillance. Humberto told me to place the envelope underneath my undershirt and tuck it in to my underpants so that it would not be detectable when I walked into the building. He said that the likelihood of my being stopped would be lessened if I appeared to be carrying nothing.

"That's going to be uncomfortable, having an eleven by fourteen envelope rubbing against the back end of my dick", I objected.

"Well, just don't piss all over it then", he said with a modicum of encouragement. "You know that it is standard procedure for concealing a document", he added. "You were in the Guardian's Office long enough to remember a simple instruction like that!"

Darrell Kirkland, the Minister of the Miami Org, then made me a mocked-up Florida driver's license under the name of Robert Walker, using the same machine which I donated to the Org five years before! My loyalty had come around full circle, and I was now the benefactor of my own magnanimous contribution! The name Robert Walker was selected because back in February, the letter carrier in my building put a Master Card in my mailbox by mistake, and being a good Scientologist, I turned the misdirected card over to Frank Thompson. The card belonged to one of my wog neighbors, so it didn't make very much difference what happened to it.

I invented a brand new handwriting for the name Robert Walker which had to be signed on the license and on the back of the credit card. However, when I looked at my Polaroid picture that Reverend Kirkland had made, I wanted to throw up.

"This looks like a real mug shot, Darrell!", I complained. "Anyone who sees this hideous face on my license will think that I am some sort of crook!"

"Okay, wise guy!", he snapped. "Next time call your friend Steve Goldberg, the professional photographer. He'll charge you two thousand dollars per photo, just like he did for signing your claims. In any case, you'll still come out ugly."

"You shouldn't have captured me from that angle", I continued with profound vanity.

"Listen to me, you jerk!", Humberto commanded. While you are in Spain, I only want you to walk around with the Robert Walker driver's license and credit card. Keep all of your Steve Fishman bullshit identification locked up in your suitcase. Use the card if you run low on cash, but be sure to pay off all your charges as soon as you get back home. I don't want anyone to ever accuse you of doing anything criminal like leaving open any unpaid debts."

Bob Levy, the Executive Director of Miami, closed up the envelope and affixed it with a seal made of wax, so that any evidence of tampering could be duly noted.

"Do you want me to call you when I complete my Mission?", I asked.

"No, that could be traced", Humberto instructed pejoratively. "As soon as the Executive Director of Madrid has your package, I want you to send Ray Jourdain a postcard, stating that you are "having a good time in Spain with your mother and children." That will be your code which will tell us that everything is okay. Postcards only take three days to reach us from there. So how soon can you get this all done?"

"Well, you know that I'm spending a week in Greece first", I reminded him.

"What the hell is so important about Greece?", Humberto said angrily. "Do you expect all of the problems of the planet to remain on hold while you are farting around Mount Olympus, aimlessly exploring your waste-of-time track?"

"Humberto, I'm going to Corfu, not Athens. Anyhow, I've got to stop having those nightmares", I explained. "My life as a woman in Greece is the key to resolving all of that trouble."

"You are always putting yourself before the group!", he accused. "As sure as I am sitting here, I know that one day soon your own selfishness will be your downfall."

"Do you want someone else to go?", I offered reluctantly.

"No, you've got me by the balls,", he admitted with defeat. "I can't justify spending over a thousand dollars when your trip is already paid for. Just don't lose those papers in Greece, or I warn you, you'll be back in the sauna with Frank, Charlie and I for an encore!"


Everything went well in Europe. I found the location of the cottage on the Island of Corfu where I was raped, and after spending fifteen hours sitting on a wooden stump reviewing that hideous incident, I came to realize that it no longer had any further command value over me. It helped tremendously when I exteriorized and I placed myself inside the body of the man who had repeatedly raped me over and over again. Being in his valence, I was able to install his pleasure moments into my pictures, and I found that I was actually sexually attracted to my old body during the rape sequences! I sure was a good looking bitch back then, in spite of my awkwardly shaped tits.

I cognited that the best way to handle all of that sexual abuse was to not be myself! The psychs may call it schizophrenia, but I appreciated the tremendous benefits of having multiple valences as the cure for my bad dreams! I wanted to get inside the bodies of my tormentors in order to appreciate their viewpoints, which seemed to balance all my flows of fear and consequently restore my sanity.

Now why couldn't the psychiatrists have thought of something so darn simple? Alas, the suppressives had a vested interest in keeping their "patients" sick, so it did not surprise me that they never came up against such a basic fundamental discovery. Anyway, the only thing that those corrupt bastards knew about the time track was when their fifty minutes were up and they handed you a therapy bill for a hundred and fifty dollars per hour.

I learned some other good news while in Greece. I called my father in Fort Lauderdale, who told me that my lost title to the Cadillac Allante had finally arrived. I was soon to be back in Normal Operation! Auditing was just around the corner!

"Life couldn't ever get any better than this!", I remarked.

My secret mission in Madrid took all of five minutes, and I frankly didn't see any agents of the Spanish Government watching the Org's headquarters at 20 Montera either when I walked in or walked out.

Here I was, expecting some cloak-and-dagger intrigue, when handing over the envelope was no harder than walking into a K-Mart and buying a bottle of musk perfume for my testicles.

"What was the big deal?", I asked myself. "Humberto drilled me for four hours to do a job that took less time than I usually needed for a healthy shit!"

I spent the rest of the day with a Spanish prostitute named Corintia who I found hanging around the men's room of the Portazgo subway station of Madrid's Metro Line One. She took me to a special kind of whore house called Casabermeja in a section of town known as Colonia Sandi. Although all of the women including Corintia were way over eighteen, they served free Sangria fruit punch, and for approximately twenty-eight dollars extra, they invited me to attend a floor show where I watched an adorable, thin girl as she covered herself with baby oil and then had sex with a male chimpanzee on a platform stage. It was so cute when the nice chimp took a funny little bow after he satisfied the lady. He humped her just the same as I would have done. I don't know why we never have anything so entertaining here in the United States. It would be very popular, I would imagine, and extremely healthy for the animals.

My week in Malaga blew large areas of charge off my case the way nothing else could have possibly done. Suffering as a Catholic Priest in the sixteenth century was a veritable pain in the butt. I had a rough time of it during that lifetime because I had been so preoccupied with sex. None of the nuns would give me any loving, and besides they were as gruesome to look at as penguins can get. Did you know that some of them felt so guilty about having any kind of pleasure at all that they hemorrhaged from trying to hold their bowel movements in? They didn't even think that they were worthy enough in the eyes of God to take a decent crap.

The biggest mistake in my lifetime as Father Delfino Garcia was to jump into the sack with the Bishop's mistress. I don't know why I was attracted to her, because as I recall, her feet stank pretty horribly. A few other Priests used to take turns giving her a roll in the hay, but when she got pregnant, it was I who she accused of knocking her up. True to pattern, I probably didn't use any condoms in those days either. Anyway, I was married to the Lord, and since I wasn't supposed to cheat on him, they hung me by the neck. You know the rest of the story. Every time that I put on my necktie, I felt the ghostly shadow of the hangman's noose. It was a good thing that the Bishop didn't string me up by the nuts, or I might not have been able to wear pants!

Someone had to take the rap, and regrettably it was me. How fortunate it was that those things never happened in Scientology. Then again, I never had sex with a Scientologist before, unless you count a squirrel like Lavenda, who as you may recall, also tried to hang me for paternity.

While I was re-creating the mental image pictures of my luckless lynching before the crowd that had gathered at the Town Square of Malaga, I was disappointed that I wasn't able to take the sting out of wearing a tie, even though I was fully convinced that the phobia came from the hangman's rope.

"Why didn't I bring my E-Meter with me?", I castigated myself in distress. "I should have known better than to fight this kind of age-old anxiety without my soup cans!" Nevertheless, I had a latent cognition while I was flying back to Miami on the Iberia Airlines flight from Madrid.

"What an idiot I have been!", I exclaimed. "I don't have to be afraid of wearing a tie anymore! All I have to do is buy bigger shirts with fatter collars! And to think that I had to fly halfway around the world to figure that out!"

It never ceased to amaze me how Scientology always provided a surprising cognition or two when I least expected it.

As the plane touched down in Miami, all I could think of was how wonderful my auditing was going to be, now that I was finally about to repair my Ethics by turning over the car to Frank Thompson.

At long last I was ready to attest to the State of Clear and move up through the higher levels of Operating Thetan.

"Here I come!", I said to Ron, who was waiting for me at the other end of the Bridge. "I'm almost home!"


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