Lonesome Squirrel

by Steven Fishman

22: It's Easier To Bury One's Mistakes


Lyman Spurlock, now the Director of Special Affairs for the Flag Service Organization, spearheaded our Battle Plan to thwart the potential invasion of the FBI Third Invader forces against the Fort Lauderdale Mission and the Miami Org. Bonny Mott and Ellie Bolger were reassigned to posts far beyond the reach and scope of Marc Nurik, and my entire history of service to the Guardian's Office found its way into the wayward shredders of International Management.

"It's a shame that Oliver North wasn't a Scientologist", I said to myself on a less gloomy day. "We could have used his help in destroying evidence at a time like this."

My next crisis came on August the 16th, when I sold my Allante and turned over the money to Marc Nurik for additional legal fees. What was I to do? There were court appearances scheduled, and Marc could not defend the entire case on two thousand dollars, even if Humberto Fontana truly believed that my lawyer was overpriced at that.

Selling the car did not bother me. It had been bad luck from the beginning. But there was that promise I once made to Frank Thompson which pledged all of the proceeds from the automobile to the Miami Org. I had betrayed a sacred oath once again, and I found it far simpler to hide my head in the sand than to admit that shameful fact to him.

Ten days later, I mustered up enough courage to come clean with Frank Thompson.

The color puce is not a bright spot on a man's face when it suddenly appears. It is somewhere between the howl of bloodshot red and the death knell of dark grayish purple. I could feel the visceral passion of strangulation in the air as Frank raised his hands in perilous fury. However, he caught me by surprise. My Ethics Officer didn't lunge for my neck, he bravely and courageously hit me in the stomach! What a wise decision it had been not to eat lunch before I came to see him! As I doubled over in sweet pain, my eyeglasses fell to the floor, and Frank valiantly crushed them with his left shoe. Now that caused me to have an uncalled for ARC Break, and I ran out of the Org in a partially blind stupor of grief. Driving home on I-95 was quite tense for me since I never could see that well without my glasses. As Frank had hoped for, I almost got into an accident -- but of course, almost doesn't count.

During the next two weeks, I did not go back to the Org or talk to any Scientologists on the telephone. I was kind of upset about the broken glasses, although I had no right to be. However, because I failed to stay in communication with my Ethics terminals, they became increasingly convinced that I intended to attack and destroy the Church, and consequently they reported their suspicions to Paul Laquerre, the International Justice Chief. Paul, as you may recall, had a reputation of being so hard on his people that I had this larger-than-life image of him being able to crack a brick in half just by slamming his penis against it. It is sometimes odd how we worship our heroes, and I guess I was just as guilty of that flaw as anyone else who was as unimportant and worthless as I was.

Nevertheless, despite my degradation, I would have died a million deaths before ever harming Scientology! Outside of refusing to plead guilty, I did everything that my Seniors asked me to. I made an art form out of lying to my attorney and deceiving Dr. Geertz, and by the time that I got through with them, I had those squirrels chasing up the wrong tree so many times that whenever they lifted their legs, they wound up pissing all over each other.

Accordingly, I tried my level best to prevent Marc Nurik and Dr. Geertz from working together. I spread rumors to Geertz that Nurik was a cheap Jew who would never pay him his expert witness fees. I told Marc that Dr. Geertz was a corrupt, money-hungry bungler who will try to bleed him for exorbitant payments. Laying the seeds of discontent between those two tyrants was easier than masturbating five times in a row at an all-night peep show.

In the meantime, the love of my life and the mother of my future child called me on the phone. Lisa Lawson was in her fifth month of pregnancy, and she had already found a customer for our baby. In fact, she was living at the home of the future adoptive parents, Sam and Bonnie Elmowitz of North Miami Beach. Sam was a businessman, and Bonnie worked as a singer at a night club known as Claire's Celebrity Lounge under the stage name of Bonnie Bernard. Sam and Bonnie showered Lisa was gifts, as if she were their own personal breeding tank. She told me that she was going to receive approximately thirty thousand dollars in cash and prizes, including a new car, a deposit on a condominium in Los Angeles, and surgery for a nose job which she needed as much as a hot firecracker enema.

Lisa had negotiated the sale of my child through a baby broker named Marty Roth who used to be one of her other loyal customers, and the whole arrangement stank as far as I was concerned.

Determined to assert my paternal rights, I stormed into Marc Nurik's office, demanding that he sue for custody of my unborn child.

"This is a matter of life, not choice!", I said, refusing to abort my decision.

In his classic style of suppression, Marc refused to help me, saying that no court would ever give me the baby if I was pleading insanity in a criminal defense case.

"I am not crazy and you know it!", I snapped at Marc like a mad lunatic. "My child is going to grow up to be an upstat Scientologist in the Cadet Estates Org and no one is going to interfere with our relationship! How dare you use a defense which is going to come between a father's bond with his fetus!"

Not willing to take no for an answer, I retained the services of one of the most brilliant civil attorneys in the South Florida area. Louie Jassin was a superstar in his own right. He told me that he was the lawyer for the rock group "Poison", for the tattooed singer Axl Rose of "Guns and Roses", and for half the football players on the American Football League. He was a man of pure principle, and would drive thirty miles each way for lunch every day, just to eat a vegetarian meal in a restaurant known as the "Unicorn Village" in order to flirt with the waitresses. Louie never had to pay for anything either. He always invited guests to accompany him in order to take care of all his expenses. He was, in no uncertain terms, a brilliant businessman. Despite the fact that he was a close friend of Keith Nassetta's, I really respected him. Like myself, he promoted freedom by boycotting the use of condoms. Having both realized that prophylactic manufacturers had a vested interest in promoting the stupid AIDS scare because it was good for their business, Louie and I shared the common courage and conviction to buck the trend and not allow our heads to get caught up in all of that paranoid irrationality.

As a reward for his moral support, I turned him on to Dusty Hipps, which worked out quite well for her too, as she was always looking to expand her customer base.

Besides promising to eventually get me custody of my son once the baby was born, Louie Jassin became my publicist for my epic religious work, The Holy Book of Life, which was a living testament to the history of the soul over the last seventy-six trillion years. Louie was very careful not to infringe upon the trademarks or copyrights of Scientology, so he wisely made me take every reference to the Third Dynamic out of the book. The Holy Book of Life was finally finished, and was living proof that I was the one and only real father of Jesus Christ. There was no doubt in Louie's mind that my book would change the world, since it included a chapter which walked a person through the Between Lives Area after death, as well as the true scoop on how the universe was created by Source, which was a far cry from the psychotic hallucinations of the Bible.

"What person in his right mind isn't interested in dying?", Louie asked profoundly. "There's more than one way to promote a Messiah, you know. We're going to sell "Malchoot the Antichrist T-Shirts" and other shit like that, in order to build up your image!"

Although I found Louie's commercialization of my life's work highly contemptible, I gave him over two thousand dollars to find me a publisher, as the only real connections I had were to Body Thetans. What was important to me was in Clearing the planet, and I knew that if I could just prove to the Church that I was both vital and valuable, they would surely reconsider their position and stop asking me to plead guilty.

I was also certain that the Federal Prosecutor would drop all of the criminal charges against me when he realized that as the Antichrist, I was the only hope that the planet had left to fulfill Ron's goal of setting man free.

By the middle of September, I had even more bad news to report to Frank Thompson and Humberto Fontana. Marc Nurik had retained the services of two of the most notorious suppressives on the planet, who had both been actively involved in fighting the Church of Scientology during some of our fiercest court battles, including the Larry Wollersheim case!

Dr. Richard Ofshe was a Professor of Sociology at the University of California who had won a Pulitzer Prize in 1979 for squirreling. He ranked fourth on our Public Enemies List for the hatchet job he did to us at the Wollersheim trial. Rumored to be a professional de-programmer and wholesale destroyer of truth, the very thought that my attorney even had a conversation with such a degraded being sent razor blades up and down my spine.

Dr. Margaret "Muggy" Singer was well known to all of us as the "Bimbo of Berkeley." Although she characteristically disguised herself in the valence of a kind, grandmotherly, little old lady, Leah Abady had once told me that her "sweetness and light" demeanor was a classic case of covert hostility, straight out of the "Dear Souls" area of the time track.

The "Dear Souls" area occurred nearly one trillion years ago, and according to Ron, it was "A saccharine-sweet sort of universe just on the borderline of our universe. Everybody was so sweet to you. If you can just imagine some dear, dear, dear old lady who has organized every single church bazaar in her home town, well that was the one who greeted you. We call that the "Dear Souls" area of the time track. They educated you to be religious and love thy neighbor and everything else."

Leah Abady warned me that Muggy Singer was actually the wicked wife of the Emperor Xenu -- a ferocious space opera rocket jockey who mutilated more bodies and carved out more eyeballs than every psychiatrist in Hitler's Secret Service put together. Furthermore, she was a covertly hostile backstabbing witch who cleverly concealed her lethal savagery to the uninitiated by her "milk-and-cookies Arsenic and Old Lace" personality.

The truth be told, Muggy was no slouch at giving us a run for our money. As an outspoken critic of Scientology for years who had gotten her jollies off by openly blasting us on psych-controlled wog television, I had no idea why she was only Public Enemy Number Seven, when this deadly clinical psychologist enjoyed the unsavory reputation of being the world's most vindictive "Cult Queen."

"Why didn't your attorney just hire Larry Wollersheim as your expert witness?", Frank Thompson screamed at the top of his lungs when I gave him the bad news.

It was a rhetorical question that I was unable to answer, as I was slowly recovering from his swift kick in my nuts. Additionally, The sting of hot ashes in my eyes which he blew in my face did not help me see the light of day very well either.

"You shouldn't talk to me when you're having an ARC Break", I suggested to Frank helpfully, not wishing to alienate him.

After all, I did not want to be responsible for giving Frank a massive heart attack. Unable to restrain himself from teaching me a good lesson, he called Leona Grimm on the extension phone so that she could route me downstairs to Leah Abady. I guess the whole Org realized that Leah Abady knew how to handle me a lot better than anyone else did. I was always such a miserable pain in the ass, but she had the patience of a Saint Hill Case Supervisor, and could just about confront any stupid thing that I would say or do.

"The thirty days are up, and that is not such a good sign", Leah began cryptically.

"What thirty days?", I asked, searching for a glimmer of understanding.

"You had a time limit for pleading guilty to all of your criminal charges", she smiled. "I'm afraid you have been a grave disappointment to the group."

"Can I get a thirty day extension so I can figure out a more acceptable solution?", I begged. "If I have to go back to jail, I will kill myself."

"That is precisely what I wanted to talk to you about", Leah replied as she stared at my twitching nose with her hands clasped. "You are no longer on Ethics lines. For failing to obey an order while in Treason, you are now on Justice lines. Do you know the definition of "Justice?", she asked.

"I think so", I said with rapid hesitancy.

"Flunk!", she hissed. "Anyone who "thinks" doesn't know! Ron defines Justice as "The action necessary to restrain the insane until they are cured."

"You ought to get a job working as a secretary in Marc Nurik's law office", I recommended mockingly. "Both of you think that I am crazy. You have a lot in common."

"Don't be insolent with me, and don't you dare compare me to your subpoena-slinging jury- hustler!", she steamed.

"Then don't call me crazy!", I protested. "Where do you get the nerve to invalidate me that way?"

"It was Ron, not I, who said that "The product of the insane is an overt act." Your latest product is bringing two of the planet's most vicious squirrels into your legal defense camp", she continued. "That is an overt act of the worst magnitude. Ron said something else about insanity too. "The cause of insanity is not a "germ" that causes "mental illness" in somebody's brain. That is not the cause of insanity. It is not the second dynamic (sex). It is not because someone was interfered with as a little child. It is not because one is fixated on panties. Insanity -- pure, unadulterated insanity is an evil purpose. Now anybody's got some nasty purposes but the person who is really insane, really is riding that one, boy! (sic) They're nutty as fruit cakes and it doesn't matter how competent they are or how incompetent they are."125 Steven Fishman, you are evil!", she summarized declaratively, despite Ron's poor use of grammar in her Source reference.

"I have no evil purpose!", I objected.

"I bet that you have a million of them!", she contested. "But the one which is plaguing me the most right now is your willingness to bring the Church of Scientology down with you in connection with your criminal case. For nine years you were creating income by using a higher moral code than the wog world was willing to ever accept. You knew that your standards of performing well on post, of wearing your hat properly and expertly, and of creating the Valuable Final Product of Well Done Class Action Claims had to be as stringent as that of any Sea Org staff member. Yet it was through your own negligence that you allowed yourself to wage a personal war against an irrelevant Indian, merely because she transgressed your lily-white, picture-perfect sense of Ethics by making a few unauthorized telephone calls. So you placed yourself first as usual, and at the exact moment when you put Julie Lombard's real Social Security Number on that claim form just to "get even" with her, you failed to give a damn about your responsibilities as the Fields Financial Planner of Fort Lauderdale. That is the only reason why there is a criminal complaint against you in the physical universe! Now in the theta universe, that is another matter. Look at your stats if you have any doubts! Do you realize that every bit of money generated by the Julie Lombard case went to pay off your ex-wife's credit card debts? Not one penny of it went toward your Bridge? Wouldn't you call that an evil purpose?"

"Yes, I --"

"Shut up! I haven't finished yet!", she went on. "That was back in 1983. Then, five years later, you spent fifty thousand dollars of your Bridge Fund on a sports car to pick up your filthy whores in. Doesn't that sound like another evil purpose to you?"

"Of course, but --"

"Did I end off on this conversation?", she stammered.

"You asked me a question!", I argued indicatively.

"Keep quiet! I want this to sink in so deeply that you can't even move!", she threatened.

"Actually, I have to move my bowels", I pleaded.

"That is all that you ever want to do!", she monologued. "You can't confront anything!"

"I'm sorry", I cried. "I can wait, I hope."

"So here you are, full of evil purposes that are mounting up, one on top of the other. All of the money that you have been accumulating since 1985 for your Flag auditing is now in the hands of the terrorist FBI!"

"Nobody ever told me to hide the money from the Third Invaders! Why didn't you warn me that what I was doing would get me in trouble with the wogs way back then if it bothers you so much right now? How did nine years worth of upstats become downstats all of a sudden?"

"Your evil purposes made that happen, can't you see that?", she honked flippantly. "You are the one who crashed your post! Nobody else did it! My hat in present time is to prevent you from crashing this Org and the future of the entire Church! It is too late to save you! Accept it! Your life is over!"

"What in Ron's name makes you think that I would ever do something so horrible as crash the Third Dynamic?", I responded in astonishment. "People who attack Scientology deserve to be strung up by their testicles or their tits, whichever they have! They ought to be killed, pure and simple!"

"Yes, I know", she sighed with wild abandon. "They sure do! So let's get down to your latest evil purpose, which overshadows them all. Do you have any idea how much you remind me of Hitler?"

"That is a very cruel thing for you to say, coming from one ex-Jew to another", I scorned.

"Well, take a good look at it!", she continued persuasively. "When Hitler was in his bunker in Berlin and he knew that he had lost the war, he ordered his generals to destroy the entire city, so that no one who conquered it could enjoy it. Did you know that?"

"I suppose Dr. Geertz would know a lot more about that sort of thing than I do", I apologized.

"And here before me sits Steve Fishman, King of the Squirrels", she pronounced in the style of a grand soliloquist. "He has lost his Bridge Fund. There is no chance for him to go Clear and OT in the near future, and probably not at all in his current lifetime, if you really think about it. So he hires a team of mercenaries from the "Who's Who" roster of our Enemies List, and he sends these suppressives out to destroy Scientology so that no one else can be set free, just because Steve Fishman has to suffer the minor inconvenience of going to jail."

"Why are you talking as if I am not even here?", I wondered peevishly.

"Because you are not here!", she explained with deep certainty. "You are an example of the living dead! Am I getting through to you?"

"Comparing me to Hitler is vicious and stupid!", I protested. "Hitler had no goals to help mankind. I made a vow to Ron that I would de-aberrate the wog world from the cancerous menace of Christ! I promised that I would never rest until every psych was isolated from mainstream thetan civilization and thrown into a concentration camp. I swore that I would find Larry Wollersheim and hang him up by his balls from chicken wire! My purposes have always been true and right for the Third Dynamic! How dare you draw a parallel between myself and someone so contemptuously evil!"

"The fact is, Steven, that if Hitler had been given the services of a Scientology auditor, he would have most likely been in a lot better case shape than you are presently. You have had nine years of Scientology, and look at what a grand mess your life is in! The Tech can never work on people with hidden, evil purposes, no matter how much auditing they have had! I am certain that Hitler could have rattled off thousands of false goals which he thought were going to better mankind. You are a million times more dangerous to us than Larry Wollersheim is right now. He can only harm us by costing us money. You are aligned with suppressives who seek to threaten our very survival!"

"How am I threatening our survival?", I asked, as bewildered as a rat sperm who was lost in an elephant's ovary.

"Frank and Humberto are much too angry to talk to you", she cautioned. "But this is no tea party that we are facing. Earle Cooley, the Commanding Officer of Legal Affairs International told Humberto the reality of your situation just this morning. If the United States Government can successfully link the Church of Scientology to your criminal charges, they can seize every bit of our property, including the Fort Harrison Hotel, under the provisions of their infamous RICO Act. That is the threat which you have hung over our heads!"

"What does RICO mean?", I asked.

"It is the worst disaster imaginable!", she trembled. "It means the Racketeering, Influence and Corrupt Organizations Act. It is the super-weapon which the Third Invader Forces of the terrorist Psych Government wants to use to shut us down! They have the absolute capability of confiscating every Scientology asset, including Flag itself with their suppressive RICO Act! Don't you realize that the Wog Government is using you to get to us? They don't give a damn about Mrs. Mamie Glutz from Keokuk, who lost a dollar and ninety-eight cents in the Freudian Power and Light class action lawsuit! Closing down the Church is what they want! That's why there is only one solution to this problem."

"As long as I don't have to plead guilty, I'll do anything you ask", I acknowledged. "Honestly Leah, I had no idea how serious this situation has become!"

Leah took her hand in mine, and put her other hand over it in an artificial show of tender mercy.

"The International Justice Chief has agreed with you that pleading guilty was not a good idea!", she smiled.

"That is wonderful!", I cheered. "What made him change his mind?"

"Quite simple!", she expressed. "The Government could still get their hands on you while you are in jail. They would just torture you with their usual assortment of psychiatric drugs and electric shocks, and after all is said and done, they could force you to testify against us anyway. You know how easy it was for the Nazi psychologist to hypnotize you over the years. The Government operates in the same way. Once you are under their thumb, they are going to go for our jugular vein. Paul Laquerre cannot take a chance of having such a dangerous thing happen."

"That is great news!", I raved. "So when can I go to the Freewinds and get out of the country? Did the International Justice Chief say anything to you about getting me a new post in Archives?" "No, I am afraid that you are missing the point", she added. "There is still the matter of your evil purposes and consequent insanity, which makes you an even greater risk to the Church than Larry Wollersheim! No, the International Justice Chief was very specific on what your Justice Handling must be."

"Well, I know that my Ethics are out right now, but at least I will have the chance to change all of that! What does he want me to do?", I inquired with apprehensive confusion.

"There is only one solution to all of this", she said stoically. "You are to do an End of Cycle of your current lifetime."

"You want me to commit suicide?", I gasped.

"It's very painless, I can assure you", she smiled. "L. Ron Hubbard was not a barbarian, you know. The Tech is quite clear on the ease and comfort with which the End of Cycle can be effected. We certainly aren't asking you to take an overdose of sleeping pills or slash your wrists. We don't use the uncivilized methods of psychiatry, even though they say that lethal injections can be most humane."

"How do you want me to kill myself, then?", I asked with great interest.

"The Helatrobic Effect is extremely clean and beautiful, and in fact is a balanced, natural way to ease out of your body", she stated soothingly with the calm tranquility of a master embalmer. "In fact, it is the exact way that L. Ron Hubbard dropped his own body on the 24th of January, 1986, after he finished his work on this planet. So you see, you are in excellent company!"

Helatrobus, according to Ron, was "an interplanetary nation with a little pip squeak government which didn't amount to very much." They were best known for the Helatrobus Implants, "called the heaven 126 implants"127, from which the false idea of there being a "heaven" came from. Ron describes the Helatrobus Implants as "implants which begin with electronic clouds over planets, and the dichotomy, plus and minus, and so forth."128 All of the wog ideas of right from wrong that are piled up in the reactive bank originated from those implants as well.

Now don't just pass all of this off as bizarre science fiction, because if you do that, then you should have your head examined. Despite the apparent unimportance of Helatrobus and their suppressive contribution to implanting by their psychiatrists, they gave us some excellent technology on permanently enforced exteriorization, which is a polite euphemism for willfully dropping the body or, suicide.

I was shown plenty of Source references on the more painful ways to kill myself, but Leah was much more of a humanitarian than to permit me to use any of those. She would never ask me to run Routine R2- 45, for example, which is described in The Creation of Human Ability as "An enormously effective process of exteriorization, but its use is frowned upon by society at this time."129 R2-45, of course, is shooting a bullet in the head.

Suicide is a very interesting topic in Scientology. The cause of suicide, according to the Admiral, is "Tearaculi Apathia Magnus", which he admittedly explains is "Latinated nonsense" for something called "the Sad Effect."130 Ron defines this when he states, "Neglecting or overwhelming an ARC Break, where the preclear shows anger or antagonism will cause the preclear to drop into the Sad Effect. This is a state of great sadness, apathy, misery and desire for suicide and death."131 In the Professional Course Lectures of the Hubbard Dianetic Foundation of Wichita, Kansas, Ron stated, "A person starts the cycle of action of suicide by saying "I'm going to kill myself." He has started a cycle of action right there, and he will go along for years trying to complete this action, until he finally sees a psychoanalyst and kills himself. Didn't you know that was what they were there for?"132

It was amidst all of this wisdom that Leah promptly briefed me on the proper technique I was to employ in order to end the useless life of my body during this time around.

"I want you to fully understand and duplicate that this necessary action of doing an End of Cycle is not to be construed that I have anything against you personally for having failed in life", she elaborated generously. "In the physical universe, bodies are used for identification purposes. Apparently, the Psych Government has latched on to yours as a mechanism of destroying Scientology. Once you are dead, they will be forced to drop all criminal charges against you, and life will go on exactly as before."

"That's true, except I won't be here!", I expounded with obvious awareness of my predicament.

"Well, that is as it should be!", she agreed. "Look on the bright side! You'll be a lot closer to Ron than the rest of us."

There was a lot of truth to that, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I listened carefully while Leah explained how the Helatrobic Effect worked. The process was very simple and indeed both painless and efficient.

"You inhale by taking a deep breath while holding your nose, and then swallow hard, forcing the oxygen swiftly into your brain", she instructed as she read from a confidential Bulletin. "You will feel somewhat light-headed and perhaps your ears will pop, but this is all very normal. Simply repeat the process over and over on your own determinism as rapidly as possible, until the End Phenomenon is reached."

I tried it once, and it was awesome! My head felt a flooding rush of air, and during the two or three seconds of the effect, I succumbed to a weightless, dizzying sensation of euphoria.

"That's not bad!", I exclaimed. "My brains seem to be floating around inside my skull!"

"Yeah, and people think that they need drugs to get high!", she derided mockingly. "Now here comes the important part! The idea of this process is not to allow any time to lapse between each routine. It is vital that you suck in your next breath while the effect of the first inhalation is still in your head. The longest it will take is maybe several hundred times if you do each routine rapidly and in succession."

"The longest it will take to do what?", I repeated. "What is the End Phenomenon of the drill? Does all of this lead to a suicide?", I asked intelligently.

"Let's not use the word suicide anymore", she reprimanded. "Let's call it an End of Cycle, which is Ron's favorite name for it."

"Okay, but what happens?", I persisted.

"Eventually, you induce a coma by flooding the brain with more oxygen than it can support or handle", she revealed with the aplomb of a laboratory party animal. "Now I don't want you making this data available to the public, because it would be a disaster if people who were stuck in the "Sad Effect" started taking their own lives before we had an opportunity to process them for neglected or overwhelmed ARC Breaks. It would be horrible if people died unnecessarily, not to mention the lost auditing income. With you, of course, it is a matter of security. I wish that there were another way to handle you, but things have gone way too far in your case. I am sure you realize that it is all for the best. Just remember to keep inhaling while holding your nose and then rapidly swallowing, time after time after time."

"Do you want me to start doing it now?", I asked, eager to begin the process.

"No! Certainly not!", she panicked. "I want you to do this at home, in your own bed! The last thing we want is to have you drop dead here at the Miami Org! The first action that your spiteful lawyer would take is to accuse us of murder! Use your common sense, for Source's sake!"

"It felt pretty nifty!", I confessed. "I never knew that death could be such a neat experience! Why is it called the "Helatrobic Effect", and how did Ron ever discover it?"

"Oh, that goes back to his days on the Apollo, the old Flag Ship of the early seventies", she stated nostalgically. Ron freely admits that he came across the Helatrobic Effect by accident. Some of the Sea Org members were doing the routine as a remedy for fatigue, because quite often they had to work in long, monotonous, twenty hour shifts. Sending a burst of oxygen to the brain was found to be an energy booster to several tired and overworked crew members. I often give myself a good swallow when I feel weak or down, so that Tech is still quite valid."

"Yeah, but how did it become a method for doing an End of Cycle?", I repeated with intense curiosity.

"Well, after one of the Sea Org crew members lapsed into a coma and died shortly thereafter, Mary Sue ordered a full investigation into the cause of death, whereupon the dead girl's roommate explained to the Commodore Staff Guardian personally that the deceased girl had been doing the Helatrobic Effect for at least a hundred times before she "passed out." When Ron researched the case, he discovered that the origin of the mechanism had come from the planet Helatrobus, where body death was not automatic and had to be artificially induced by utilizing this specific routine", Leah explained.

"How soon do you want me to complete the End of Cycle?", I inquired.

"Within the next twenty-four hours", she nodded with grave concern. "Your situation is becoming very critical. And don't leave any suicide notes either. The beauty part of the Helatrobic Effect is that an autopsy would reveal that your cause of death was a natural stroke. There are never any drugs used, or injuries to the body chemistry or flesh, so no foul play would ever be suspected. You can ease on out of this life with a lot more tranquility than you came into it!"

To assist me in getting the End of Cycle done as quickly as possible, Leah Abady ran me on a process known as the "Labor of Love" while I was in reverie, or a light hypnotic trance. She had me mock up a woman in labor, and then get into her valence, or synthetic personality, as she was pushing the baby out. The process called for me to bounce back and forth between being the mother in labor and being the baby as it was coming out of the birth canal, all the while running the beautiful joy of being born in a new body with a new time track ahead of me. Leah eventually directed me to stop being the woman in labor and to go completely into the valence of the newborn infant.

Although the process was often used as an "assist" for natural childbirth, in this case the "Labor of Love" was run on me so that I could more naturally confront the pressing need to drop my current body and pick up a new one.

"Is this really Standard Tech?", I asked Leah Abady quite suspiciously, as I had never seen a Source reference on the "Labor of Love" before.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding!", she sneered. "Do you really think that I would run a squirrel process on you?"

And Leah was right, as always. In the Hubbard Communications Office Bulletin of 1 March 1977 entitled "Confessional Forms", Ron cleared up any misgivings that I had. He wrote, "The best method is to write out a predetermined series of questions, as an additional thing, which is for that person particularly. You figure out about what their relationship to life has been, and then you write a little series of questions. You get the idea of what kind of life your preclear has been leading, what his professional and domestic zones are, and you adapt Confessional questions to that and you add it to standard forms."133

"Hey, that's great!", I said after I read the reference. "This allows auditors to do whatever they want in session; and as long as they follow the Auditor's Code, it still can be called Standard Tech! Why didn't they show me this Policy Letter when I was doing the Saint Hill Special Briefing Course three years ago? I could have probably talked a few of my female preclears into getting laid with stuff like this!"

Every one of my friends at the Miami Org had raving reviews about doing the End of Cycle. Ray Jourdain compared committing suicide to handling a bad dream and waking up a free being. Leona Grimm said that the Helatrobic Effect is a positive form of exteriorization that assists the pleasure centers of the brain in pushing the body out like unwanted garbage. Leah kept suggesting that I mock up "the beautiful joy of being one breath closer to Ron while running the routines", and my Case Supervisor Lisa Witt equated the End of Cycle with taking a short term loss on my current lifetime, which would in turn enable me to take a long term gain on any future existence that I might have. She was such a practical businesswoman when it came to the subject of death, and I adored her for that.

Of everyone who was pushing me for the End of Cycle, Humberto Fontana had the most sense of urgency about it. He was very anxious to strike a deal with me so that I would no longer remain indecisive about killing myself. As an added incentive, he ordered Leah to tell me that if I did the End of Cycle right away, I could return to life as the offspring of two very upstat Sea Org parents. It turned out that Humberto and his big mouth had talked himself out of a sale.

"Humberto can't guarantee that to me, Leah!", I argued. "That offer contradicts the data in the Time Pilot Rundown! What if I return to life in the middle ages and I am forced to kiss the ass of Jesus Christ for yet another lifetime!"

"The End of Cycle is something that Ron needs you to do right now", she persuaded with gentle causation, skirting the issue that I raised regarding the possibility of a time shift.

"That is bullshit!", I contested. "Ron didn't tell me to drop my body! The End of Cycle was ordered by the International Justice Chief, not the Admiral!"

"You ass!", she ensued. "How can you say a thing like that? Ron placed Paul Laquerre in charge to see that Justice is done on this planet now that he is busy Clearing the rest of the universe!", she explained.

"Why would he bother Clearing other planets when this one isn't fully Cleared yet?", I argued. "You can't tell me what Ron is doing, because I am in better communication with him than you are!"

"Look, let's not get into a bitter disagreement over this", she elicited sweetly. "You were ready to begin the End of Cycle earlier today. What could have possibly changed your mind?"

"I'm being shafted!", I screamed. "Ron never ordered me to pull my own plug! You have all ganged up on me as a matter of expediency! And do you know what? The truth of the matter is that I happen to agree with you! It's a lot easier to bury one's mistakes. I would gladly sacrifice my life for the Third Dynamic. I just need assurances that I will be able to go up the Bridge during my next time around. So, if you want me to do an End of Cycle, I want to know exactly who is going to stop Wollersheim from destroying this planet, and both how and when that will be done. I want you to find Pat Broeker who is hiding out under a rock somewhere, and get him to look up my auditing folder on the Time Pilot Rundown, since he is the custodian of those records. Finally, I want to know specifically how I can be guided through the Between Lives Area without doing a shift in time and space. I need answers, and until I get them, I am going to stay very much alive in this body, whether you like it or not!"

My indictment in San Francisco was scheduled for the 26th of September, and Humberto was deeply terrified of having a downstat if I were not totally dead by the time of that hearing. Leah kept giving me all the help that she could with her dedication and encouragement to do the right thing before it was far too late.

"You know that you have to complete the End of Cycle before your indictment", she confirmed with unexpressed sympathy. "Humberto is getting more ARC Broken with you every day, and the last thing that you should do under your present circumstances is make him angry."

"And if I don't kill myself, what will he do, shoot me?", I argued like a selfish bastard, without any consideration for Humberto's feelings.

"There are punishments a lot worse than body death", Leah warned.

"Is that a threat?", I cognited with the cantankerousness of catatonic candor.

"Take it any way you want to! But I'm warning you that staying alive may prove to be the biggest mistake of your life!", Leah added realistically. "There are states of unawareness on the bottom of the Tone Scale that would make ordinary death seem like a vacation in Disney World!"

"To hell with all of that!", I replied. "I am not taking my final curtain call without a Cleared planet, a dead Wollersheim, permission from Ron to die and a guarantee on who, when, where and how I will be coming back! You got that? Once you meet my demands, you can take my precious body and carve it up for the staff to eat during a bad week when there is no money left to buy them cat food!"

Very disturbed at the possible scenario of events, I asked the Minister of the Miami Org, Reverend Darrell Kirkland for a Chaplain's Cycle, in order to discuss various alternatives to my suicide.

"All I can do for you at this point is to help you overcome your fear of dying", Darrell whispered blissfully.

"Who the hell is afraid of dying?", I screeched. "I know that I am immortal! What I am afraid of, if you must know, is living again without Scientology, being stuck in the body of a paramecium on some distant planet that even the Emperor Xenu hasn't heard of!"

"The sun never sets on Scientology", Darrell smiled. "We will always be there for you no matter where you are, as long as you are there for us."

"Double-talking bullshit artist!", I thought to myself. "He is about as much help as an army of tapeworms eating the semen in my urethra during intercourse!"

In my continued frenzy for survival, I sent a Situation Report to Jeff Walker, a roly-poly chunky dwarf of a man who was the Case Supervisor International of the Flag Ship Service Organization aboard the Freewinds. I forwarded a duplicate to Alain Kartuzinski, the Case Supervisor of the Flag Service Organization at the Fort Harrison, but neither of those OT snobs ever answered me.

Furthermore, since I knew my rights as a thetan, I submitted a Petition to the International Justice Chief at the Last Court of Appeals of the Flag Operations Liaison Office, objecting to the Order forcing me to do an End of Cycle, and citing the Time Pilot Rundown and my sacred vows to Ron for a Cleared, de- Christianized planet, free from the threats of Larry Wollersheim's nuclear holocaust as the basis for my supporting arguments. I also stated that I was unable to drop my body until Dr. Geertz had been fully punished for killing my daughter Rivkalleh. I wish I still had a copy of my Petition to read to you, because it was simply marvelous. I explained to Paul Laquerre that my survival, rather than my demise, was the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics.

My Petition turned out to be a Catch-22, because no Petition to the International Justice Chief could be reviewed until all data that was suspect of being false had been subjected to a False Data Stripping, which was supposed to strip away the false data from the truth. Similarly, no preclear who was under a Justice Order had any right to be False Data Stripped of his false data until all of the terms of the Justice Order had been first complied with. In other words, after I killed myself, I could have my Petition reviewed.

On the other hand, the risks that I faced if I had complied with Paul Laquerre's Justice Order and actually carried out the End of Cycle were quite formidable. Had I permitted Larry Wollersheim to succeed in destroying the Earth by simply forgetting about it and burying my head in the ground, I might have wound up on New Arcturus, the closest planet to ours which could support physical life. But I sure didn't want to spend millions if not billions of years as a single-celled amoeba or a plankton, patiently waiting to go up the evolutionary spiral the way I have done for so many times over the last seventy-six trillion years. You may not know it, but the sex life of a plankton really sucks! The very thought of having Body Thetans attaching themselves to me who were my own size really turned my stomach. As I recall when that happened eons ago on Earth, they used to beat the shit out of me, which is probably why I have such a major problem with loose bowel movements in my current body right now!

All my loved ones in the Third Dynamic were extremely pissed off at me because I didn't kill myself. I was in a precarious position, since I understood how very right they were. However, they didn't have the foggiest notion why I had to stick around the world of the living. By the looks in their eyes, I knew that they thought I was a big coward who refused to follow orders, and this made me feel pretty damn rotten. But I owed my primary allegiance to Ron, and nothing was going to change my mind. I wasn't about to yield to peer pressure, despite the fact that I so desperately wanted to make them love me again. I was such a stubborn bastard, though.

"What's the good of being the Antichrist when everybody hates your guts?", I asked myself in shame.

Michael Hambrick especially had a conniption fit when the Suppressive Declare of Peter Letterese was reversed, and Peter was rehabilitated as a Scientologist in good standing. Frank Thompson had been terrified that he would cooperate with my attorney, and he was not willing to take that chance. As always, Peter came out the big winner, because all of his sins, debts and transgressions against the Church were forever forgiven. Michael, however, was unable to be that charitable toward Peter after having been starved by him and having seen Peter steal so much money from the Mission; and it was insult added to injury now that Peter was allowed to remain virtually unpunished. As a result of that, Michael Hambrick never spoke to me again, and to this day, he harbors one of the most vindictive grudges against me that the world has ever known. He didn't even send me a birthday card last year.

Frustrated, abandoned and a traitor to my Org, I went to San Francisco to be indicted. While I sat idly by as Marc Nurik entered my "Not Guilty" plea, I promised Ron that one of my first duties as the Antichrist will be to force every attorney, prosecutor and judge to spend one hundred hours in an auditing chair for every minute that they wasted in a court of law, in order to make them finally take some responsibility for all their lies and crimes against humanity.

After spending the following day touring the defunct but now public Federal Penitentiary at Alcatraz, I put on my worst clothes, bought a loaf of seedless rye bread, and went down to Golden Gate Park in order to have a heart to heart talk with the pigeons. I knew that bread containing any kind of seeds would give the birds diarrhea, and I felt bad enough that I had a rotten case of it myself most of the time. When over a hundred of them surrounded me to get the squab's share of the dough, I realized how wonderful it was to have them as real friends. At least somebody loved me, even though they were of a different species and not Scientologists at all, as far as I could tell.

I was still able to run a pretty hot TR-3, auditing my flock on "Do Birds Fly" and getting them to execute the auditing commands by flapping their wings each time that I threw the bread a little bit further and further away.

Suddenly a tiny squirrel jumped up next to me on the park bench, begging for a piece.

"I bet you are glad that I didn't commit suicide", I said as I gave him a whole slice to take home to his family. It could have been my imagination, but he appeared to wink at me in a gesture of thanks.

"Don't mention it!", I answered humbly. "I'm one of you guys now."


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