Lonesome Squirrel

by Steven Fishman

24: Earning The Protection Of The Church


It didn't take long for the International Justice Chief to see the writing on the wall. After all, a trial date was set in San Francisco for the 26th of June, 1989. The squirrels for the defense were planning to wreak havoc on Scientology, and if there was anyone who could permanently stop them, it was me.

"I have some interesting news for you", Frank Thompson said.

"You're going to let me custom-design the color scheme of my rock", I guessed, "or is it just going to be plain old invisible?"

"That kind of sarcasm will never get you anywhere", he warned. "The Irrevocable Ethics Order cannot be reversed. You know that as well as I do. But there is such a thing as a billion-year postponement for Sea Org members who have signed a billion-year employment contract."

"Well, I suppose that leaves me out too!", I reckoned. "I can't qualify for the Sea Org from the Ethics Condition of Confusion."

"Actually, I haven't told you, but after you convinced Rita Hipps to write that helpful letter which threatened your life, I upgraded you to Treason. And recently, when you wrote those Knowledge Reports about Muggy's pedophilia and Ofshe's drug habit, I raised you again to the status of Enemy."

I was so happy that I thought I died and had fallen into Ron's thetan arms.

"I'm all the way back up to Enemy?", I cheered. "Wow!"

"Now, there's more to it!", Frank encouraged. "You can also earn the protection of the Church by protecting the Church. That is the only way you are ever going to move up the Ethics Conditions. You realize that you have to be all the way up at Emergency before you can even be accepted for membership in the Sea Org, don't you?"

"I can do it!", I reassured him. "Oh, what a dream come true this is!"

"The International Justice Chief has given you only thirty days to prove yourself and create enough upstats by taking responsibility for your overt acts and get up through Emergency. This is a real war going on here. I swore to you that this case will never come to trial. The worst thing you could ever do is make me wrong."

"Never!", I shrieked. "You have always been right on the money! I still need to know something, Frank. If I am able to qualify for the Sea Org and I am accepted for a billion year hitch, what will happen when the billion years is over? Time goes very fast when you are producing well on post. A billion years is no more than a speck on the track of time."

"I assume your beingness would be terminated after that", Frank concluded. "Of course, a lot of it depends upon your performance during the billion year contract; that is to say, if you are invited to join the Sea Org in the first place. If you have any downstats during the billion years, they certainly wouldn't permit you to renew your contract a second time. So therefore your standard of operation will be monitored a lot more closely than other Sea Org members who do not have Irrevocable Ethics Orders hanging over their heads."

"It looks like it's going to be next to impossible", I sighed.

"That, I'm afraid, is entirely up to you", Frank wheezed disinterestedly. "I really don't give a damn about what happens to you after our little cycle is fully handled. As far as I'm concerned, you are nothing but trouble!"

And so I embarked upon my new career as a one-man equalizer of degraded beings and suppressives.

"I may be the only true Guardian on the planet who is left!", I cognited to myself as I awaited the details of my Battle Plan.

It was so much easier to hate the squirrels while I was around the Org. Marc, Uwe, Richard and Muggy seemed so normal while I was in their company, which did not say much for my own perception of reality. Leah raised my ability to confront them by directing me to make clay figures of my four enemies and then slash them to pieces with a knife. After the fiftieth time that I rebuilt the statuettes and immediately carved them up, I felt that I was able to tackle the real thing if need be. Even after so many years of practice, it was incredible how working on the clay table was still able to pump up my body's adrenaline. It never made any sense why health clubs and fitness centers never encouraged their customers to stab some clay before each workout. Wogs seemed to know so little about life.

My first assignment was to take photographs of Marc Nurik's Jaguar and Patty Kyle's Volvo. It was very important that we had current up-to-date files on their automobiles, in case that either of the squirrel attorneys had to be followed, or in the likely event that their cars had to be set on fire or blown up. To get extra credit with Frank, I took some really neat close-ups of their license plates.

But as I started to devote my every waking hour to squirrel patrol, my dedication took its toll on my social life. There were nights that I had no time to see Dusty because I was too busy plotting on how to destroy Marc Nurik, and I actually had to turn the girl down.

In a fit of spite, Dusty told me that Lisa Lawson had given birth to my son on December the 8th, 1988, and that she had since checked out of North Miami General Hospital without even giving me a chance to see the baby. Lisa was embarrassed about asking me to visit my son because I was one of her former clients. Nevertheless, the hurt was too much for me to bear.

"Why didn't you tell me about it when Lisa was in the hospital?", I asked Dusty angrily.

"I was going to mention it on the night you were too busy with your Scientology outer space weirdo aliens to see me!", she complained. "Now you'll never get to meet your dorky kid!"

His name was Blake Elmowitz, of all things. The adoptive parents took the name Blake from the John Forsythe character of Blake Carrington on the television show Dynasty!

"What kind of dynasty will I have if my son never becomes a Scientologist?", I cried to Ray Jourdain. "I can't even sue the Elmowitzes for paternity because of my stupid insanity defense in the criminal case!"

"It serves you right!", Ray snapped. "You can't have it both ways! You can't be sane enough to take care of a baby while your SP lawyer claims you are crazy. I hope you can now see how the psychs were responsible for depriving you of your own son!"

"They will pay for it with their lives!", I vowed in a scathing tone of rage.

Humberto still didn't like me very much, although Frank had prevailed upon him to mellow out a little bit. He was a hot-blooded Cuban, and there were times that he even got on Frank's nerves because of his melodramatic outbursts and constant swearing.

"You don't have that much time to fart around with your postponement", Humberto declared with an air of long-windedness. "Your only chance is to prove once and for all to the asshole Government that the Church of Scientology is the victim in this stupid criminal wog bog that you conveniently wrapped us up in."

"Humberto, just tell me how I can help out and I'll put my best foot forward", I promised limply.

"You need to leave irrefutable evidence which will allow the psychiatric Feds to fully duplicate with certainty that you are the criminal!", he decreed. "There is no other way to get into the Sea Org, and that's a fact!"

"How could you even think of going to trial?", asked the Flag Banking Officer Leona Grimm, who happened to be reviewing her stats in Humberto's office at the time. "No sane Scientologist would ever trust a wog jury to sit in judgment over him."

"Yes, that's true", I admitted, "but as you know, my lawyer is pleading that I am insane, not sane."

Leona growled at me with fierce savagery.

"At the moment you allowed Marc Nurik to do that, you have given Ron a vicious slap in the face!", she recoiled.

"How can you say a thing like that?", I cried. "I love the Admiral with my life!"

"Ron defines insanity as "The overt or covert but always complex and continuous determination to harm or destroy"144", Leona reverberated emphatically. "By allowing your lawyer to assert that sickening defense, it is tantamount to admitting before Source and the rest of the theta universe that you wish to harm and destroy all eight dynamics! How wonderful do you think that makes Ron feel after all he has done for you?"

"Marc Nurik can say whatever the hell he wants to about my sanity", I replied. "If I am called to testify under oath, I will tell the jury that Marc and the psychs are all insane, which they are, and I will have the Tech and the Policy to prove it! Furthermore, I will demonstrate to the jury that they are all crazy too for having the audacity to sit in judgment over Malchoot! How could a panel of raw meat wogs be otherwise? They will be forced to disqualify themselves from the case, because I can only get a fair trial from a tribunal of Scientologists who have the insight to know and understand my struggle."

"If the criminal case ever gets that far, I feel very sorry for you!", Leona blurted didactically. "And I'll be damned if I'm going to allow your bastard lawyer to turn that mockery of Justice into a Scientology witch hunt!"

"You'd better start thinking of ways to make it into the Sea Org rather than into court", Humberto cautioned, "because whether you realize it or not, if you are dragged before a jury of insanely sick dead-in-the-head puppies, half those idiots will hate you because they are suppressed by their own psychiatrists, while the balance of them will detest you because they are brainwashed drones and junkies of the Slaughterhouse Christ."

Leona affectionately placed her hand on my shoulder which quietly made her tits wiggle.

"You will never be convicted of anything if you are safely spirited away into the sanctuary of the Sea Org, helping to Clear the planet by getting Ethics in solidly and handling suppression on Earth", she vowed.

"He hasn't earned that right yet!", Humberto yelled, pushing Leona away from me as if he were jealous of her attention. "And he won't be qualified to sign a billion year contract until he destroys the SPs and their illegal insanity defense!"

And although Humberto was evidently full of purpose, it was Frank Thompson who, once again, came to my rescue with a viable Battle Plan.

"Fishman, you have got to force Marc Nurik to withdraw from your case", he commanded. "You must make him resign as your attorney."

"Would that get me into the Sea Org?", I inquired brightly.

"Just like the Bridge, Ethics can only be climbed one step at a time", he indicated. "Humberto just received a telex from Tim Bowles, the Legal Director for the Office of Special Affairs International. It's Tim's legal opinion that if Marc Nurik becomes your victim, then there would be a conflict of interest, since he would have to testify against you, and he would be forced by the court to immediately withdraw from representing you as legal counsel. Does that make any sense?"

"Yeah, and it's about time that Marc was a little victimized, after the big third degree that he and his psychs have put me through since my arrest!", I acknowledged with a bucket-load of sour grapes.

"So what you have to do, Steve, is threaten his life where the filthy troublemaker really gets the message", Frank suggested with amazing perspective and aplomb.

"Hey, I can't just walk into his office and tell him that his days are numbered", I protested. "He might take it the wrong way and call the police on me!"

"No, I want you to do what you do best -- send him an anonymous threatening letter!", Frank smiled.

"I used to flood the mailboxes of psychiatrists with death threats when I was in the Guardian's Office", I recollected with a faint tinge of sentimental illness. "That was one of my specialties! I miss those wonderful, nostalgic times."

"Well, guess what?", he laughed. "Happy days are here again!"

And so, Frank came up with a marvelous idea for me to type out a mocked-up letter from "Shawn Morrison, the Legal Director of Golden Era Productions", stating that Marc Nurik's current wife would be paying a visit to his first wife, who I had discovered from my attorney was unremarkably dead.

Frank's brainstorm to use the name of a Scientology lawyer from the Golden Era Productions Org was a great one!

"No FBI agent would ever believe that a legitimate attorney was involved with sending a death threat to another lawyer", Frank explained. "They will know from day one that the letter was a fake and that no Scientologist ever wrote it!"

To spice things up a bit, I also threatened Marc that he would "have an automobile accident involving his Jaguar" in the same letter, which was followed by friendly advice "from one attorney to another" to withdraw as my lawyer because "it always pays to take clients that are upstats", and "it is never too late to drop a downstat."

There were some delicate nuances, such as when I spelled the name "Marc Nurik" incorrectly as "Mark Nurick", in order to throw him off guard temporarily, at least until the shit hit the fan.

"The letter is a work of art", I boasted. After all, there was no one around who was willing to toot my horn with flattery except me.

Frank completely agreed, and gave it the "Good Squirrelbashing Seal of Approval", and also had a fantastic idea on how the letter should be mailed.

"Are you certain that Steve Goldberg knows exactly where Dusty Hipps lives?", Frank asked before revealing his secondary plan to me.

"I am sure of it!", I replied.

"And what about Dusty --", he continued. "Are you positive that she has been arrested and her fingerprints are on file with the Broward County Court?"

"She's been pulled in at least three times for prostitution that I know about", I explained. "Frank, she's a damn good hooker! I mean, she's a professional! It's only when she gets strung out on crack that she gets careless and propositions those stupid undercover cops. Those jerks are constantly depriving the poor girl from earning a decent living!"

"Spare me the gory details", Frank interrupted callously. "I am not interested in her pathetic woes. I just want to be certain that if she puts her fingerprints on the envelope of your letter that it will leave a trail for the FBI Third Invader Forces to find her."

"Ah, so you want Dusty to mail the threatening letter to Marc!", I cognited. "You are one super sleuth! The FBI will know for sure that the idea had nothing to do with anyone at the Org! Wow, you think of everything!"

"I'm only wearing my hat and doing my job", Frank stated with feigned humility.

"But there's only one problem!", I argued. "When Bill Kemp discovers that Dusty mailed the letter, he might go and ask her about it! She could get into trouble for putting the envelope in the mail box if it contains a death threat! Then, if they hold her for questioning, who am I going to get to sleep with me? It's hard to find a girl in this day and age who lets you screw her for twenty-five dollars without a rubber."

"Come on, Steve", Frank said assuredly. "Dusty only cares about Dusty. She'll tell Bill Kemp that you put her up to it, and nothing will happen to her at all. Anyhow, I can't be responsible for your aberrated sex life."

"Are you really sure that she won't get in trouble?", I repeated.

"Damn it, Fishman!", Frank grunted. "You are wearing my patience very thin again! You seem to be more worried about your little stick-figure whore than about getting yourself into the Sea Org!"

In an outburst of rage, Frank ordered me to be Security Checked once again by Leah Abady.

It was worse than I thought.

The Security Check revealed that I had some evil-purposed human emotion of remorse about threatening Marc Nurik!

"You admire that squirrel bastard, don't you?", Leah challenged in a highly agitated state of psychotic disarray.

"No, I swear to Source that I hate him!", I cringed in terror.

"That's not what my E-Meter says!", she argued. "You have a lot of "counter- intention" when it comes to that son of a bitch! The meter's Tone Arm doesn't lie about things like that!"

So, in order to help me hate Marc a lot more, Leah threw me into a "boil-off", which according to Ron, is "a state of unconsciousness produced by a confusion of effort impinging upon one area, whereby the preclear becomes groggy and seems to go to sleep."145

In all my years of being a Scientologist, I never understood the difference between being in an unconscious boil-off and drifting into a hypnotic trance, because having been deeply immersed in both states by my auditors as well as by Dr. Geertz, they sure as hell felt like the same damn thing.

Leah induced the boil-off after putting me in reverie in order to have me mock up a highly disturbing scene of Marc Nurik raping my two young daughters, and in order to assist me in confronting Marc's evil purposes, Leah had me run the entire shocking sequence of the rape scene, directing me to fill in all the blank spots that I was unwilling to look at while having me reach and withdraw from the incident. Although my daughters were bleeding and hemorrhaging while Marc had a vicious, sadistic grin on his face, I was forced to review those horrible mental image pictures for what seemed like hundreds of times. I started free-wheeling during the boil off, which meant that I could not back out of the unpleasant incident even though I tried harder than hell to do so.

Despite the fact that I was a captive audience in an unconfrontable, shocking screenplay of my two innocent children being brutally attacked by that bastard barrister, I had to continue to recall the incident over and over again until I was able to move through it comfortably and it was fully flattened with a floating needle on the E-Meter.

In my Success Story, I wrote that I perceived Marc as an impotent and monstrous beast who was jealous of me because he could not have any children of his own.

"I am going to chop his slimy cock off!", I screamed in pain when it was all over. "If he bleeds to death, I'll pour battery acid all over him, just to make the agony a little more intense!"

"Now you're talking like the good old Steven that I know and love", Leah praised, quite proud of my appropriate reactions to Marc's unspeakable devilment.

"Leah, what Marc did in session was so horribly vivid!", I confessed, as my beleaguered brain reeked with a smelly discharge of wretched retch as my brow was submerged in a bottomless pool of sweat.

Miss Abady was quite taken with herself, having been so successful at causing me to foam at the mouth.

"What if I have nightmares about the rape?", I trembled.

"I hope to hell that you do!", she persisted. "Maybe then you won't forget about it so easily!"

Back in Frank's office, we set up our goals for the Battle Plan.

Frank courageously banged a Chinese chopstick on my knuckles like a drill sergeant who wanted to drum the point home.

"That hurt!", I complained.

"Next time I'll use a fork instead", he whispered politely.

Undaunted, Frank pulled out a manila envelope from his desk with some scribbled notes tucked neatly within.

"Our short term goal is to get Nurik to turn the threatening letter over to the FBI", he continued. "Our long term goal is to get him fired as your squirrel attorney. Do you understand that?"

"Hey, maintaining good ARC with my Ethics Officer was always one of my top priorities!", I quivered. "I had damn well better understand it!"

"Make sure that you do", Frank warned sternly as he goaded me in the chest with the chopstick before breaking it into two pieces under my nose.

"From what part of town do you want Dusty to mail Marc this letter?", I asked, hoping to loosen Frank up by changing the subject.

"I want it postmarked from Coral Gables, somewhere right near here", he said. "It has to look as if you are trying to set us up at the Org!"

"But Shawn Morrison of Golden Era Productions is in Los Angeles!", I objected. "The FBI will know right away that the letter is a fake!"

"That's the general idea, isn't it?", he remarked. "But the Federal terrorists move slower than a herd of turtles. It will take them at least six months to a year to investigate Dusty. Bill Kemp never had any auditing. He can't possibly be very intelligent."

"He looks like a Baptist goon, but I wouldn't underestimate him!", I cautioned with care.

"Oh, nonsense!", Frank scoffed. "He's just a plain old degraded raw meat Third Invader wog in a modern-day cowboy valence with an evil purpose! The FBI agent is just one more of the psychiatrist's blundering pawns dramatizing a hunger for death, that's all."

Frank showed me some of Ron's references on FBI agents. In the Hubbard Communications Office Bulletin entitled "The Criminal Mind", Ron describes the FBI agent along with the psychiatrist as the true criminal.

"The FBI agent or executive accuses others of graft and even sets up "abscams" to manufacture the crime. But an FBI agent regularly pockets money supposed to be paid to informers and then screams to protect informer sources that do not exist.

The FBI agent is terrified of being infiltrated and accuses others of it when, as standard practice, he infiltrates groups, manufactures evidence and then gets others charged for crimes his own plants have committed.

The FBI acts like a terrorist group posing as law enforcement officers. Their targets seem to be legislators and Congress and public individuals who might someday have power over public opinion, such as Martin Luther King, Jr.

The Criminal Mind relentlessly seeks to destroy anyone it imagines might expose it. You have to be very alert when criminals are around.

J. Edgar Hoover, who organized the present FBI and is still deified by it -- they have his name in huge, brass letters on Washington, D.C.'s biggest thoroughfare -- and that town doesn't even have the names of former presidents up in lights -- has been shown by subsequent records to have been a blackmailer and traitor to his country. He carefully, personally sat on the information for four months that Pearl Harbor was going to happen. Right up to the U. S. entrance into World War Two, he was autographing his photo for pals in the deadly German SS.

Doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists and the Government form a tight clique. Only the Government would support such people as the public hates them."146

"Their evil purposes make them thoroughly inefficient", Frank reported as he kept raving on and on at a mad rate about the FBI. "But Marc Nurik on the other hand is shrewd and lethal. Yet how you could have crawled into bed with someone who was willing to invalidate your sanity in front of a bunch of psychotic FBI agents, Federal Prosecutors and jurors is beyond my wildest comprehension!"

"Mine too!", I agreed. "I'll be the first one to admit that I have been acting like a fucking idiot!"

"Does a squirrel who thinks you are crazy deserve such loyalty and respect?", he asked as I lowered my head in ghastly shame.

"No, and it's time that I did something about that perverted child molester!", I screamed.

"But he's not the only one we have to neutralize!", Frank asserted. "You read the Source reference on FBI agents. That Third Invader Nazi-loving criminal Kemp who planted his telephone spy recorder in your apartment has to be taught a valuable lesson too!"

"Did you ever see him?", I asked. "He's got the face of a pig, just like Jesus! And he wears a wig that's probably full of head lice."

"Well, we're going to fix him and his stinking plot to gather incriminating evidence against the Church", Frank swore unrelentlessly. "And I've got just the Battle Plan that will knock him in the gut!"

"Maybe I can mail him a threatening letter too", I offered.

"No, I've got something far better than that!", Frank swooned with great glee. "Having Dusty mail the letter to Marc will get you moved up from Enemy to Doubt, but I've got a big surprise for you. How would you like to rocket your way all the way up through Liability into Non-Existence, so that Sea Org contract will be nearly within your grasp?"

"Oh, Frank!", I melted. "Just lay it on me and whatever you want is all yours!"

He commanded that I read Ron's Liability Formula, or better stated, the way to get through the Ethics Condition of Liability into the next higher Condition of Non-Existence.

The first part of the Liability Formula was to "Decide who are one's friends."147 That was easy. My friends were Ron, Frank, Humberto, Leah and the rest of the Miami Org staff, and my enemies were Marc Nurik, the psychs, the FBI, the Federal Government, and of course Jesus.

Next, Ron wrote, "Deliver an effective blow to the enemies of the group one has been pretending to be part of despite personal danger."148

Just map out my route and I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow their house down!", I promised allegorically, having plagiarized that little ditty from somewhere else.

In point three, the Admiral advised me to "Make up the damage one has done by personal contribution far beyond the ordinary demands of a group member",149 after which I could "Apply for re-entry to the group by asking the permission of each member of it to rejoin, and rejoining only by majority permission, and if refused, repeating steps two, three and four until one is allowed to be a group member again."150

"Does that mean that I have to write a personal letter to every hat and post in the Miami Org?", I asked. "That could take such a long time!"

"Let's not jump the gun, shall we?", Frank bellowed. "First, why don't you get up to that point by making that "personal contribution far beyond the ordinary demands of a group member" that Ron is talking about."

Frank's Battle Plan gave me a chance to do the most heroic deed that I had ever done since I rescued Ron's documents while Lavenda's sister was properly and suitably raped.

The special mission involved creating a telephone script which, of all the spiffy things possible, threatened my own miserable life! The plan called for the threat to be recorded on Bill Kemp's surveillance tape machine and then turned over to the FBI, whereby I would claim to be the "poor little innocent victim of foul play", crying wolf to my heart's delight!

"This is fabulous!", I whooped. "I can put together a whole scenario and have someone else tell me what a worthless piece of shit I have been, and how I don't deserve to live!"

"You of all people really belong in the 'Better Dead Club'!", Frank agreed.

"What's the 'Better Dead Club'?", I asked inquisitively.

"Ron talked about the 'Better Dead Club" in one of his Group Processing Sessions called "Survive and Succumb", Frank recalled cynically. He said, "Now we're going to elect membership to the Better Dead Club."151 Steve, you should be the "Grand Master of the Better Dead Club."152 The Grand Master was always the most degraded being who was the best dead of all!"

Of course, even Scientology has its mythology.

Just like Christ's stupid Easter Bunny and his fake Santa Claus, there was never really any Grand Master of the Better Dead Club. No matter what Frank said, not even I had that esteemed honor.

"I want you to write a prolific script threatening your own life, and then have that wog pimp who farms out your whore girlfriend call you on the phone and read it back to you verbatim", Frank ordered as Humberto Fontana and Bob Levy were glued to their seats, listening intently. Bob Levy, as you may recall, was the Executive Director of the Miami Org.

"You want Dusty's boyfriend Shane Johnson to read the dialogue?", I laughed, questioning his profound wisdom.

"Yes, Shane will be just fine", Frank agreed.

"But he's an illiterate idiot!", I protested. "He talks worse than Sylvester Stallone did in Rocky! He could never get away with sounding like an upstat Scientologist!"

"Sylvester Stallone's brother Frank Stallone is way up there on the Bridge at Celebrity Center", Bob Levy informed me. "In fact, he was the lead singer on "The Road To Freedom" record album and video tape."

"Yeah, but Shane Johnson is a dope fiend pimp who is both drunk and high all the time!", I panicked. "He's a crack addict! I don't know if the shmuck can even read! At any rate, his TRs would be one big flub! We've got to use someone else."

"You're using him!", Humberto howled. "If you want to improve his telephone manners or his acting ability, spend a few minutes running him through the Professional TR Course. But this mission has to be completed by tonight!"

"A few minutes?", I cried in shock. "It took me a couple of weeks to get through the TRs properly when I did them!"

"Well, I guess we're not looking for your brand of perfection, are we Frank?", Humberto snickered.

"Shane Johnson is being selected for a reason, Steve", Bob Levy explained rationally. "We don't want the FBI to think that a real Scientologist made a call threatening your life. The one who phones you has to sound like a raw meat wog idiot or the whole mission will blow up in our faces!"

"Oh, so that's it!", I cognited as a light bulb clicked on in my head. "He has to sound dumb on purpose!"

"Not dumb as much as real woggy", Bob elaborated. "But what makes this plan so wonderful is that you will have an exact copy of the script, and your TRs will be perfect while his will be somewhat pitiful!"

"The FBI is going to recognize it as a scam too quickly", I protested.

"Not at all!", Bob continued. "Anyway, it's up to you. You are the star of this whole drama! Shane is only your stooge. As stupid as Shane sounds, I want you to come across as being totally genuine, realistic and believable. There has to be some very powerful contrast between the way you outflow your lines and the way Shane mucks up his. How else will the FBI know that you have been jerking them around? Otherwise, this facade can backfire and Bill Kemp will come looking for us! As a group they are pretty imbecilic, and they might just take this cockeyed thing seriously!"

"There's something else", Frank added. "Besides the death threat, I also want you to fake a hypnosis session!"

"What?", I gasped.

"You know", Bob answered. "Pretend to be hypnotized, hopefully like you do when you visit Herr Kommandant Fritz or whatever the name of your Nazi shrink is."

"Dr. Geertz", I corrected.

"Whatever", Bob miffed. "Write up some crappy mumbo jumbo hocus pocus where Shane puts you into a boil-off or in reverie --"

"Use the word hypnosis, Bob!", Frank interrupted.

"All right", Bob conceded. "So put together a dialogue where Shane gets you "drifting deeper and deeper" like your psych does, and I want you to really fake getting hypnotized. Lower your voice tones and talk slower. Damn it, I don't know how it's done! Just keep your TRs in and pretend to be a brainwashed psychiatric droid, I guess. You know how to act like an electrically shocked zombie, don't you?"

"After eighteen years of therapy with Dr. Geertz, I can certainly handle something as simple as this!", I bragged proudly. "I can train Shane to sound one hundred percent identical to that swastika swami."

"Well, that's not exactly it. The script has to dramatize a hypnosis session where Shane sounds very fake and you come across as positively spaced out", Bob outlined. "Have him mispronounce a few Jewish words too, for added effect."

"Jewish words?", I repeated in bewilderment.

"Uh-huh, like the word 'Kaddish'", he said. "Do you know that word? It means the "Prayer for the Dead". There's got to be one of those in a death threat, don't you think?"

"But Shane isn't Jewish!", I said. "That's just the point!", Bob giggled. "Neither is Sylvester Stallone! The word "Kaddish" is usually pronounced "Coddish", so have him say it like "Coe-dish", just to make sure that the FBI agent realizes that the entire thing is a farce."

"But that stupid Southern hillbilly Kemp doesn't know how the word "Kaddish" is pronounced anyhow!", I objected. "All he knows about is guns, country, apple pie and Jesus!"

"Steven, you are forgetting a very important thing!", Frank interrupted. "All of this garbage is going to be recorded on the FBI spy tape recorder. Whatever you want Bill Kemp to know about "Kaddish", you can simply tell him! You'll have ample time later on to make sure that the Third Invader Force didn't miss any of our little clues or nuances."

Bob Levy looked like he was in a deep trance. He wasn't very happy about the telephone script as it stood.

"Forget about having Scott threaten your life, Steve", he said. "I've eliminated that from the dialogue. I don't want you to come across as a victim at all. No, I have a better idea. It is far more convincing if you stay in the valence of a perpetrator. Here is the best possible scenario -- Shane hypnotizes you and you agree to kill your psychologist and Marc Nurik! Now that can really fly! So let's go over it all again with these changes."

"Okay, so I'm supposed to write this mocked-up script and give Shane a copy of it; and then direct him to call me up on the phone and read it to me. According to the revised Battle Plan, Shane pretends to be a Sea Org staff member named "Scott" who puts me under hypnosis and gives me a hypnotic suggestion that I go out and buy a gun with cash and then afterward kill Marc Nurik and Uwe Geertz by putting a bullet in each of their heads. That seems easy enough", I acknowledged. "I wish that I had the ability to confront doing all of that! Ridding the planet of lice like the rapist and the Nazi would definitely be the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics! Oh, yeah -- I'll have to pay Shane ten bucks or so to make the call, I suppose, won't I?"

"You'll have to pay him a little more than that", Humberto hinted.

"Why?", I wondered. "I can get him to nearly kiss my ass for ten dollars."

"The call has to be made from Coral Gables, near the Org", Frank told me, catching me by surprise.

"Whoa!", I babbled. "Do I have to drive Shane all the way to Coral Gables from West Hollywood? That's like twenty miles."

"I'm afraid so", Bob bobbed.

"But if I drive Shane to Coral Gables, how is he going to be able to call me at my home in Fort Lauderdale? How can I be in two places at once? Fort Lauderdale is an hour away!", I reasoned, completely puzzled, befuddled and confused.

"Are you that stupid?", Humberto asked. "You are going to have to drop him off in Coral Gables, drive back home, receive his call, then drive back to Coral Gables, pick him up and then you can dump him in the river if you want to! I don't give a shit what you do with your wog pimp after the call is made and the mission is completed. You can even sleep with him for all I care!"

"But look at the tremendous running around I'll have to do!", I complained. "Plus, how do I get Shane to stay in one place for an hour until I arrive home? You don't know how restless he is! People on drugs can never sit still for very long."

"If you expect to get into the Sea Org, you'll just have to figure all those details out!", Frank surmised.

"Shane is your responsibility, not ours!", Bob Levy added.

"I told you that you'll have to pay Shane a lot more than ten bucks", Humberto gloated, pointing his finger at my nose as if he wanted to pick it.

"Remember to take five dollars worth of quarters along for the long distance phone call", Frank reminded.

"Hey, how the hell can I get Shane to do all of that?", I stated with deep frustration. "I guess I'll have to bring Dusty with us to keep him occupied."

"You've got to take Dusty along, you idiot!", Humberto blasted. "She has to mail that threatening letter to Marc Nurik! Did you forget about that already? How can you be that much of an asshole!"

"It's just a lot of data to assimilate at once", I apologized.

"Just take your wogs to a restaurant like Denny's", Bob suggested. "By them a cheap dinner or something. The hour it takes you to drive home will go by much quicker for them if they are eating, and then Shane can call you on a full stomach. Does the pimp have a watch?"

"How should I know?", I yelled. "I guess he does. I sure am not going to buy him one; you'd better believe that! He can ask somebody for the time if he doesn't know it. This deal is going to run me a lot of money, you'll see. Shane is going to hit me up for forty, maybe fifty dollars!"

"So the whole thing might cost you sixty bucks from soup to nuts by the time you get through with it", Frank clamored. "Big deal! Just think of how nice it will be to move up to Non- Existence!"

"I'll have to synchronize the time and everything!", I mumbled to myself although they probably heard me.

"Steve, you are going to be a hero!", Bob cheered. "After the SPs are handled, the FBI agent can go back to his normal routine, accepting payoffs from drug dealers and chasing Israeli spies."

"But don't you think that they might get mad at me for playing a role in threatening the squirrels, once they sift through all the bullshit and figure out that one and one makes two?", I asked.

"You are jumping the gun again!", Frank stammered. "Initially, the FBI will never think that you drove Shane all the way to Coral Gables to make the call. They have a trace on your phone line, so they'll definitely be able to find out the telephone number it was made from. It will be at least six months before they realize that you had anything to do with it, and if you play your cards right, you will be safely out of the country by then."

"Just tell Shane to make the call from Denny's Restaurant", Bob insisted. "He's a raw meat idiot, and you have to keep the instructions very simple or he'll fog up on you."

From the look on his face, something ominous was disturbing to Humberto.

"Steve is a criminal and a liar!", he said. "What is to prevent him from merely saying that Shane made the call to him, if Steve just decides to simply lie about it?"

"Oh, I've thought of that!", Frank chuckled. "I don't trust Fishman as far as I could throw him, and he damn well knows it!"

"You're all talking about me as if I weren't here!", I complained. "I hate when you do that!"

"Who gives a damn what you like, you ignorant moron!", Humberto replied, on the verge of losing his temper again.

"Chill out, Humberto! The handling is quite simple", Frank explored. "Steve has to bring me a copy of the cassette tape that he is going to give the FBI. If I don't hear the sound of happy quarters dropping into the coin slot after three minutes of telephone time, then I'll know that he is screwing around with us, and he won't stand a chance in hell of making it to the Freewinds!"

"But what is to prevent him from duplicating a copy of the tape for you and then not giving it to Bill Kemp?", Humberto argued.

Frank Thompson just smiled.

"If I have a copy of the conversation, and if Steve doesn't hand it over to the Government, then I will!", he explained. "A Security Check will always let me know what really happened. And if Steve tries to eliminate anything from the cassette or alter it in any way while re-recording it, I'll know about that too."

"And I don't want you to start disseminating Scientology to Dusty or Shane either!", Humberto shouted. "If I find out that they have been bragging to the FBI or anyone else about their vast knowledge of the Eight Dynamics or the ARC Triangle, then you will never ever make it into the Sea Org. Do you fully understand that?"

"Humberto, you have nothing to worry about!", I reassured him. "Dusty and Shane are only interested in their next can of Budweiser beer and their next "hit" of crack."

"Just don't turn either of them into a walking encyclopedia of verbal, non-Standard Tech!", he warned. "When in fact the Government does track them down, I want them to know as little about the Church as possible! There has to be no connection between these Damage Control shenanigans and the Org!"

"I won't", I acknowledged, "but isn't that tantamount to suppressing their right to go up the Bridge? Why shouldn't they have the benefit of Scientology? Dusty and Shane are both raw meat thetans, just like the rest of the blind sheep who walk into the Org off the street for the first time."

"People who take dope and get drunk and sell their bodies for crack rocks aren't exactly the type of hot prospects we are looking for", Humberto answered. "If they're real lucky, we'll pick them up in their next lifetime. If not, well -- then fuck 'em."

Bob tried to put an end to the bickering.

"The bottom line is that it remains absolutely vital that neither Dusty nor Shane reveal any evidence of Scientology participation in your mission, over and above the data that is in the telephone script", he disclosed. "That's the long and short of it all."

"But I already put Dusty on the mailing list to receive promotional materials on the Purification Rundown because of her drug problem!", I admitted.

"Well, chances are she never read any of it", Frank evaluated, "and if she did, that's all she should be able to talk about."

"The whole purpose of this program is to enable the FBI to find out that Shane Johnson was never a Scientologist", Bob revealed, "and to finally put the vicious investigation against the Church to rest."

"Membership in the Sea Org is not for people who have symptoms of "reasonableness" and other wog diseases", Frank warned glibly.

Fully briefed, dispatched and raring to go, I typed up the bogus telephone script and casually sauntered over to Dusty's house in West Hollywood.

"What the fuck do you want me to say shit like this for?", Shane asked me as he scratched his head in bewilderment.

"There are people in Scientology that want me dead!", I explained. "But the FBI isn't taking me seriously, even though they've got my phone bugged. It's just like reading a part in a school play. There's no other way that I can get the protection of the Government that I so desperately need!"

"Then the police are going to come looking for me!", Shane reasoned.

"No!", I argued. "The only place that they'll go to is the Church of Scientology! There's no reason to be paranoid. They won't know anything about you!"

"Why do those crazy fuckers want to kill you?", he wondered.

"You remember that white Allante that I had?", I asked. "I bought it with money that was supposed to go to them."

"Oh, so you ripped them off!", he laughed. "And now they want to fuck you up! I get it!"

After Shane fully understood the nature of my plight, the only thing left to do was to agree on the price for his services. Without much haggling, we settled on forty dollars. I gave him twenty in advance, and I promised him twenty more after the call was completed. Shane wasn't too thrilled about waiting in Coral Gables for two hours while I drove back and forth from Fort Lauderdale, but he grudgingly went along with the Battle Plan since he needed the money for drugs and because Dusty was going to come along to keep him company and to pass the time away.

When we arrived in Coral Gables, I was so nervous about making things go right that I drove in the wrong direction down the one-way street where the Post Office was located. I wanted Dusty to mail the threatening letter to Marc before I took the two of them to Denny's, just as Frank and Humberto had instructed me to. Even though I was on the wrong side of the road, we fortunately weren't stopped by the police.

"Could you throw this in the mailbox for me, honey?", I asked.

Dusty simply did what she was told, thinking nothing of it. She was quite used to carrying out men's wishes, being a hooker and all that.

After the letter was mailed, I dropped them off at Denny's as planned. It was precisely eleven o'clock.

"I'm warning you Shane, that if you don't make the call exactly one hour from now at midnight, then you are going to have to find your own way home!", I said.

"You'll get your lame call, dick face!", he promised. "But if you don't come pick me up, you are gonna be one dead mother-fucker!"

And so we had a meeting of the minds.

"Can you imagine an upstat Scientologist like me having to deal with two lowlife wogs like that?", I told Ron while driving home on the way to receive Shane's call.

Everything went as arranged, except for the part when the operator temporarily cut Shane off because he didn't put in the extra quarters for the overtime quick enough.

Since you're curious, Shane was absolutely incompetent as a bungling hypnotist, almost to a point of being comical, in great contrast to my TRs, which were adorably flawless. By 2:30 in the morning, I was back home at my apartment, writing up my Completed Staff Work Report and duplicating the cassette tape for Frank Thompson.

The mission was a howling success.

A "Very Highly Commended" award was put into my Ethics Folder by Vicki Kirkland, the Director of Certificates and Awards of Miami, and I quietly leaped forward into Non-Existence with a minimum of visibility and fanfare.

"You might as well send in your application to the Sea Org", Frank advised sullenly. "It looks like you are really going to make it this time!"

In order to keep the momentum rolling, Frank ordered me to leave cute little hints with Marc Nurik that Shane and Dusty were "in contact" with Scientologists from the Miami Org.

"Hopefully, Marc will pass that tidbit on to Bill Kemp", Frank stated optimistically.

Dusty, in the meantime, had her own problems.

On the very next day following the telephone call escapade, Shane Johnson was arrested for arson, amongst other things.

According to Dusty, the police took him to the Broward County Jail because, while being searched for possession of drugs, he resisted arrest, and then, having been handcuffed, he tried to light up a cigarette, setting his shirt on fire!

"The cops framed my poor baby!", Dusty wailed.

"How awful!", I sympathized with lots of covert hostility.

"You've got to get Shane out of jail!", she cried. "His bail is five hundred dollars!"

"I'll call Louie Jassin right away and do whatever I can to help", I promised, pretending to care about him, while I actually hoped that the filthy pimp would rot in jail for the rest of his worthless life.

"Maybe now she'll spend the night with me when I bring her home, instead of running back to that dope-fiend jerk!", I said to myself with a shitload of great expectations.

"What a unique opportunity that is for you!", Frank exclaimed when he read my Knowledge Report.

"Why?", I jumped. "All of a sudden you care about my sex life?"

"No! It's just a fabulous chance for you to record Shane's voice again on tape, so that the FBI will find out a lot faster that he was the same "Scott" who instructed you to kill Marc Nurik and Uwe Geertz!"

"But Shane never calls me!", I argued. "What you are saying simply doesn't make any sense."

"Ah, but it does! You are going to get him to call you", Frank plotted cunningly.

"How?", I asked very stupidly. "Shane is in jail!"

"Yes, that's just the point!", Frank eluded. "He can't communicate to the outside world from there unless he makes a collect call!"

"Okay, but the only person who he wants to talk to is Dusty", I replied. "Why the hell would he want to say anything to me?"

"Now listen here, you dumb bastard!", Frank said with profound wisdom. "I want you to call up Dusty's mother, and warn Rita that her telephone bill will be over three hundred dollars this month because the phone company charges two dollars for every collect call that Dusty accepts from the Broward County Jail! Tell the old bag that she can instruct the telephone business office to eliminate all extra services on her phone except incoming and outgoing local calls. It's called "Limited Access." Then Dusty will be forced to ask you to accept Shane's collect calls, and you can connect the two of them using three-way calling, and record all of their conversations on tape for Bill Kemp!"

"That's an unbelievable idea!", I cognited. "But what if Rita Hipps won't go along with your suggestion and is actually willing to accept Shane's collect calls?"

"Then you'll have to notify the telephone company to shut off her phone yourself, won't you?", he sneered. "You make everything sound so damn difficult!"

"That is utterly brilliant!", I shouted. "But then I'll have to pay for all of Shane's collect calls on my own, won't I?"

"So what?", Frank indicated. "You're not going to start acting like a cheap Jew again at a time like this, are you? Just tape everything they say and then turn the cassettes over to the FBI, so that Bill Kemp will recognize Shane's voice. Anyway, you can ask your pimp to limit his calls to five a day, if you have to control the expenses. You should have learned how to handle your wogs by now."

"Frank, you are astounding!", I remarked. "I don't know what I would do without you!"

"The quicker that you get this done, the faster you'll be sailing away to a safe Sea Org haven on the Freewinds, far from the tyrannical arm of the psychiatric Government and their Nazi bugging devices!", he vowed convincingly.

Frank made sure that I covered all the bases. He also instructed me to tell the Security Guard in the lobby of my condominium to make sure that everyone, especially Dusty Hipps, signs their name on the guest register.

"Maybe Bill Kemp will spot Dusty's signature as the same person who signed the Diasonics class action lawsuit", Frank said with subtlety. "It's about time that the FBI bulldog woke up and smelled the roses!"

On the 15th of December, Marc received his "death threat" in the mail, and he was all juiced up about such great "evidence" implicating the Church of Scientology. He also mentioned oddly that an anonymous woman had called in a bomb threat to his office, and he thought it was somehow connected to the Miami Org.

When I told Frank Thompson about it, he started to embroil himself in a belly laugh.

"That out-Ethics imbecile represents stool pigeons and snitches who betray drug dealers and other trash, and he has the nerve to blame a bomb threat on us?", he said in total amazement. "The man is a raving lunatic!"

But when I informed my Ethics Officer that Marc Nurik was planning to issue subpoenas on the Fort Lauderdale Mission and the Miami Org requesting my Preclear Folders, Frank changed his tune and became completely livid.

"Why, that son of a bitch bastard!", he screamed. "He won't be content until he completely destroys us! Will he ever stop?"

"Probably not until he's either dead or off the case", I answered.

"Well, why the hell isn't he?", Frank yelled, not indicating which of my two choices was his primary preference.

This time it was Humberto who came up with a decent solution.

"Tell Fuhrer Geertz while you are faking your next hypnosis session that Frank and I had you sign fifty sheets of blank paper, and that if he dares to enforce the subpoenas requesting your Preclear Folders, we are going to send him a real potpourri of shit that will hurt your defense, from a full confession of doing the class action lawsuits on your own to a threat against the life of President Reagan, all fully signed, sealed and executed by you for the whole world to see!"

"What good will that do us?", I asked.

"When Geertz tells Nurik about it, he won't risk exposing you to additional criminal charges by enforcing those subpoenas!", Humberto explained. "And because Nurik found out about it from Geertz, he won't suspect that you made the whole thing up in order to protect the Church!"

"That will work!", Frank nodded in agreement. "And if Nurik serves the subpoenas anyway, then we can actually write up some damaging documents like that! Yes, I like that idea, Humberto! Go for it!"

Predictably, Marc took the bait and dropped his request to have the Church produce my records. Neither Humberto nor I could believe how easy it was for Marc Nurik to be manipulated!

"He is a real dumb ass Jew!", Humberto commented affectionately.

"If there is anything else that you can think of which will protect us from the insane attacks of the evil suppressives, just let me know and I'll take care of it!", I offered.

In my Success Story which I submitted along with my Sea Org Membership Application, I wrote that "The International Justice Chief had a lot more confidence in me than I actually deserved. For someone like me who is subject to an Irrevocable Ethics Order, this chance to postpone my fate is more than I could have ever hoped for, postulated, or dreamed about. It is a true testimonial to the fact that even the most degraded being still has a chance to be salvaged in Scientology."

And, as I told Ron on that very night, "Nothing can possibly go wrong now. I am no more than a hop, skip and a jump from signing my billion year contract and once again being able to state with pride that I am your Loyal Officer."

Despite the insurmountable odds, I had come back on top with a vengeance.

No matter what anyone said, I knew that no one could have ever been prouder of me than the Admiral.

"Paul Laquerre's desolate space rock will have to wait a very long time before anyone sticks me into it!", I swore. "They're going to love me in the Sea Org! "Upstat" is going to be my new middle name!"

Visions of the Freewinds danced in my head.

I even bought a Captain's hat to keep me in the mood.

Total Freedom was right around the corner.

I could almost taste it.


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