Lonesome Squirrel

by Steven Fishman

7: The Environment Is A Nice Place To Visit, But I Wouldn't Want To Live Here

How did I ever get stuck operating a body in the physical universe? Who ordered this stupid arrangement, anyway?

The physical universe, or sixth dynamic, is composed of Matter, Energy, Space and Time. We Scientologists take the first letter of each of those four words and call it MEST, probably because it is all MEST up.36

Of course, the Guardian's Office was out there protecting us all from the hostile environment, despite the fact that Murphy's Law of "Whatever can go wrong will go wrong" does not apply to Scientologists, since we "always make things go right."

To ensure that we continued to be perfect and never screw up, Kevin Bein ordered me to be drilled on the "Security TRs" on the 17th of May, 1980. The purpose of the Security TRs was, according to Flag Order 2507, "to train the student to maintain security under scrutiny."37

Somehow I thought that a G. O. Agent has to have a higher level of confront than the run of the mill card carrying Scientologist, but I had no idea that this particular Training Routine would be this much of an adventure.

It started when Kevin Bein gave me a confidential message for Colonel Webspread. Now, I had no idea who Colonel Webspread was, or what his post could possibly be in the Guardian's Office. I read the communication, which was written with blue ink on blue paper, the color of all standard Guardian's Orders.

It stated: "Stormy conditions on Long Island", and was signed by Midshipman Don Mallard from the Sea Organization.

For the duration of the drill, Kevin told me that I was to remain in his office. I was not to come out until I learned the identity of Colonel Webspread and what his post was. Kevin told me that the drill would be a "games condition" whereby one or more "enemy agent interrogators" would come into his office to question me. Their purpose was to find out what the Colonel's communication contained, and who sent it.

"Because this is a Security TR", Kevin added, "you are not to reveal the content of the message, no matter what pressure is brought to bear by the "enemy agents." Your purpose is to find out who Colonel Webspread really is, and what post he occupies. You will be flunked if you display any "HE&R", which is Human Emotion and Reaction, or if you say or do anything inappropriate or "reasonable." Keep in mind that for the purposes of the drill you are dealing with a wog enemy agent."

"Since when can an enemy agent flunk me!", I challenged.

"In this drill, it happens", Kevin replied. "Just find out the identity and the post of Colonel Webspread without giving up any data to the enemy, and that will be your final pass."

"Now wait a minute!", I argued. "How can I get any information out of the interrogators on this Colonel Webspread while at the same time withholding both the message and the name of the sender?"

"You cannot leave my office until you do, that's why!", Kevin grimaced, not making any logical sense at all.

"But the whole thing is stupid!", I protested. "You admitted that it was a "games condition." In a games condition, everything is outside my power of choice. Whoever questions me knows not to reveal anything about your Colonel Webspread, and also understands that I cannot disclose anything about this cryptic message. It's bound to be a stalemate!"

"All right, Steve", Kevin acknowledged. "As long as it's a stalemate, you won't be able to leave. As you can see, I'm locking you up in here, and you have no water or toilet facilities. I am serious. You won't be able to exit this room until you solve the problem of the game. This is a Security TR. It will test your endurance and ability to confront the MEST universe via the training stress of the drill."

"But it's fucked up!", I screamed. "There's nothing in this room but a desk, a chair, two dictionaries, some clay, and a telephone."

"Right!", Kevin smiled. "And I'm taking out the telephone. We don't want you calling Flag at the Org's expense."

"Do you think I would bother them for something this childish?", I reasoned.

Kevin made believe that he did not hear my nattering.

"Now before we start, do you have any present time problems?", he asked patiently.

"Yeah, this drill is a goddamn present time problem", I chastised. "I don't want you to lock me in here. I have claustrophobia sometimes."

"That is not a valid present time problem", he humphed. "I am not interested in the names of imaginary psych diseases. Whatever you are afraid of will simply have to be confronted. So then, start!"

Kevin promptly slammed the door shut. It was 8:17 P.M., and I did not have a clue as to how to pass the Security TRs. It was an asinine drill which had no purpose, explanation or solution.

I took the message out of my pocket and looked at it again.

"Stormy conditions on Long Island", it read.

"What the fuck does this mean?", I repeated over and over. "Who is Midshipman Don Mallard, and why should I care about what he does with his boat? If I wanted to join the navy, I would have done it when I was eighteen. Do you hear that, you bunch of dumb weird mother-fuckers?"

I was hoping that someone was listening outside the door, but no one was there. I subsequently decided to take the more rational approach, which was to look up the word "Midshipman" in the green Admin dictionary, entitled Modern Management Technology Defined, which is the administrative reference source for all of Scientology.

"Midshipman -- ah. Here it is. A Midshipman is a "junior officer in training to be good officers. Midshipmen are future officers of the Sea Organization"."38 That really tells me a lot. What a crock of bullshit!"

At promptly 8:30, a tall, masculine looking woman in her early thirties entered the room. She was wearing blue jeans and a white shirt with a button missing. Her facial expression was cold enough to freeze molten lava.

"Are you here to give me an enema?", I asked, trying to make her laugh.

"Flunk!", she roared as she unexpectedly whipped me with her leather belt which was formerly hidden from view under her shirt.

"That hurt, bitch!", I cried out. "Do that to me one more time and I'll kick you in the tits!"

Thwackkkkk went the belt again, seriously paining my right arm.

"Flunk!", she screamed. "Now give me your communication!"

"Look, lady", I pleaded, "I don't mind playing your silly game, but I'm not into bondage and discipline. I don't even do that with hookers. So let's just call the whole thing off, and let me get the hell out of here."

As I walked towards the door, she picked up the wooden chair and stabbed the bottom of it hard into my ribs, causing me to fall to the floor. I lost my breath from the shock.

"This is not funny anymore, lady", I complained, with the look of panic in my eyes. "You can kill somebody pulling shit like that."

Suddenly, the woman slapped me in the face with the back of her hand, knocking my glasses to the ground.

"Why, you ugly cunt!", I shrieked. "Nobody ever knocks my glasses off! Not even my wife is allowed to do that to me!"

In my rage, I picked up the entire desk, with my adrenaline pumping two thousand miles per hour, and I was about to throw it on top of her head.

"Put the desk down!", she growled. "You touch me with that and you're out of the game for good!"

"Oh, so now it's just a nice friendly game, because I was ready to make dogshit out of you!", I sneered as I lowered the desk to the ground, concluding that this mental case might actually have the power to throw me out of Scientology. "Nice double standard we have around here, isn't it, where you can beat my ass, and I can't fuckin' defend myself."

"Sit down in that chair!", she commanded, "And give me that paper!"

"Okay, I'm sitting", I said, catching my breath from the events of the last two minutes. "Now why don't you cool down by telling me your name."

"Hazel D. Gattis", she answered.

"Fine, Hazel D. Gattis", I repeated mimickingly, "Why don't you and I make a deal. Supposing you tell me the identity and the post of Colonel Webspread, and I'll give you the message."

"Flunk!", she roared. "You were not supposed to mention his name, or admit to me that you even had a message!"

Without saying anything more, she wrote down some remarks and the time of 8:44 on her pocket pad, and then left the room.

"That's just great!", I mumbled, overwrought with puzzlement and grief. "Not only did I get whipped and then stabbed with furniture, but I also lost the round."

For one hour and fifteen minutes, nothing happened, other than the fact that I urinated in the corner of the room, not being able to hold it in any more.

"I'm not going to risk getting a bladder infection just to satisfy these animals", I whispered vengefully to myself.

Then, at 10:00 P.M. sharp, the door swung open again. This time, it was the Master At Arms of Miami, Laurel Chesnee. Although twenty-three years old and with a beautiful body, you would never look twice at her, since her bloodshot, baggy eyes told of countless years of smoking far too many cigarettes and getting far too little sleep. She was a testament to the typical four and a half hour night that hard working staff members actually rest, and on her, it definitely showed.

Alone with Laurel in a room without windows or adequate ventilation, her bad breath and Camel cancer sticks both stunk like hell.

Blowing smoke in my face after I asked her to put out the smoke was her halfhearted effort at compassion.

"Where's your document?", she hissed.

"Put out that cigarette and I'll talk to you", I propositioned.

"I need to give it to Colonel Webspread", she choked, ignoring my answer as her voice was full of sudsy saliva and charcoaled nicotine.

"Tell me more about him first, like what kind of hat he wears", I coaxed.

"Maybe that little note can tell us both what we need to know", she coughed.

"Look, we both have to get through this drill, so give me a break!", I begged.

"What?", she spit sheepishly. "Are you asking me to be reasonable?"

"Well, why not?", I said.

"Sure, okay", she acknowledged. "I'll be real reasonable with you. Hold out the palm of your hand."

"Here!", I offered, cogniting too late that she only wanted it so she could put out her cigarette between my life line and my love line.

"Damn you!", I cried, as my whole arm trembled from shock. "You are an SP sadist!"

"Flunk!", Laurel called out as I was still writhing and groaning. "Here I was being reasonable, and you start calling me names. I'll have to have me another cigarette. Do you want one, honey?"

"How long do I have to stay in here?", I begged.

"Hey, babe", she replied. "Just tell me what the letter for the Colonel says, and give me the name of the terminal who sent it, and I'll let you out of here, and you know what? You'll be kicked out of the G. O. We don't need pussies around here who can't confront life, when there are psychs out there who will make this look like a girl scout cookie bake."

"Where do you get coming across to me with horse shit like that?", I miffed angrily. "I've been to shrinks, and it's true, they were assholes. But not once did they ever whip me with a belt, stick a chair in my ribs, or burn me with a cigarette!"

"So I guess you never heard of Cambodia, where Premier Pol Pot and his luvvy duvvy psychiatrists collected three hundred thousand human skulls for their trophy room!", she howled as she pinched the skin under my chin so hard that I thought she had razor blades in her fingernails. "And what about the psychs working for Harry Oppenheimer's diamond mines in South Africa, who forced the poor blacks to sell their own blood just to be able to buy their families some stale bread? Or the Nazi psychiatrists who manufactured the AIDS virus in the concentration camps? Don't you dare tell me that this pinch isn't as serious as the crimes of the psychs, you PTS little cocksucker!"

She threw me down, and I had to contort my body so I would not land in the corner of the room where I had urinated before. My chin burned like it had been left for a week in the microwave, and my ribs still hurt from falling against the wall in the same place that Hazel had poked me with the chair legs.

"Why are you doing this to me?", I cried, sinking quickly into apathy.

"To turn you into a tough son of a bitch!", the Master At Arms said, as she sprayed spit all over my nose.

"This silly game isn't going to make me tough!", I argued. "Playing hide and go seek about some stupid faggot Colonel Webspread. Since when did they ever have colonels in the Sea Org anyway?"

Laurel just looked at me kind of funny, and for the first time, she gave away a trace of a smile.

"Wait a minute!", I jumped. "They don't, and you're in on it!"

I took three steps back of my own head and started to take a good look at all of this. There was no such thing as a colonel in the Sea Org. A colonel is a rank in the army. And yet, this was a test of wits. The puzzle had a solution. And it was an unreal solution, because I was dealing with a fictional character! This was all about confronting the physical universe, but the answer was not to be found there. No! Of course not. The games condition was that neither I nor my adversaries could give up our data. That was the training stress! This was a Security TR. I had to find the answer before my assailants wore me down with MEST punishment! And I could not get the data from them, because then they would flunk themselves! So where was the answer?

The dictionaries! It could not be anywhere else.

Sure enough, on page eighty-eight of Modern Management Technology Defined, there he was! Colonel Webspread!

As I read the definition, Laurel and I cracked up laughing. She gave three taps on the door, and both Hazel and Kevin came running in as I read: "Colonel Webspread: A comical cartoon character made up by L. Ron Hubbard. He is portrayed as an adventurous duck and rated as Chief of the Northern High Flying Duck Weather Warning Patrol in the Orders of the Day of 11 October 1970."39

A cartoon weather duck! And the message was "Stormy conditions on Long Island", and signed by Midshipman Don Mallard. I felt like such an idiot!

Kevin proudly announced, "It only took him two hours and fourteen minutes! That's damn good! Here's the log. You are the three hundred and eighty-fourth person to do the drill, and only five of those ever solved it faster. Over half of them gave up and dropped out. They are no longer G. O. Agents. Ron wants thetans who can handle the environment in this Org, not those who let the environment handle them. Congratulations, Steve. You have passed the test. Go write your Success Story and take your exam. The results will be forwarded to Fred Hare."

"Who is Fred Hare?", I asked.

"The Commanding Officer of the G. O.", Kevin replied. "He's one of the toughest, most unreasonable, but best loved guys in the Guardian's Office. I'm sure you'll get to meet him one of these days."

Hazel D. Gattis and Laurel Chesnee both hugged me, and I cried from happiness at the intense feeling of loyal camaraderie which does not exist anywhere else in the universe as strongly as in Scientology.

"We really and truly function better as a Third Dynamic group", I wrote in my Success Story. "I never want to be myself again. No, instead of that, I want to remain a Scientologist forever."

I was very proud of myself. Imagine only taking a little over two hours to find that duck when there are other less able beings that never made it who are still looking for him! Wow, I felt good!

I had money in my pocket, and I was going to spend it on the best Cuban whore in all of Hialeah!

As I drove up Le Jeune Road past the Miami Airport, I thought I'd better check to see exactly how much cash I had left with me. It was only thirty dollars. The Spanish girls who hung out in front of the pay-as- you-go one-hour motels on Okeechobee Road had class. They were at least fifty dollars.

"Damn, I wish I could afford one of them tonight, especially after all of that duck shit!", I said to myself.

But being a realist, I made a right turn down on Northwest 36th Street, which would take me to Biscayne Boulevard, where cheaper flesh was always available for sale.

Driving east, I did not have my radio on, and I had no idea that within two minutes I would be smack in the middle of a race riot which was taking place in the black neighborhood of Allapattah, which intersected 36th Street at the corner of Northwest 22nd Avenue.

Unknown to me, earlier in the evening while I was being buggy whipped by Hazel, news of a black insurance salesman named Arthur MacDuffie being slain needlessly by a white policeman travelled all over the City of Miami like wildfire.

So was I surprised when, in the process of looking for my usual variety of sexy street tramps, an angry mob of two hundred or more black youths throwing stones and bottles came charging down the street toward me in a mad rampage. What made it much worse was that I thought they were all ARC broken with me! How could they possibly have known that I had been driving with my pants down on the floor? Did they think that I was looking for a black girl or something? Thetans are thetans! In Scientology it does not matter what color your body is! What did I ever do to them to make them angry? It looked like Bastille Day in front of me, and this was no dress rehearsal. Could they hate my 1976 Sedan De Ville Cadillac?

"Yeah, it must be the car", I thought. "They can't stand my car!"

A thunderous crash caused my windshield to break into bits. A large rock was in my lap, two inches from my penis! I looked at my arms and they were full of blood from jagged pieces of cut glass. A large window pane had fallen right into my underwear. I couldn't pick my pants up even if I wanted to!

And then, the car in front of me was fire-bombed. There were two white girls inside, and they ran out of the car, screaming. Some teenage boys started savagely attacking them. Courageously, I stood there, frozen in time and space, wishing that I could really be heroic and help them. But then for a split second I remembered how important I was to the Guardian's Office, and so in an act of desperate valor, I steered the car into the oncoming lane of traffic, and whizzed by the turmoil of an onslaught of wild youths who were trying to smash my roof and the side windows with baseball bats and billy clubs. I nearly killed one of them as I turned the corner of Northwest 17th Avenue and entered the ramp of the Airport Expressway which took me safely onto Interstate 95.

It wasn't until I reached the city of Hallandale in Broward County that I came out of shock. There was blood all over me, and I had to get out of the car in the parking lot of Burger King to shake the glass out of my underpants. I must have been quite a sight for the regular Saturday night crowd ordering Whoppers!

For the life of me, I couldn't recall why I had driven down 36th Street through a bad neighborhood when I could have just as easily taken the Airport Expressway all the way through from Le Jeune Road. I certainly never had any intention of meeting any women on that mean boulevard, so what the hell was I doing there?

Suddenly, I remembered why. I wanted to save the ten cent toll on the highway. That's what it was. I was too cheap to pay the dime.

The after-effects of being in the race riot did not stop with the warm bath, alcohol and bandages that I fixed myself up with physically.

Additionally, I had to deal with Jaime's nagging over what happened to the car.

But it didn't end there. I was engulfed in a continuous, ongoing ordeal of horrible dreams and nightmares. Every evening, I had to re-live the fear and terror of being in that riot. And time moved so slowly in the dream sequences. I learned what it was like to be "Free Wheeling." I could not get out of the dream. While I was seeing these haunting images, nothing could wake me up. Using standard Dianetic techniques, I tried to back out of the incident while I was dreaming, but I landed in the very same incident over and over again. Unfortunately, when I was dreaming, I did not know it, so the impact on me was far worse than had I been awake, or simply having a visual recollection or a daydream.

But every night became a living hell. I often spent seven or eight hours each evening in terror of being trapped in the riot, with no possible means of escape. Considering myself a rational person, I tried to stay awake, but that did not work for very long. The curse of Arthur MacDuffie was upon me, and I never even heard of the unfortunate victim before the 17th of May, 1980. I decided to go to Peter Letterese for help.

Regrettably for me, Peter was far from understanding.

"You pulled all of that trouble into your own universe", he rationalized. "You were out there looking for prostitutes. Not only that, you were too cheap to pay the toll on the expressway. How can I feel sorry for you? All you want is sympathy. You are running this great big "Service Facsimile" on me which is your dismal effort to avoid confronting your overt acts! You are trying to create a picture of "poor, poor Steve the victim" in order to justify your failure to handle this incident and take enough responsibility to cope with it. You want the pictures in these nightmares to "serve you" and make us all feel sorry for you.40 Well, I don't feel sorry for you at all. You had a wonderful session at the Org, and then you had to ruin it by canvassing through the streets of Miami for your lowlife women. I wouldn't be surprised if your negative postulates didn't cause the entire MacDuffie race riots to occur in the first place!"

"Peter!", I shrieked. "How can you be so callous about what I have been through? What about the nightmares?"

Peter looked at me in disgust.

"Stop being a victim! Nobody feels sorry for you", he advised. "Scientologists are always at cause, not effect. And as for your bad dreams, just take Vitamin B-1. That's what Ron says is the cure for nightmares anyway.35

I couldn't believe it! Peter had forsaken me. Maybe it was a little too much to expect him to allow me to cry on his shoulder, but he could have at least offered to audit the nightmares out. I would have been happy to pay for it. But no, he completely abandoned me! Well, there was still someone out there who I knew would listen to me.

The office of Dr. Geertz was in an archaic, unpretentious house in the once fashionable Victoria Park section of Fort Lauderdale. You could drive endlessly past it on Broward Boulevard and never notice it. The whole street east of Federal Highway was overrun by physicians, both real and pretended, looking for cheap office space that even the legitimate ones could afford to maintain.

Coming up upon the dwelling, which was nothing more than a 1930's type Florida tract house which had the architectural flavor of "Early Sears and Roebuck", you could not help but notice a simple wooden marquee of a trinity of names including "Uwe Walter Geertz, Ph.D.; Bady Quintar, Ph.D., and Thomas W. Sowder, M.D. This unholy alliance made up what was known as the "Associates in Psychology and Psychiatry."

On the inside, the phlegm green rugs never attempted to match the plastic looking leather chairs which were the color of last month's liver gone awry. There was a nonfunctional fireplace that served as home to a regiment of termites and ants, and if it were not that Dr. Geertz was such a splendid gardener, which could have been his calling in life had things been different, the office would look as dramatic and exciting as a day at the sewer.

I always did my share to help too. His waiting room magazines never made enough of an impact on his patients, in my valued opinion. I mean, who cares about "Vanity Fair", "Connoisseur", and "Art and Antiques?" What was he trying to do? Promote the snob appeal in all of us? What kind of deluded psychotherapy is that? Well, I fixed him. I brought in a nearly unliftable stack of "Circuit Engineering", "Defense Electronics", and of course, "Forensic Institutions", which were all far more appropriate for his pathetic line of work. I never received any praise for my contributions over the years, but at least now I realized that I had been dealing with SPs that were too out of touch with reality to know what end was up.

With a balding head and a beard that appeared to be trimmed in a gnat factory, Dr. Geertz looked more like a Freudian psychotherapist than Sigmund himself would have wanted him to. Having been taught English by British schoolmasters in Germany, his speech had all the right intonations to sound completely intelligent. Although an agnostic who absurdly believed that man should adjust to his environment rather than adjusting his environment to him, we nevertheless understood each other well for the last eleven years. Back in 1968 he was a starving refugee who did a stint for a while in Topeka, Kansas, and used to solicit business by making public appearances at the local chapters of Parents Without Partners. Well, it's better for a "doctor" than making a speech at a shopping mall, isn't it? My father belonged to Parents Without Partners after he and my mother got divorced, and the rest was history. Dr. Geertz sent a letter to the United States Army Draft Board in 1968, after Aunt Jeanne became terrified that I would be killed in the Vietnam War. She dressed me up in five woolen sweaters on the hottest day of the year, and took me down to the draft board, where she had me promptly demand my automatic submachine gun "because I like to kill Chinks." Nevertheless, it was Dr. Geertz's recommendation that kept me out, and for that I was eternally grateful. I had no idea that he actually believed there was something wrong with me.

His diagnosis said that I was schizophrenic and fully aware of it, and this was fine until I realized during my Life Repair Rundown that there was no such thing as schizophrenia. So to Dr. Geertz, now I was schizophrenic and unaware of it, and I had not fully decided whether that was better or worse.

Anyway, I went to see him because of the nightmares caused by the race riot. Dr. Geertz did some boiler room hypnosis on me, and discovered that I was stuck in a prior incident where, as a two year old child, I had been fondled and molested by a black housekeeper of my mother's named Nettie. All I had remembered about Nettie was that she used to cook the best hamburgers in the world. I had blocked out the terror of her holding me upside down by my feet, and hanging me outside the window of our seventh floor apartment in the Bronx. All of the old mental image pictures, or "facsimiles" as we say in Scientology, came back to me. But what was most profound was the similarities between Dr. Geertz's "hypnotic catharsis", and the processes of "Dianetic reverie", both of which allowed me to carefully examine old pictures until the underlying dramatization was in full view, and in Scientology, "flattened on the E-Meter." Somehow I began to draw various evident parallels between the two therapies. In any event, Dr. Geertz's sessions had ended the nightmares, and Peter had been unwilling to deal with them. It was obvious that it was a necessary evil to always keep Dr. Geertz around for a "second opinion", despite the fact that he was by trade branded a "suppressive."

Naturally, this presented a problem, because it is a major overt act of the highest magnitude for a Scientologist to seek help from a psych SP. Leah Abady slapped me in the face and called me names which are too vulgar for me to tell you about even right now. She ordered me to do the "Suppressed Person's Rundown" in order to handle my indiscretion, and threatened to throw me in the Ethics Condition of Enemy unless I signed up for the auditing immediately, and gave her the eighteen hundred dollar advanced payment. What choice did I have? So big deal, I would be late with my mortgage again. I could not face being scorned by the only group who loved me more than life itself and who could also salvage me as a spiritual being.

"I must be worse than cockroach semen in the stool sample of a bed louse to allow myself to be manipulated by that German psych bastard!", I wrote in my magnanimous Success Story, after I gave Leah Abady the cash which was badly needed to pay for my auditing services. "I deserved to be buried alive in Freudian vomit for my insensitivity to the Third Dynamic! If Ron never forgives me, I shall understand and bear my stigma with the humility of a psychotic mad dog who betrayedly sold out to the slavemasters", I added humbly.

Amazingly, I was given another chance to re-enter the group. I knew it had nothing to do with the fact that nine class action lawsuit settlement checks were floating around the country waiting to be paid out to me. That would have been the insane way that critical wogs would interpret my "second chance." The answer obviously was because there was so much about me worth salvaging as a thetan. I had some special destiny to accomplish in Scientology, and no one could deny that, although nobody, including me, really had any idea what it was yet. But for a Guardian's Office Agent to go to a psychologist was totally both unthinkable and unforgivable. However, I could not get over how quickly everyone forgot about my fall from grace. The only one who was unable to forgive me was myself. But then again, I always set higher ethical standards for my own conduct than anyone else did.

Leah's auditing me on The Suppressed Person's Rundown was like bathing in the blood of raw meat. It cut through the pretense of Dr. Geertz's flirtation with my irrelevant experiences concerning Nettie the Maid and showed me the living lightning that the Tech is really made of. Auditing the confessional list was truly equivalent to a hot stick of dynamite up my rear end. How could I have ever been PTS enough to compare the primitive witch doctoring of psychology to something as magic as the Suppressed Person's Rundown? I must not have been operating on all eight cylinders.

After briefly running out the unwanted images of Nettie that Dr. Geertz had shoveled into my head, I went back before this lifetime, and discovered that I had been Moses Picard, a pianist in a New Orleans whore house during the year 1851. I participated in the lynching of a black man who had raped a fourteen year old white girl named Pradita Hestabar. While being audited, I had the cognition that I was the monster who committed the rape, and that I had blamed it all on this innocent man, in order to cover it up. So here I was, in my current lifetime, with this major crime against blacks. That was the cause of pulling the riot into my universe. It had nothing to do with the housekeeper who enjoyed playing with the quarter-inch penis of a two year old baby. The psychs attributed everything to sex, so they had no time to ever find out about life and livingness.

I realized that psychology could not possibly work, because the barbarism does not take into account the phenomenon of past lives. I fervently vowed in my pledge to Leah Abady never to sing the praises of psychiatric voodooism ever again. In any case, several days after the rundown, Leah promised me that the new nightmares I was having about raping poor Pradita would soon go away. Nevertheless, they were still a lot more bearable than the overwhelming dreams of being in a riot every night. I hate to admit it, but I didn't have such an awfully bad time ravishing that cute little young thing. In each dream, Pradita always wore her cinnamon flavored panties, and even after 129 years, there was no way that I could ever resist temptation like that!

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