by Steven Fishman
9: Romancing LaVenda
I was Ellie Bolger's rising star. The Occidental Petroleum case was settled for twenty-eight thousand dollars, and I had just received word that Harry Sebakovitch's claim for Air West would be over one hundred thousand dollars. Peter jubilantly sent copies of all the payment notices to Ellie, who promptly ordered me to open up an account with the Landmark National Bank of St. Petersburg under the business name of the shoe store, which was Cypress Shoes. The Landmark bank was well known to Scientology, since there were branches very close to Flag. Once the account was opened, the name of Harry Sebakovitch, formerly the Communist Spy from the movie "A Dandy In Aspic", was officially listed as the Treasurer of the shoe store, and a signatory on the account. Everything was in place for Air West to arrive, so that the funds could be deposited properly and cleared without a hitch through a "friendly" bank.
In the meantime, news of a very ominous plot against the Church of Scientology by evil suppressives was filtering through the rumor lines of the Guardian's Office of Miami.
Kevin Bein called me in for a conference at the Miami Org at 12:15 A.M. on Wednesday, the 25th of February, 1981, right after the general staff meeting was over.
He knew I had been hearing things from Peter Letterese as well as some of the Mission staff who were not on Guardian Office lines at all, and, despite their glowing attributes as Mission executives, they were collectively known as "Third Partiers", or blabbermouths that could not be fully trusted with "Red Box Data", which was confidential information of great and urgent importance and significance to the security and well being of the Church.
Consequently, Kevin Bein did a "False Data Stripping", which essentially stripped away the lies and the rumors so that I could have good reality on the truth which was hidden and buried within all of the fabrications and falsehoods. As an Agent of the Guardian's Office, I offered my help, and I did not want to operate on half-facts and rumor.
The narration all began with the author Omar Garrison, who at one time was greatly loved and admired by Ron, and therefore, the rest of Scientology as well. Garrison had written three well known books, including Playing Dirty, The Secret World of Interpol, and The Hidden Story of Scientology. Although I have read all three, The Hidden Story of Scientology was by far the most exceptional and the most relevant. The book was excellent source material on how the Church of Scientology was viciously and mercilessly attacked by suppressive elements in the United States, England, Australia and South Africa, all secretly financed by the black hand of the American Medical Association, the American Psychiatric Association, the World Federation of Mental Health, and the rest of our enemies, as Ron outlined in his famous tape recording known as Ron's Journal 67. Some of these other forces of villainy included the Bank of England and Interpol.
Ron had the highest admiration and respect for Omar Garrison, and therefore authorized him to review thousands of his personal documents, for the purpose of creating the first authorized biography of L. Ron Hubbard. The biography was going to be a wonderful way to acquaint the idiot wog public with the miraculous and heroic achievements of Ron the Writer, Ron the Explorer, Ron the Naval Officer, Ron the Founder, and Ron the Husband, from the time of his birth on March 13, 1911, until the present day.
Kevin continued by telling me that Omar Garrison gladly accepted the challenge of writing the chronology of the best friend mankind ever had. Then, sometime in 1978, Ken Delderfield, the Commanding Officer of LRH Archives World Wide, appointed another trusted Scientologist by the name of Gerry Armstrong to assist Omar Garrison in the monumental biographical task.
In the meantime, Kevin went on to tell me about a very unstable girl named Lavenda Van Schaick, who was actively working to destroy and sabotage the Church. Lavenda falsely and deceptively befriended Gerry Armstrong, and had managed to steal a huge box of original documents, containing Ron's own O/W Write- ups consisting of all his confessionals of whatever few overt acts and withholds that he had committed during the years of 1946, 1947 and 1948, prior to the publication of the book Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health, which Ron wrote up so that he would have clean hands, and absolve himself of all the frailties of human weakness, in order to go on and begin his quest for Clearing the planet.
These O/Ws were a potential time bomb in the hands of one of the planet's most notorious suppressives, because of the danger in her using the confessional statements of the Founder of Scientology in order to attempt to discredit him in the vicious press and to the stupid wog public, who would believe all of Lavenda's lies.
Furthermore, Kevin said that Ron considered his personal life private, and did not want it publicized. Every thetan, even Source, has a basic right to his own secrets, doesn't he?
What happened after the theft was a complete rat's nest.
Lavenda, on the 17th of July, 1979, hired a pathetic squirrel attorney from Boston by the name of Michael Flynn, in order to ask for a refund of nearly thirteen thousand dollars that she wasn't entitled to, for successful and well done auditing hours that she had previously attested to completing satisfactorily.
Can you imagine what kind of a bastard she was? Here was a girl who had a certificate for OT One, and was halfway through OT Two, and had the colossal balls to ask for a refund! There had been nothing wrong with her auditing. It was all run on 100% Standard Tech. She wrote numerous Success Stories praising the value and benefit of her processing. She had joined staff at Flag, and was accepted by her fellow Scientologists, despite her chronic history of flagrant drug abuse prior to coming into the Third Dynamic in 1967. She had once tried to kill herself, and had been accurately diagnosed as a paranoid psychotic by the trainee who gave her a personality test. She was also considered under the Ethics of the Scientology Religion as a murderess, since she was responsible for three separate abortions resulting in the death of those unborn children. With all of these obstacles, the Church still tried to help her become a healthier and happier spiritual being. So what did she go and do? She betrayed us, trying to destroy the reputation of the Founding Thetan in whose hands the responsibility for the planet and the ability to salvage it ultimately rested.
Just hearing about this evil purposed and deranged psychopath made my skin cringe and my blood boil. I wanted to roast her alive over an open flame, and that was without any anger!
I kept asking Kevin, "Why did she want to hurt Ron that much?"
He didn't really know the answer.
"That's not good enough, Kevin!", I screamed, taking charge as if I were his senior executive.
"Well, I agree", he replied. "There's only one person who knows that explanation, and it's Lavenda herself."
"How can I help?", I asked.
"Our number one priority is getting Ron's O/Ws back, and in stopping Lavenda", he said. "It would be a chance of a lifetime to get your Ethics really in solidly. You'd also get to meet the Commanding Officer of B-1."
"B-1?", I inquired. "What's that?"
"The Intelligence Bureaux of the Guardian Office", he explained. "The head of B-1 is Fred Hare."
"I want to meet him!", I replied excitedly.
"He operates on a tougher standard than the Scientologist you find in Class Four Orgs like this one", Kevin cautioned.
"Why? How is he any different?", I questioned.
"Fred Hare was Ron's personal courier on the Flag Ship Apollo in 1971 and 1972. He travelled through Europe carrying millions of dollars which was used for Scientology expansion, and not once did he ever lose a single penny of Ron's money. There was no danger that was too great for Fred Hare to overcome, and he certainly knows how to handle the enemy. I'll tell you what happened one time. There was a psych convention in London, and a notorious electric-shocking, drug pushing, killer psychiatrist from Australia named Harry Bailey was scheduled to speak at the Portman Hotel in front of about three hundred other evil SPs. The G. O. got the word that this lunatic suppressive, whose nickname was "Doctor Deep Sleep", was going to carry on a raving tirade, criticizing and maligning Scientology. The press was there, and we had to stop this psycho from making his speech. Ron was in Saint Hill at the time, and the British Government was causing trouble, trying to revoke his visa. Anyway, just to show you what amazing "confront" Fred had, he disguised himself as a room service attendant in the hotel where this Harry Bailey was staying, and he triumphantly put crystals of LSD into the psychiatrist's toothpaste."
"What happened?", I asked.
"Well, Bailey never made his speech!", Kevin laughed.
"When can I meet this Fred Hare?", I insisted. "You know that I am going to get this mission. I can get Ron's papers back for him."
"Fred was impressed with you because of the Bingoing idea. He knows it first came from you", Kevin confided. "There is another reason why he wants your help, but Fred will brief you on it himself, at 7:45 P.M., this Saturday at Flag. I strongly suggest you start out for the Base no later than Saturday morning.
My heart raced like a tiger stalking my prey. I finally had a chance to do something personal for Source. I swore on Book One that I would never let him down. There was no way that I would fail to get Ron's O/Ws back. It was win or die in the attempt.
But you know, Ron's postulates were always with me. When I went to the shoe store the next morning, which was Thursday, there was a check for $ 101,000 from the Air West settlement. There was no stopping me now. Even if it meant the end of my immediate life, I would not let Ron down. I owed him everything. Look what he did for me! He made sure that my check came in! Ron was helping me go up the Bridge! Wasn't it obvious? He was better to me than my own family! You didn't see them sending me hundred thousand dollar checks, did you? And now, I had a chance to vanquish one of Ron's most deadly enemies! My liver curled at the very idea of barriers, stops and counter-intention from the entheta wog world. I could not wait to leave for Flag on Saturday. It was Thursday, and I made arrangements with a wog friend of mine, Dr. Johnson, to drive me to the airport. I had to prove to Ron that I could overcome my fear of flying and get to Flag. Ron would never let me blow up in the air with that check! It was only a forty-five minute flight from Miami anyway.
The Flag V.I.P. Limousine, which was an old beat up brown Dodge Van, met me at the airport. Dan Osborne, the driver, was very accommodating, and loaded my suitcase into the back. There were some other Scientologists arriving on a flight from Denmark, and we only had to wait at the airport for three hours before their flight arrived. But I didn't care, because it gave me a chance to talk with Dan, who turned out to be an OT Four, and a very high and stellar being indeed. You'd never know that an ordinary airport transportation driver from the Flag Motor Pool would be so high up on the Bridge, as well as also having a post in the Technical Division as a Commodore's Messenger Organization Missionaire. That's the nice part about Flag personnel. They were all so natural about their MEST duties. The scrubwoman cleaning out the toilet in your room at the Fort Harrison Hotel could turn out to be a Class Twelve auditor, which is the highest Tech-trained Sea Org Class on the planet. It wouldn't be too bad, because with her appreciation for life and livingness, she could find a lot of aesthetic beauty under the rim, and for a thetan with so much power to create, she could sniff Pine Sol all day, and be three feet in back of her own forest.
The following morning, I rented a car, and drove to the main branch of the Landmark Bank of St. Petersburg, where I deposited the check through the drive-in window without a hitch. Because I did not request any cash back, I didn't even have to present any identification to the teller. It worked out just like Peter said it would.
Because I had the rest of the day to kill, I went to see Flag's newest acquisitions, the West Coast Building and the Annex Building, which were two blocks north of the main complex, and several blocks east of our waterfront mecca, the Sand Castle Motel. It was fabulous the way Scientology was expanding its real estate holdings. We were truly starting to flourish and prosper. I was very proud to be a part of it.
Despite this intense outburst of pride, I started to get bored waiting around, so I went across the bay with the Courtney Campbell Parkway, heading toward Downtown Tampa. I found this totally choice massage parlor on Fremont and Kennedy, where I spent two hours with an exceptional Italian therapist named Gucci. It was the first time that I ever made love while we were both soaked in warm, greasy oil, followed by a hot bubble bath. It was three hundred dollars, but what the fuck did I care? I had a receipt for one hundred and one thousand dollars in my pocket! Surely Ron would overlook a little diversion to pep up an otherwise slow day.
The Fort Harrison Hotel had so many rooms, that from the drab, fourth floor hallway, one closed door looked about the same as any other. But Room 406 was a beehive of activity, because behind that ordinary portal was the hub of the Intelligence Bureaux of the Guardian's Office, and the place where I was scheduled to meet Fred Hare at 7:45 in the evening on Saturday, February 28, 1981.
"What an odd smell!", I said to myself as I opened the door, sniffing around.
"Cherry tobacco!", Fred Hare commented as he either saw my nose going through gyrations, or he was able to read my mind. You know how OT Fives are. In the wog world, they are called "psychic", but in Scientology, anything with the word "psych" in it is derogatory, and never used flatteringly on nice people.
The office was a shambles. Documents were loose all over the desk, and there seemed to be no order or system to it. Folders, reports, Policy Letters, Bulletins, and literally hundreds of wanton Flag Orders and Guardian's Orders cluttered up the surface. There were clay pails on the floor, and one of them had been left open in the corner, which meant the clay could be drying out! It appeared that whoever worked here was a perfect match for Jaime. Regrettably, it turned out to be Fred Hare.
"So you must be Steve", he smiled, with a voice so familiar to me that I could taste it.
"I'm five minutes early; I hope that's all right", I said apologetically.
"I won't write you up for it", he promised. "Now sit down."
Fred was a man around forty years old, with a receding hairline, and cheekbones that looked like they might have been stuffed with tissue paper when he squinted. He could have given me the impression that he was once quite distinguished looking, had it not been for the fact that he badly needed dental work, and he was also very terribly cross eyed. The clothes he was wearing were fashionable in the early fifties, but they nevertheless fit him well, as he apparently once knew how to dress himself with extreme confidence.
We exchanged courtesies and niceties. Fred had joined Scientology during 1958 in of all the unlikeliest of places, Paris. He was an American, and he never told me what he had been doing there, but I suppose nothing about him was any of my business.
"I have heard your voice before", I observed. "Were you ever a guest speaker at a Flag event?"
"No, but I know where you've heard me", he chuckled. "Two years ago I recorded a dissemination tape for Ron at his request, entitled "Can We Ever Be Friends?", and I know all of the Missions and the Orgs have been playing the hell out of it.
"Right!", I recalled enthusiastically. "You're the Scientology Minister who tries to get families reunited that had fallen apart! Why didn't you ever reveal your name on the tape?"
"To keep the dumb wogs guessing!", he boasted. "Besides, when you're a Guardian, you don't advertise your vital statistics, you know, for security reasons."
"Well, it's always exciting to meet the man behind the voice!", I remarked glibly.
"Okay, Steve; I guess we've gotten our rudiments in, haven't we?", he stated, indicating that he wanted to plunge right into business without any more bullshit.
"Sure", I snapped. "What can I do for you?"
"I want you to look at the Code of Honor", he began, "and read me Point Number Twelve."
Fred gave me a big poster that was full of dust, which, together with the pipe tobacco, made me sneeze three times.
"It says, "Never fear to hurt another in a just cause."45
Fred looked at me carefully.
"What does that mean to you?", he asked.
"It means that I must command intention so that the ethics of the greatest good for the greatest number of dynamics are maintained and upheld", I answered with the textbook style of a functioning automoton.
"I see you have some clay over there", I added. "Would you like me to demonstrate the concept for you on the clay table?"
"No, I can see you've got it", he snapped, biting his pipe hard.
"I'm here to handle Lavenda", I offered. "Kevin briefed me on the threat she poses."
"I know", Fred grinned. "I told him to talk to you about her. But do you have any idea why I picked you, out of all possible candidates?"
"Not really", I answered honestly. "Perhaps you have heard about my Bingoing idea."
"That's LRH Policy now", he seethed. "It's no longer your idea. You contributed a stable datum which was waiting to be applied as a successful action. I think you had better read Point Number Thirteen of the Code of Honor too."
"Don't desire to be liked or admired"46, I read. "Wow! Is that a fault?"
"It's in there, and a lot of people who can't confront that one really screw up miserably", he warned. "Don't ever let it be a problem for you. If you are liked and admired, that's just fine. Just never desire it, because in this cockeyed universe, whatever you want you don't get, and whatever you get you don't want and can't have. It's called a reverse vector flow. Here in the Guardian's Office, we make things go right in spite of it."
"Is that part of our Tech?", I wondered.
"Take the Philadelphia Doctorate Course, or buy the lectures on reel-to-reel tape", he suggested. "You'll learn a lot."
"You are a very fascinating person", I commented.
"Now you're starting to flatter me", he grumbled. "I hate that. So let's get back to your responsibilities, shall we? I asked you whether or not you knew why I picked you for the job. It had nothing to do with your inexperience as a G. O. Agent, believe me. I would much rather have found someone else who was already trained."
"Then why am I here?", I inquired, somewhat insulted.
"Lavenda was married to a Jewish cop named Barry Dukoff", he began. "I've been through her folders thousands of times. I could tell you what color her monthly period is, and when she didn't have one. She and this cop had a daughter together by the name of Sabrina. The kid's about eleven or so. The point is, she loved this husband of hers, and he left her. Ha! I guess he had pretty good sense for a crooked cop. He was the one stable datum in her life. She loved him, I mean. Well, an SP isn't really capable of love, but as far as it could be said about her, she loved him. At least she thought she did."
"What are you leading up to?", I demanded, sensing that this guy was either senile or liked to ramble on uncontrollably.
"You look like her ex-husband!", Fred grimaced. "I have his picture in her folder somewhere here on the desk. You know how to act sort of, well, you know, Jewish, don't you?"
"I think I could pass as an uninvited Bar Mitzvah guest if I had to", I replied sarcastically, sensing a slight hint of anti-semitism, which, even amongst fellow Scientologists, still went against my grain.
"Oh, come off your high horse!", he said glibly. "Thetans are thetans. When you complete OT Five, you'll know a hell of a lot more about truth than if you lived for ten thousand years in the basement of a synagogue."
"Why talk to me about OT Five?", I asked. "I'm not even Clear yet!"
"Well, you'll have to suffice in spite of that", he condescended. "By the way, how old are you?"
"Thirty-one", I said.
"Well, that SP witch is going to be thirty-one years old this April 10th. That was the same day that we founded the Mission of Anchorage, Alaska. That was in '75 though. And do they have lousy stats! Well, anyway, I just wanted to make sure that you weren't too young for her."
Somehow, I began to feel uneasy about the Fred Hare Lonely Hearts Club he was establishing.
"What if I didn't like the way she looked or something?", I thought silently.
"What am I going to tell Lavenda about myself when I finally meet her?", I asked Fred.
"You'll have to tell her how much you hate Scientology!"
"What?", I exclaimed.
"You're going undercover as an SP", he instructed. "By the way, what did you just say about when you "finally" meet her? There's no "finally" about it. You're going to meet her tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?", I screamed. "I don't know anything about her! I only know what Kevin told me. How can I prepare for this in one day? And anyway, how can I just go up and introduce myself to her? What am I going to say? Should I knock on her door and say, "Hello, Lavenda, I'm your fellow suppressive, and I want to be your friend!" Where am I going to meet her? Do you know where she lives?"
"Relax!", he shouted. "I don't mind debriefing you, but I have no time to cater to your rock-slammy reactive bank! Now, where did I put that file? This desk looks disorganized, but I know where everything is! Now where the hell is it? Well, forget about Dukoff's picture. I'll find it later. Anyway, you look just like him. Ha! All you Jews look alike. Hell, don't let me ARC break you with my racial slurs."
"I still don't know very much about Lavenda", I protested.
"We've got to change all that", he urged. "Here, hold this pipe for a minute while I look for her folders. They're somewhere on this desk. I know where I put the damn thing; I just have to find it. People are always loading me up with DEV-T. Just look at this place!"
"Don't you have a secretary?", I questioned.
"I can't trust anybody!", he complained. "Things disappear out of here all the time. Take Lavenda! You wouldn't be talking to me if she didn't steal that stuff from Gilman Hot Springs."
"Where is Gilman Hot Springs?", I asked.
"It's where Ron had all those damn O/Ws!", he roared. "Why the hell do you want to know? Are you a spy? A plant? Who the devil sent you here anyhow?"
"You did, sir", I replied.
"Why, hell, I guess I did at that", he crowed. "God damn it! I can't find a blasted thing in here. What are you holding the pipe for? Put the ruddy thing down and help me look for those files."
I attempted to set the pipe down on another table.
"Not on its side, you idiot!", he encouraged. "Don't you know how to put a pipe down? You'll start a goddamn fire in this place! Here, just give me that and help me look for those papers."
I started to organize the documents into neat piles.
Fred grabbed my arm.
"Don't touch anything!", he yelled. "You'll screw up the works! Just sit down like I told you and wait until I find everything. I wish I had some competent help so I could organize some of this stuff."
Suddenly, I noticed a foot high stack of papers under a rotary fan marked "Van Schaick."
"Fred!", I clamored. "Aren't these the folders, under the fan?"
"I didn't put them there!", he barked. "What are they doing under the damn fan?"
"Maybe the fan was a good paperweight", I said helpfully.
"What, so they could all blow away?", he screamed. "Use your brains, for God's sake. I never heard a more stupid reason in my whole life. Now where the hell is my pipe?"
"Over there", I whispered.
"I told you to hold it! Damn you! Now I have to light it up again", he reasoned.
All of the tension was tying my stomach up in knots. Since Fred's office was converted from an old hotel room, there was a toilet in back of a filing cabinet.
"Do you mind if I use the bathroom?", I asked.
"Why, do you have to go right now?", he growled. "You'll wait!"
There was no point in arguing about it.
"Oh, here are those Mission Orders I was looking for!", he laughed. "Well, I'll be damned. I sent Billy to the RPF's RPF for losing those frigging papers."
"What's the RPF's RPF?", I asked him.
"Go look it up in the dictionary!", he ordered. "Do I look like your wet nurse or something?"
Modern Management Technology Defined was on the window ledge. I had to look under the abbreviations first, to find out what RPF stood for. It meant "Rehabilitation Project Force." So the RPF's RPF was the Rehabilitation Project Force's Rehabilitation Project Force.
"What the hell could that be all about?", I wondered to myself.
I finally found it. It was some kind of Punishment Org that sounded pretty horrible. I started to read some of the rules: "RPF's RPF: the following restrictions are applied to members: (1) segregated from other RPF members with regard to work, messing, berthing, musters, and any other command activity. (2) No pay. (3) No training. (4) No auditing. (5) May only work on mud boxes in the engine room. (6) Six hours sleep maximum."47
"Mud boxes in the engine room?", I repeated. "What on earth are they talking about?"
"What's the matter?", Fred heaved. "Don't you like our Ethics?"
"I just read some pretty wild and crazy stuff here --"
"Look, Fishman!", Fred challenged. "Flag's a Sea Org Org. Sea Org members are a disciplined body of thetans who are at a much higher level of purpose than Scientology organizations at large. I was in the RPF's RPF once, back in '68. It didn't kill me. I just had pneumonia for a couple of years, that's all."
"What did you do to deserve that?", I groped.
"I threw away one of Mary Sue's bank deposit slips", he sighed.
"Okay, but couldn't she have filled out a new one?", I wondered.
"That's not the point!", he stammered in a fit of high anxiety. "I let her down and I deserved it! I'll tell you, the RPF's RPF was the best thing that ever happened to me. It put me back on the right track. Do you know what the motto of the Project Force is?"
"No, I didn't know it had a motto", I explained.
"Well, how could you know about the motto if you didn't even know what the RPF's RPF even meant!", he argued. "Miami's a fine example of incompetence! They send me people like you who don't even have a grasp of the basic definitions of Scientology!"
"You didn't tell me the motto", I reminded him.
Fred looked at me with disinterest.
"You don't give a damn anyway!", he said apathetically.
"That's no attitude", I retorted. "What's the motto?"
"One time, one job, one place", he mumbled.48
"What does that mean?", I answered perplexedly.
"You see? You see? You want to drag me into this great big Q&A, don't you? Q&A, Q&A, Q&A! Every time I say an answer, you've got another question. To hell with you!"
"I'll repeat the question", I stated with "auditor presence." "What does the motto of "One time, one job, one place" mean to you?"
Now I had him! I put him in session! He had to answer me! Fred turned toward me, completely vanquished.
"When you do one job in one place at one time, you can have a win if you do it right", he elaborated. "I needed that stable datum in my own life. After I completed the RPF's RPF, I could handle everything that was thrown before me. My life became orderly and systematic. Now it is impossible for anything to confuse me, which reminds me of all the time I have wasted on this nonsense. What was it that you wanted to do again?"
"I need to go to the bathroom", I smiled, gritting my teeth.
"That's a lot of crap!", he reasoned. "You can hold it in. It's no goddamn emergency. Take a look at this instead. Here are all of Lavenda's Preclear Folders dating back to hell, I don't know. Tonight, you're going to memorize these. What room are you in?"
"901", I said.
"Yeah, that's a nice room", he observed. "I don't know if I've ever seen it, but I know where it is. I'll call you around one o'clock in the morning to find out if you have any questions on the files."
"At one in the morning?", I repeated glumly.
"It should take you at least until four to finish all this", he estimated. "You don't have any other appointments tonight, do you?"
"I usually go to sleep by midnight", I argued.
"Not tonight you're not!", he moaned. "You're on a G. O. mission! The schedule is altogether different. You're here on the same terms as the rest of us. If I can't sleep, neither will you!"
I was going to recommend that if Fred would just get a decent night's rest, perhaps he could locate things in his environment more easily. But that would have gone over worse than seepage in a morgue. Anyway, I could digest the key points in the folders without staying up all night like he ordered me to.
"Fred, you never told me what exactly I am here at Flag to do!", I reminded.
"You've been distracting me ever since you walked in the door with your whining about the bathroom!", he said. "Anyway, don't you know what you're doing?"
"I gathered I'm going to meet Lavenda", I answered snidely. "But wouldn't it help if you told me what my assignment is?"
"Your assignment?", he mimicked. "Am I your trigonometry teacher now? It's your mission, Fishman! You're not here on any goddamn assignment. You're here on a Guardian's mission!"
"Okay, so what's my mission then?"
"You'd better not fail at it either", he cautioned.
"Fail at what?", I asked with frustration.
"Ron wants his documents back. He's depending upon you to get them. And he wants her civil lawsuit with that bastard squirrel lawyer stopped too. You're going to get her to drop Michael Flynn as her attorney. I want her completely neutralized. She is no longer going to be a threat to us, do you understand? I don't care if you even have to kill her. I want those O/Ws returned to Archives, and I want her evil purposes completely paralyzed. Right now, she is the biggest threat to the survival of Earth that this planet has ever had! The future of all Scientology Orgs is in your hands. So I don't want to hear about you having to sleep, or to take a leak, or whether or not your stomach is growling. This is war! You wanted to do something for Ron? Well, now you can show the Commodore what kind of theta you are made of."
"By the way, Fred", I interrupted. "Why did Lavenda cause us so much trouble?"
"How the hell should I know?", he raved. "It's probably in the folders. Why are you asking me?"
"You said that you've been through her folders thousands of times", I protested. "I assumed you knew why she did it."
"Don't put words in my mouth!", he blabbled. "I don't have any time to read all that goddamn trash she told her auditors. If the Case Supervisors were any damn good, they would have spotted her as an SP years ago. That's the trouble here. The staff on her lines were all a bunch of psychos, inventing their own processes and not using Standard Tech. There's probably quickie grades that entered in, and all kinds of other dogshit in those worksheets. Who ever heard of an OT One dropping a bomb on Ron? She's no more an OT One than all these spiders in this big web over here.
The gossamer extended over four feet from the corner of the ceiling to the window.
"Aren't those spiders dangerous?", I quaked.
"Naaahhh, they're thetans too. Flag spiders are okay. They're getting all their expanded grades and levels for free", Fred snickered, puffing on his pipe again. "I'd trust these spiders a damn sight more than the suppressive you're gonna meet tomorrow!"
"You never said how I was supposed to meet her", I asked. "Do I have to go to her house?"
"Nope!", Fred said sharply. "She's coming here. It'll be real easy for you."
"She wouldn't dare show her face at Flag", I contradicted.
"Tomorrow is Guardian's Day, March the First!", he gloated. "It's the fourteenth anniversary since Ron set up the first Guardian's Office at Saint Hill in England during 1966. Did you know I was there at the time? I was doing my Saint Hill Special Briefing Course. Well, why should you care. Anyhow, we got word that there is going to be a squirrel protest rally tomorrow, right here in front of the Fort Harrison."
"Do you mean the SPs will be carrying picket signs at Flag?", I asked in utter disbelief. "How can you allow it?"
"I welcome it!", Fred bellowed. "I want to see exactly who our enemies are. Ron has Tech on how to handle it all. We're going to be very friendly to them, bringing them out some doughnuts and coffee. The wog press will be covering it, and Ron wants us to show them the contrast between these psycho nut cases raving and ranting, and the Sea Org Combat Information Center Unit of B-1, who will be very well mannered, smartly dressed, and politely offering them refreshments. The public is on our side, you know. I've got the Flag Chaplain scheduled to talk to them, fully decked out in his Minister's uniform. Hell, tomorrow is Sunday, isn't it?"
"If I were out there, I'd break every one of their posters and bash their fucking heads in!", I vowed.
"That happened once, and it didn't work out to well", Fred said. "In fact, Lavenda was picketing back then too. That was exactly six months ago, on Founder's Day, September the 1st. We had an open house to honor Ron, and about ten or twelve degraded beings including Lavenda picketed the event and tried to come inside the Fort Harrison to start trouble. Ron's two daughters, Diana and Suzette, got into a big fight with the demonstrators and broke their signs. Do you know that the only pictures on the six o'clock news were those of Suzette tearing up one of the picketer's banners? The press didn't care one iota about our event, or about how we have helped the City of Clearwater since Ron put the Flag Land Base here in 1975. They just tried to do a hatchet job on the two girls for protecting their father. So now, Steve, we are going to play the game much differently."
"Are you saying that you want me to feed Lavenda doughnuts? I'll give her poison!", I hissed, mad at the very thought of befriending such an evil bastard.
"No, I've got more important plans for you", Fred clucked. "You're going to be one of the protesters! You're going to get Lavenda's sympathy by raising more hell about Scientology than anyone else there. It's now 9:50 P.M. You've got fourteen hours and ten minutes to get into the valence of the most outspoken SP on the planet. When Lavenda meets you, I want her to think you are the best ally she ever had."
"What about Sea Org members that think I have turned traitor?", I gasped.
"All of the Guardians execs know about the mission. You don't know too many other people here. And most importantly, Lavenda doesn't know you. She was getting out of Scientology when you were coming in. She knows most of the staff at Flag. That's another reason why I picked you. You're a nobody! I guess you never thought that your unimportance would actually be an upstat!"
"Isn't it just fantastic to be such a wonderful nothing!", I thought to myself as I went upstairs to do my homework.
Lavenda's folder was full of so many evil purposes! She falsely attested to OT Two, when in fact she didn't even finish the level. She smoked marijuana for six years as a teenager, and then there were the numerous write-ups about her violent and ungovernable temper, including her many clay-throwing tantrums, as well as the very infamous occasion of last September 1st when she tried to break a protest poster over Diana Hubbard's head. I felt very thankful to be so rational and sane as I read her degraded psycho-dog file. It never ceased to amaze me how such crazy people can somehow sneak by the high standards which Scientology Registrars demand of all new preclears. If it were up to me, I would give raw meat wogs their Security Check before they even had a personality test. But of course, as Kevin often said, our level of ethics and responsibility in the G. O. is a lot more disciplined than you find in the ordinary Class Four Orgs.
When I made my way to Fort Harrison Room 406 again, it was 9:00 on Saturday morning, and Fred Hare introduced me to one of his junior staff members, Bill Morey, who had also worked training other G. O. Agents in many projects of high sensitivity under the direction of Bill Franks, who had recently been appointed by Ron to fill the post of Executive Director International. Bill Morey, a mild mannered and lethally charming fellow, was there to review the key points and elements in Lavenda's folders, in order to pinpoint her main "buttons." In case you are wondering, there was absolutely nothing illegal about my seeing the Preclear Folder of an ex-Scientologist who was designated a Suppressive. The rule of confidentiality between Church and parishioner did not apply in cases involving SPs and squirrels. Bill Morey read me Guardian's Order Number 121669, in which the Commodore Staff Guardian Mary Sue Hubbard had given me carte blanche as a G. O. Agent to rummage through or "cull" any or all auditing files in such instances, so I was positively on solid legal ground here, that's for damn sure.
The next thing that Bill did was to go over TR-L, so that I would be fully prepared for Lavenda. There were some great drills in TR-L, and I did very well at every one of them. TR-L, by the way, stands for Training Routine of Lying, which is a powerful and highly recommended weapon in dealing with our enemies. Lying, according to Bill, was simply "outflowing false data very effectively."
Bill Morey read from a Guardian's Order: "The purpose of TR-L is to train the G. O. Agent to deliver a lie newly and in a new unit of time to any enemy under stress, without flinching, trying to overwhelm, or using a via."
Holding up the book Alice In Wonderland, I pretended to read from a page, while I made up all kinds of wild fibs as I went along.
I lied about the Mad Hatter's sex life with Alice, for example. Although it looked like I was reading what was printed on the page, I was actually conjuring up a great sequel to the plot, involving the Queen of Hearts defecating in Alice's tea. And yet, by the time I passed the drill, I was performing so naturally that Bill said it sounded like I was just reading it all from the book itself!
There were other practical routines to the confidential TR-L that I would have a chance to do later, such as infiltrating the records section of a psychiatric hospital and seizing documents. Bill promised me that I would get to do the full battery of exciting Field Drills as soon as I completed my mission with Lavenda!
But then the plutonium shoe dropped. I had to do a routine that I absolutely hated more than anything else in the world. I had to sit there in front of Bill Morey for one full hour and invent vicious lies about Ron and Scientology. At first I couldn't do it! How could I say anything negative about L. Ron Hubbard, the man I loved? I would rather be struck dead by a bolt of lightning. The very idea of anyone impugning and maligning Source was revolting to the core.
"I can't do it!", I screamed to Bill. "I adore Ron more than I care about my own penis. I am living for the day that I might just catch a glimpse of his shadow, and I just can't confront saying any bad things about the Founder of truth. It's like cursing God or something!"
"Didn't it ever occur to you that what I'm ordering you to do is what Ron wants too?", Bill whispered gently. "The entheta you are putting out there in the MEST universe is to trap the enemy. It isn't directed against Ron, or against the Third Dynamic. You simply have to take responsibility for Lavenda by doing whatever is necessary to stamp her out! Now, I want you to start on a mild gradient. With your TRs in, I want you to convince me that Ron is a money-hungry, fat bastard. Go on, deliver that communication to me. Go on! In a new unit of time, start!"
"Ron is a money-hungry, fat bastard!", I repeated.
"You're about as convincing as the House of Representatives!", he shrugged. "I don't believe you. You sound like you're completely full of shit!"
"Are you bullbaiting me?", I asked. "Or do I really sound that bad?"
"It was awful, honestly", Bill sighed. "Try it again, this time, as an upstat Guardian's Office Agent."
"Ron is a money-hungry, fat bastard!!!", I shrieked.
"You can't cover it up by yelling", he coached. "I want to hear real hate in your voice! Deliver that communication backed up with savage anger."
I had an idea. I decided to think of Lavenda while talking about Ron.
"L. Ron Hubbard is a selfish overstuffed scum bag mother-fucker who pimps off his own whore wife!", I growled.
I had caught Bill Morey by surprise. He backed up two feet and could not breathe. Before me was my mock-up of slashing Lavenda's vagina using a machete, with the determination of Charles Manson. But Bill could not see my mental image picture, and for a thousandth of a nanosecond, he looked at me as if I truly meant what I had said about Ron, and by so doing, I was some very psychotically deranged SP.
"Y-You changed the command into something different", he observed.
"Yes, but you told me to include some savage anger, so I put some in there!", I smiled.
"You passed, of course", he admitted.
Certainly I knew that I had done all right.
Afterwards, I spent another hour with Fred, who predominantly lectured me on how to be unobtrusive, so that Lavenda would never catch on to my lofty motives. He warned me against trying to get the data on the stolen documents all in one day, despite the severe downstat of taking too long.
"It might take a week for success, and it could also take a month", Fred estimated. "I just want results. I don't give two shits how long it takes you to get them, provided it's done right and fast."
Fred then ordered Bill Morey to walk with me to the corner of Waterson Avenue and Laura Street, which was approximately three blocks away. Bill had the keys to a mustard color 1971 Dodge Dart, and in the trunk was a protest placard which said, "Scientology is Mind Control", painted in red letters as a special effect to restimulate the look of blood." At that point, Bill ordered me to carry the poster back to Fort Harrison Avenue, since the squirrel protesters had already gathered there en masse to register their filthy, disgusting objections to Guardian's Day.
There were about fifteen lunatics marching on the east side of Fort Harrison Avenue, across the street from the main entrance to Flag. Two City of Clearwater policemen were there to maintain order. Together, they all looked like the cast from "The Night of the Living Dead." But of course, I did not like SPs very much, not that anybody actually would.
I didn't have to ask who Lavenda Van Schaick was. There were numerous pictures of her in the Preclear Folder. But when I saw someone carrying a poster saying "Scientology Guardians Kill People", it took less than a moment to identify her.
In another time and another place, Lavenda would have been a woman that I know I might have possibly liked. She had a good face; very aware, full of wisdom, and with lots of intensity and beauty. Now keep in mind, it wasn't the kind of face that I was entirely used to. There was an unspoken elegance and sophistication to her, the sort of look you would find broadcasting the six o'clock news or sleeping with a Congressman. Yet, there was a tenderness and a simplicity behind those eyes that beheld the sperm of understanding itself. With graceful form and dazzling posture, she was very much a giant amongst women who stood five foot five. But there was also a shitload of hurt and anxiety, which reminded me that I was dealing with one of the most dangerous suppressives on the planet, and I should never lose sight of that! The one thing that I could not let myself become was vulnerable.
"There was a very wicked thetan in back of all those alluring niceties", I kept telling myself.
Within seconds, I noticed Lavenda reading my poster as I crossed her path.
"I like yours better!", I called out flirtatiously.
"Mind control doesn't say enough", she agreed. "They murder children here at Flag, you know."
Now that was a strange statement coming from a lady who once had three abortions.
"I have to overwhelm her too!", I thought silently.
"I heard there are over a dozen kids chained in the basement", I volunteered.
Lavenda started to laugh uncontrollably.
"What is so funny?", I asked.
"What you just said!", she snorted. "I'm sure you hate Flag as much as I do, but there are no basements in Florida! They would hit water if they tried to build one."
"No, I didn't mean here!", I quipped, thinking fast. "In Los Angeles, at the Cedars Complex Estates Org."
I had heard that the Church of Scientology of California had bought the Cedars of Lebanon Hospital a couple of years before I became a member, and a place like that just had to have a basement.
"Yeah, I heard something about that", Lavenda acknowledged, proving that she was dying to hear about any bad news that I could come up with. "That's where they torture people in the RPF."
Lavenda and I started walking together, side by side, each holding our placards.
"You look a little familiar", she said. "When did you get out?"
"I look like your ex-husband, you SP bitch!", I thought to myself. "But what the hell did she mean by when I got out? Oh, God, she means when did I leave Scientology!", I continued to analyze.
"Those cheap bastards won't give me my money back!", I answered. "Then they sent some goons from the Guardian's Office over to my house while I wasn't home, and later I found my pet dog dead in the living room. I hate those killers!"
"How do you know they did it?", she inquired.
"Because they left a fucking Dianetics book right in the middle of all the blood!", I cried.
As an animal rights activist, I mocked up that whole scene, and real tears flooded from my eyes as I viewed it. For a moment, I instantly felt like a victim of a Guardian's attack. It scared me how quickly I had convinced myself of my own lies, or "shore stories", as they are called in the Sea Org.
"God, that's horrible!", she acknowledged with genuine sympathy.
"Don't you worry!", I shouted. "I'm going to make them pay for what they did to poor Apollo."
"You named your dog after the Scientology ship?", she asked in disbelief.
"Well, I was a real shmuck back then!", I bragged.
"You're Jewish, aren't you?", she smiled.
"How'd you know, by the word "shmuck"?", I pondered.
"You remind me of someone who I used to care about", she sighed.
"Aha! It's working!", I thought. "Fred is going to be proud of me! I've got this bitch hooked!"
"That's because you are a very caring person", I explained. "Otherwise, if you weren't, you'd still be on the other side of the street in that haunted building, kissing Ron's ass!"
"You are so open and honest!", she said. "I spent twelve years with them. I almost forgot what it's like to be human. But then again, Ron always said "it's impossible to be human and be right"." I looked at Lavenda with a very annoyed facial expression.
"Now if you're going to quote that money-hungry fat bastard, you're going to ruin my day and I'll have to do my protesting with someone else!", I warned.
"Hey, I'm sorry", she said with big sad eyes, as she patted my cheek while holding up her poster with her left hand. "What's your name, anyway."
"Steve Fishman", I said.
"I've never heard of you", she shrugged. "What was your Org?"
"Aren't you supposed to say, "Where are you from?" We have to stop talking like Scientology Rondroid Zombies", I reminded.
"Yeah, it's hard to break out of it", she stated. "But, you're right. Anyway, where do you come from?"
"Fort Lauderdale, land of high stats!", I answered, trying to make her laugh. "By the way, what's your name?"
"Lavenda; Lavenda Dukoff", she said, deliberately leaving off the "Van Schaick."
"What a heavenly name!", I remarked. "Does it have any special meaning?"
"When I was born, I almost died, and I turned purple", she explained.
"You should have died!", I wished to myself. "It would have been one less filthy SP to contend with!"
"Well, I was a little lighter than purple according to Mom", she continued as she laughed. "She said I looked lavender, so she named me Lavenda, which was also her favorite color."
"Your mother sounds very artistic", I grinned. "She is very lucky to have you as a daughter."
"You're a blight upon the human race, and your slutty mother should have miscarried you!", my thoughts screamed.
Suddenly, several press vans pulled up. The Clearwater Sun and the St. Petersburg Times had arrived. A couple of reporters from one of the local AM radio stations had positioned themselves across the street, interviewing three or four Sea Org members, who were gallantly catering to the media with several large bakery trays of assorted doughnuts and two iced pitchers containing freshly squeezed Florida Orange Juice.
"These are from Ron's own orchard in Dunedin", the Sea Org Personal Public Relations Officer said loudly into the microphone.
"Do you mean the doughnuts?", the news anchor joked.
Suddenly, the crowd of squirrels around me began to chant:
"Ron Hubbard is a fag!"
"Guardians kill at Flag!"
"Ron Hubbard is a fag!"
"Guardians kill at Flag!"
Lavenda looked at me unexpectedly.
"You aren't singing!", she complained.
"I didn't know that Ron was a homosexual", I said, quite surprised.
"Well, his son was!", she exclaimed.
"I heard his son's name is Arthur", I recalled. "Is that who you mean?"
"He had three sons!", she revealed. "The oldest one, L. Ron Hubbard Junior, hasn't spoken to him since 1959, after Ron Senior found out that Ron Junior made his stepmother pregnant. But the queer son with the fake English accent was Quentin, who killed himself."
"Ron had a son that killed himself?", I repeated in shock, not knowing whether to believe that prevaricating animal or not.
"You don't hear the bad news when you're busy pushing stats in the Org", she gloated with the aftertaste of sour grapes. "Quentin gassed himself to death with the exhaust pipes connected to the inside of his Pontiac while he was parked near the Las Vegas Airport."
"But why?", I asked.
"With parents like Ron and Old Mother Hubbard, do you really have to ask me that?"
"I never even heard of Quentin", I shrugged.
"Ron has a grandson Lance from his eldest daughter Katie who is another little faggot. They're all nuts in that family", she revealed.
Unexpectedly, the public relations people from the Church began crossing the street towards us. I saw an opportunity to steam up the crowd.
"Look! They're coming over here with snacks!", I shouted. "It's probably poisoned!"
"Don't anybody eat any of that", a man with a South African accent warned. "You don't take gifts from the Devil!"
"Never you mind, John!", said an Englishman named Robin. "I gave them ten years of my life! I'm going to take back whatever I can get from them!"
Robin proceeded to grab four sugar doughnuts, which were underneath the chocolate cream ones.
"Don't you know who she is?", John said, pointing to one of the attractive Sea Org girls serving the refreshments. "That's Nancy Foster, Diana's secretary! You're going to accept food from her?"
"Take as much as you want!", Nancy offered joyously, after she made certain that the newspaper reporters had finished stuffing themselves. "Would anybody like some fresh orange juice?", she asked. "You know, if you want to come inside the Fort Harrison, we have five "ARC Break Registrars" posted in the lobby who will help you with whatever problem has ARC broken you. We want to see you all back in Scientology, happily on your posts and going up the Bridge, with every one of your ARC Breaks fully handled."
"You can go fuck yourself!", said a girl carrying a banner which read: "Ron is a crook!"
Nevertheless, two other people on line accepted the doughnuts and the juice. One seriously looked as if he hadn't eaten in two days. I was secretly hoping that he would starve to death.
"Don't touch that food!", I yelled. "Don't you have any pride left after what those brainwashers did to you?"
"Go back to your side of the street, you bitch!", Lavenda yelled to Nancy. "You owe me a lot more than your stinking cookies!"
Nancy smiled at Lavenda.
"They're doughnuts, honey, not cookies", she corrected.
"You tell her, Nancy!", I thought silently. "Bravo!"
"They crossed the street to bother us!", I incited. "Now it's time for us to go over there and kick the shit out of them!"
"Yeah!", Lavenda agreed.
Six or seven of us began crossing Fort Harrison Avenue. The two policemen, sensing trouble, stopped Lavenda and I because we had attempted to lead the others across, and while they warned us not to continue walking, the others kept going. The ones who stayed on the side of Flag didn't know what to do at that moment, while the other four protesters who were busy eating the doughnuts and drinking the orange juice didn't seem to care very much about what was happening.
"When you're a hungry SP", I thought, "who gives a damn about principles anyhow?"
"You got any more of these sugar doughnuts?", Robin asked Nancy.
Within two minutes, my initiative of splitting up the group on two sides of the street while getting the police actively involved in harassing them succeeded in breaking up the whole protest. Now I had a lot of good material for my Knowledge Report on handling the picketers. Fred would surely praise me for my help in confusing those SPs. The Sea Org refreshment tray also helped, of course, and I had every intention of including that information in my summary. From where I stood, I looked up and saw Fred Hare smiling from his fourth floor window, exceptionally pleased at the termination of the protest. "He didn't even have to send out the Flag Chaplain to mess up the rally!", I laughed inside my head, basking in my success.
"Let's get out of here!", I told Lavenda. "This isn't working. Nobody has any real guts around this place. Let me take you to lunch. At least the day won't be a total loss."
"It looks like rain anyway", she rationalized. "Why not!"
A drop of water fell on my nose. I peeked up at the sky. It was obvious that Ron had been helping me disband the squirrels. He was making it rain by postulate! There was no other explanation for it.
Ecstatic, I pretended to be the perfect gentleman by carrying Lavenda's placard to her car. When she revealed in passing conversation that she lived nearby in the Safety Harbor section of Clearwater, I allowed her to drive me around in her car, and to also recommend a nice place for us to have lunch.
We spent the entire day together. For the next ten hours, I was just acting like another garden variety SP, badmouthing Ron, Flag, the Miami Org, and whatever else I could think of. I even told Lavenda a fantastic story about how Peter Letterese used to spend his spare time in the All Night Twenty-Four Hour Peep Show on State Road 84 in Fort Lauderdale, where he could masturbate while watching strippers dance through a window, until he ejaculated all over the glass. Of course, Lavenda never knew that it was actually I who used to go there all the time.
The more about Scientology that I disagreed with, the more she liked me. I told her that the Guardian's Office had attacked me with a silent new weapon of bombarding and flooding me with mail, sent anonymously by using business reply cards as if I had requested the tons of junk myself!
"That's the sickest, most disgusting form of harassment I have ever heard of!", she replied.
She didn't know how very proud she made me feel when she said that.
"I can't imagine what kind of cruel bastard thought that idea up!", I cried out.
"Probably Ron came up with it himself!", she answered. "It sounds like something that he or Mary Sue would do to annoy people."
Lavenda told me all about herself. She lived with her daughter Sabrina, who, according to the wallet photos which I saw, was a cute skinny kid of eleven with brown hair. Lavenda, who was a strawberry blonde now but only God knows what originally, told me that Sabrina looked a lot like her father the policeman. There was something in her voice that told me she still loved him, and had not fully gotten over her breakup yet. But she was also very close to her younger sister Lisa, who although single and unattached, had just given birth to a baby boy. The two sisters lived within a short distance of one another in the Clearwater area, and were, in Lavenda's words, inseparable.
As Lavenda spoke, I detected a sensitive quality of kindness in her voice, and as I listened to her for a while, I felt suspended in time to a special place where hopeless romantics lived, where Potential Trouble Sources were unheard of, and where love could never be stamped out.
Was I really such a whore to my own convictions that I could become involved with the thoughts, moods and concerns of such a highly placed enemy? No, it couldn't be. I was just being a good Guardian, that's all. What is life but one big TR anyway? I was simply wearing my hat as an intelligence gatherer, and nothing more. Any human emotion and reaction which I was feeling was completely and totally degraded. I would write it up later as an overt, and then just forget the whole thing. Holding her hand was only an occupational hazard of safeguarding the Tech. For Ron's sake, I would slither into bed with a lizard if he wanted me to.
Philippe Park on Bayshore Boulevard overlooking Old Tampa Bay from the Clearwater side was a million miles away from the fourth floor of the Fort Harrison. Lavenda seemed so much at home in the park, where the squirrels ran free and unpersecuted. It was so incomprehensible to me that anyone would ever desert Scientology. And I was so right. Lavenda dropped out not because of the Tech, the Policy, or the Ethics. She had been rejected in love by a senior staff member to whom she had a fatal attraction, and it was for that reason alone that she sacrificed her immortality. I had to be very careful not to register my alarm over what I knew to be the stupidest decision of her life. There was nothing I could do anyway. She was at cause over her own destiny, and had made the infinitely wrong choice.
When it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it must be a duck, right?
Here was Lavenda, who fluently spoke the language of L. Ron Hubbard's Dianetics and Scientology Technical Dictionary, and had the beingness of a Scientologist as much as or even more so than I did. She was so far ahead of me on the Bridge to Total Freedom that I felt worse than an impotent dwarf next to her. OT Two! I could not begin to imagine what that was like. Not only that, she knew things about OT Seven, from having sneaked into the storage closet at Flag where the confidential materials were kept hidden. She told me all about the "Incredibles", or things that had happened to the thetan over the last seventy-six trillion years which were so horrible that no one would ever believe it. "Scraping off the Incredibles" was an auditing action of OT Seven that was done to rid oneself of the effects of these terrible incidents on the Time Track, or history of the soul. I felt so guilty listening to Lavenda as she revealed secret data to me for hours and hours. I was not eligible to hear things above my case level, but nevertheless, I was drawn to her like a magnet. With it all, I could tell that she still loved Scientology, despite her wretchedness. Well, it was a love-hate relationship, I think. I couldn't help feeling so sorry for her though! What was it like to know so much about truth, and yet throw it all away for nothing? And beyond that, the agony of not having a post in life, and similarly to elicit the wrath of the only group that could take mankind of out of the abyss by the balls was nothing less than wildly insane.
Nevertheless, sitting on the park bench, gazing hypnotically at the tranquility of the water, I was deep within a pleasure moment that I would never quite forget, at least not in this lifetime. Lavenda reached over and kissed me.
"I didn't even have to pay her!", I thought for a fleeting instant, until I remembered who and what she really was. As she held the kiss constant, I recalled that I was in the company of a dangerous suppressive. I mocked up a mental image picture of my tongue daintily swishing inside the mouth of Adolf Hitler. That worked well enough to enable me to pull away from her with the appropriate amount of revulsion and dread.
"You don't know how to kiss, do you?", she asked.
I thought about that for a second. She probably was right.
Jaime never kissed me once during out marriage, except for the peck on the cheek that she gave me at my wedding, in order to impress our guests. None of the prostitutes ever had enough time for foreplay. I wasn't rich, you know. And then of course as a teenager, I was quite a nerd, and I soon found out that you can't learn very much about love from an inflatable doll.
So here I was, confronting the fact that after all these years, I was very much a virgin of the mouth; a nice, innocent lamb being seductively tempted by a dominating, villainous SP. But how could I find out where she hid Ron's documents if I didn't play along with her silly little game?
"This is TR-K", she smiled. "The Training Routine of Kissing!"
"Are you at least a Class Eight?", I asked. "I don't want any less than one hundred percent Standard Tech."
"You're insulting me!", she replied coyly. "I'm a Class Twelve, trained at Flag by the demons of Venus, the Goddess of Love."
"You should only be getting drained with cyanide via intravenous!", I wished with thoughts of retribution as she rambled on with her cross-purposed false data.
However, even my images of kissing Nazis faded away by nightfall, as I felt the tenderness of her lips.
"She's only playing games with my body", I justified. "She hasn't affected me one fucking bit as a thetan!"
Fred Hare was thrilled with my progress. Lavenda was starting to open up to me with trust. It was going to be such an act of bravery to stab a knife in her back! I got goose bumps just thinking about how important to Ron I was now! Lavenda knew that I had to return to Fort Lauderdale, but we were going to talk to each other every day by telephone! On the following morning, I called Southern Bell and ordered a private phone number placed in my den at home. Jaime thought I ordered it to receive calls from Meyer Lansky, and she did not question my infinite wisdom. As a double precaution, I had a lock installed on my den door, so that no member of my household could go in there to snoop around while I wasn't home.
With all that I accomplished, I was not without regret. Why did I have feelings of compassion for this enemy Lavenda, when she was such a threat to the Church, and had done such a terrible evil misdeed to Ron? Why couldn't I just hate her all of the time, instead of thinking about her alluring kiss of death? It would have truly meant my demise in Scientology if anybody ever found out about what was going through my mind, so I had to walk around on egg shells with this great big withhold. I felt so good to be near Lavenda, and yet I hated her with such thetan violence! And still, who could I tell? Peter or Leah would have chewed me up to ribbons. Fred hare would have definitely thrown me out of the G. O., and I would have been utterly disgraced. I had no one to turn to but the mad lunatic, Dr. Geertz.
"You are a Zelig!", Uwe laughed. "Admit it!"
It was just like a warped psych to use misunderstood words with his patients.
"What in God's green earth does a Zelig mean?", I demanded.
"Steve!", he shouted. "I thought you were intelligent, man! Haven't you heard of Woody Allen's movie called "Zelig?"
"No, not really", I admitted.
"Well, Zelig is this chameleon-type of guy who assumes the identity of anyone he is in contact with at the time. If he is with Nazis, he becomes a storm trooper. If he is with Orthodox Jews, he becomes a Talmudic scholar. Face it, Steve. You are a Zelig! You told me yourself that when your parents got divorced, when you were with your father, you pretended to hate your mother. When you were with your mother, you enjoyed despising your father. You can't fool me for a minute! When you are with Scientology staff members, you are a card carrying Scientologist. When you are with Lavenda, you become this anti-Scientologist rebel who loves her. When you come here to me, you are interested in psychology. That's the Zelig in you!"
I thought about that for several minutes.
"Why do I do that?", I asked.
"Because you want to be loved and admired!", he shouted with glee.
"My God!", I screamed. "You're right! But that's the one thing that I am not allowed to crave. Scientology doesn't permit it. It's right there in the Code of Honor. "Don't desire to be loved or admired", it says!"
Dr. Geertz looked at me through above the top of his horn-rimmed spectacles.
"Well then I guess you can never be a very good Scientologist", he concluded.
But I was going to be a good Scientologist.
"Damn Kraut Psych!", I cursed as I drove away from his office. "He's always trying to screw things up for me!"
I wanted so much to talk to Peter about Lavenda, but Peter was not a G. O. Agent, and was not privy to any classified information. Neither was Leah Abady from the Miami Org, but she nevertheless knew all about Operation Recovery from Kevin, and she was always available with an outstretched ear to listen to my problems. Having been spared the stigma of beauty, I found Leah exceedingly easy to talk to, as if she were my very own pet eunuch that had been neutered and spayed just so that I would have my own non- threatening female around to wear the hat of a friend.
"You've got to gain Lavenda's loyalty", Leah advised. "You can do that if you create the perception that you are victims of the same imaginary dragon."
When I asked Leah to be more specific, she reminded me that I was a creative artist, and that the spectacle of opening up the flood gates of junk mail into her 6" by 4" by 9" letter box would definitely get her attention.
"But for every two letters you send Lavenda, I want you to send three to yourself", she ordered. "Fill up the trunk of your car with that garbage, so that you can really dump on her during your next visit to Clearwater. Until you prove yourself to be a greater victim than she is, there is no way that a degraded being like that will ever give up any withholds to you and let you know where she is hiding Ron's papers."
And so, in the next four weeks, Lavenda was the object of my very own Bingo tournament. But, so was I, although I always had enjoyed the popularity of advertising. I liked feeling important.
Jaime knew of my obsession with receiving mail, and was very upset that I had started it up again. Nothing could have pleased me more than to aggravate the sex weapons merchant that I was betrothed to. Anything that I could do to annoy and haunt my wife was reason alone to continue doing it. Within the parlance of fair play, payback was delicious.
Fred Hare had been in California, and being close to Source, was putting more pressure on me to get the documents back. I had the tendency to get "reasonable" about my mission, getting lost in the back room of the shoe store, shifting the stock around while I exteriorized and talked to the inventory. It wasn't easy to confront doing harm to the only woman in the world who had ever taken the time to kiss me. Yet, was I going to be drawn in by this Mata Hari squirrel vamp who represented the lowest depth of abhorrence that a female could ever stoop to? I would have to be more self-centered than a germ lost deep within a mosquito's enema to hurt Ron in that way. I had to keep my vow to Source no matter what the obstacles and barriers were.
"I only wish that I could get something on Ron that would completely destroy him!", I told Lavenda during a subsequent rendezvous to her crass, colonially waspish apartment, located on the second floor of the back half of a mediocre duplex that was overstuffed with boring furniture of early American brown crud.
"If there was such a thing, what would you do with it?", she asked poignantly.
"I would sell it to Interpol!", I scoffed. "Don't forget, we have very powerful allies out there who would give there eye teeth to destroy the Church of Scientology."
Lavenda became struck with such contemplative interest that she appeared to have black bats flying out of her ears.
"Why does Interpol want to destroy Ron so badly?", she inquired.
"Don't you know?", I replied smugly. "Scientology is the only enemy that the International Police Organization ever had. Imagine how they felt when Ron published those naughty lies, saying that Chief of the Nazi Security Police Reinhard Heydrich was actually the president of Interpol until he was assassinated in 1942; or that Ernst Kaltenbrunner was really president of Interpol until he was hanged for Nazi war crimes in 1946. Oh, and Ron also made a point to tell the whole world that Nazi SS Officer Paul Dickopf was president of Interpol between 1968 and 1972. An SS Officer? Now that has to be completely ridiculous! Interpol must be furious at Scientology for those false reports. They would be highly interested in buying some dirt on Ron if we had access to any."
"All that data is true though", Lavenda remarked.
"Oh, well, if I had the goods on Ron, I'd sell it to them anyway", I suggested.
"How much do you think Interpol would pay for some documents that could put the Church and L. Ron Hubbard out of business?", she inquired.
"I think fifty thousand dollars would be a fair price", I offered. "But for that, you would need to have access to original confessionals that Ron wrote in his own handwriting about subjects like sexual perversion or Satanic practices. There are no such reports in existence, and even if there were, we outsiders don't have a way to locate them. You know as well as I do that every important document that Ron ever wrote is safely buried away in Archives at confidential locations around the world."
"Don't be so sure", Lavenda muttered.
"Do you know what I would do with fifty thousand dollars?", I continued. "I would hire the best civil attack-dog attorney on the planet and sue those slimy bastards!"
"Yeah, I have already done that, and it's very expensive", she declared. "The Church lawyers tie you up in court on frivolous motions until you run out of money for costs of maintaining the lawsuit, and then you're forced to drop out because all of your blood is sucked out of you."
"Fifty thousand dollars would sure help you fight them, wouldn't it?", I encouraged. "Do you have a good lawyer at least?"
"I've got Michael Flynn", she said abruptly.
"Never heard of him", I shrugged.
"He's good, but a real money man", she cried.
"The Church will buy him off sooner or later", I replied optimistically.
"No, not Flynn", she assured me. "They'd have to kill him first."
"So then they'll kill him!", I reasoned. "What the hell is the life of a squirrel attorney worth these days?"
"He's all the hope I've got!", she snapped. "I can't even get a high enough paying job to live right."
"So why don't you drop dead then!", I thought to myself.
I made a mental note to tell Fred about where Lavenda worked. She just found employment as a secretary in an advertising agency, and there was an outside chance that the Guardian's Office didn't know about that yet, and I felt that I could get some additional brownie points by bringing in some new data. Maybe there was also a way to get her fired.
"Is there anything I can do to help you out?", I asked.
"How would I go about getting in touch with people at Interpol?", she questioned.
"You have nothing to talk to them about", I chided with an air of impromptu invalidation.
"That's not true", she clamored. "What would you say if I told you that I have the original copies of every overt and withhold that Ron wrote up between 1946 and 1948?"
I burst out laughing.
"I think you have been out in the sun too long. That beautiful tan of yours has been clouding your reality perception, honey dear", I groaned mockingly. "There is no way that you have anything as sensitive as all that."
"Do you think I would lie to you?", she said angrily. "I would never go around bragging to my friends about things that weren't true."
I took Lavenda's hand and patted it gently.
"If you really have stuff like that, you ought to buy life insurance, because if the G. O. ever found out, they would slit your throat for it. Don't you realize that?"
"I've got it all under control", Lavenda stated reassuringly. "They're safely hidden away at my sister Lisa's house. My place was already broken into once by the G. O., but they couldn't find anything, because nothing is here!"
"Then you are putting your sister at risk!", I cautioned. "You shouldn't place her in that kind of jeopardy."
"She used to be a Scientologist too", she explained. "But they aren't looking for her. The G. O. wants me."
"And we've got you now, you dumb cunt!", I thought with the silent scream of captivating satisfaction.
"Will you help me get in touch with Interpol?", she begged.
"You are my friend", I whispered gently as I kissed her affectionately on the neck. "There is nothing I wouldn't do to bring the Church of Scientology to its knees! Just promise me that you'll keep the documents well hidden."
"Don't worry", she soothed. "They're in a safe place in Lisa's bedroom. Anyway, with the new baby, she never leaves her apartment. I do all her shopping for her, and I visit her every day after work. She won't be in any danger."
"I can look up Interpol's New York address for you", I promised. "And there's an ex- Scientologist friend of mine in Washington, D. C. who can put me in touch with someone there who would be interested in buying what you have."
"Don't you want any commission for yourself?", Lavenda asked, in the style of a true ex-Field Staff Member.
"I don't take money from people I care about!", I said indignantly. "How can you ask me something like that?"
"Well then how about another lesson in tenderness?", she suggested. "You're not too late, because Affection and Arousal for OTs begins in two minutes."
"But I'm not OT yet!", I pointed out.
"Yet? What do you mean yet?", she asked accusatively, as if I were still planning to go up the Bridge.
"You're the only OT that I talk to", I said as I caught myself. "I was hoping that you could teach me things that I don't know."
"Well in that case you'll be auditing the class instead of taking it for credit", she said softly as she licked the inside of my right ear. "You like this kind of auditing, don't you?"
"Have you got any E-Meter cans to squeeze?", I replied as I grabbed her ass.
"No matter what you told me or what I read in her files, I wasn't prepared to confront how much of a vile criminal she was!", I reported to Fred Hare in exasperation.
"Why couldn't you get Lavenda to be more specific about where in Lisa's apartment the documents are?", Fred criticized.
"I couldn't arouse the bitch's suspicions, Fred!", I explained.
"You've got ten days to complete your mission before I throw you into Liability!", he warned.
On Saturday, the 4th of April, I drove to Clearwater with the trunk of my car filled with junk mail. Lavenda saw evidence of how I was harassed beyond belief by Scientology, and was truly very sympathetic. I cried to her and told her that I might have to change my address and identity, just to escape from the onslaught of daily crap in my letter box. I spent four hours opening it all up at her apartment, so that she could grasp the pain and the anguish that I was feeling. There were a lot of trade samples from various electronics firms that were included with the advertising, and when Lavenda was in her kitchen making us lemonade, I placed eight or nine of those devices that could have passed for wiretapping bugs throughout her house. Of course, the prototypes did not actually operate. They were just sent by the suppliers as evaluation sample units, together with the price lists. Certainly Lavenda did not know that, and at the right time, she would properly conclude that they were planted in her house by the Guardian's Office. Bill Morey ordered me to make her as paranoid as possible, and this was an inexpensive way to do it. The electronics samples did not cost me anything. I wanted Fred Hare to praise me for using my own resources to drive Lavenda insane. It was a major downstat to spend good money on such a despicable wretch as her.
"Something has to be done about this mail!", I ranted. "I can't take it anymore!"
"Look at all the garbage they sent me!", Lavenda cackled as she showed me several hundred unopened envelopes. "The idea must be something new, because it only started within the last two weeks."
"Those fuckers are bothering everybody like this", I grumbled. "It's a campaign they are using to harass squirrels. If you have a lawyer, I would write him a letter and let him know about it."
"Yeah, that's something I have to do", she acknowledged.
"Do it now!", I commanded.
"You sound like a Flag Registrar giving me orders like that", she laughed.
"Look, Lavenda, it's not funny!", I shouted. "I have to go over to the post office and fill out a complaint for myself anyway. I could send out the letter to your lawyer by certified mail for you."
"Yeah, okay", she said, nodding her head in agreement.
Of course, what I actually did is take Lavenda's letter back to Flag with me, in order to photocopy it for her folder. Fred Hare came up with a brilliant idea as he steamed her letter open with a hot iron. He decided to go ahead and send her letter to Michael Flynn, but to include an up-to-the-minute dossier that the G. O. had recently compiled on the Boston attorney.
"Finding a secret Guardian's file on Flynn in the same envelope as Lavenda's letter regarding the junk mail will make that bastard SP lawyer real suspicious", Fred sneered. "He certainly won't trust her any more, and there's a chance that he might even drop her as a client!"
With the extra data inserted in the envelope, Fred sent me to the post office to certify the letter. When I returned to Lavenda's house with the green postal receipt, she had prepared a sumptuous chef's salad for lunch. There was no doubt that she was succeeding in winning over my heart through my stomach. What a fine romance I would have had under other circumstances.
Next week was Lavenda's thirty-first birthday. When I went back to Fort Lauderdale, I had one of Jaime's expensive necklaces gift wrapped, and called Lavenda to tell her that I was planning something very special for April 10th, and I asked her if she would be kind enough to pick me up at the Tampa Airport on that Friday night.
"My plane comes in at 6:45 P.M. on Delta. Can you meet me, sweetheart?", I asked.
"I work until six, but I'll head over to the airport right from the office", she promised. "I'll just have to go home to shower and change before we go out, so don't make reservations any earlier than nine."
"That sounds perfect!", I said exuberantly on the phone.
I drove to Flag on Wednesday to meet with Lyman Spurlock and several other executives of the Sea Org Special Combat Information Center of the B-1 Intelligence Unit of the Guardian's Office. Our Battle Plan was to retrieve the documents from Lisa Van Schaick's house on Friday at 6 P.M. sharp, since we knew that Lavenda would not be coming to Lisa's house on that night to help her with the baby. She would be on the way to the airport to meet my plane.
The four of us that were honorably selected for the mission drilled all through Thursday for twelve solid hours. The next day, I got up at 7 A.M., had a good breakfast at Flag's Lemon Tree Restaurant, and at Bill Morey's order, I jogged for an hour along Memorial Causeway which goes toward Clearwater Beach. Fred Hare ran us through a final briefing on Friday afternoon, since Fred was busy on study in the morning.
We left Flag for Lisa's place at 5:40 P.M. Lyman and the other two agents were dressed in jeans and t- shirts, and it was quite a shock to see them out of their Sea Org uniforms for the first time. They looked like regular wog hippies! It was so uncanny that you should have been there yourself to appreciate it.
Lavenda had introduced me to Lisa on one occasion, and therefore it was vital that she did not recognize me now. So as part of the Battle Plan, I stood around the back of her house, positioned under the bedroom window.
Like her sister, Lisa was very resistive. Although apparently shaken and trembling while clutching her baby's crib, she refused to turn over the documents, pretending all the while not to know even what they were. Lyman begged her not to make things difficult, but to no avail. While she was being raped, I heard a knock on the living room window, and that was my signal. I had five minutes to prop myself inside the bedroom and find the documents. The jogging helped, as I was in much better shape physically than I was before, and made it through the window on only the fourth try.
Thank God the bedroom door was closed. I absolutely hate to see violence, even when it is necessary. At least the white cotton sock that one of my team members had stuffed in Lisa's mouth prevented her from distracting me, although I could still hear the baby crying from all of the excitement.
Sweat poured down my face like I was doing the Purification Rundown. How could I dare disappoint Ron? Could Lavenda have lied to me? There were no papers anywhere in the room. The drawers were clean. Nothing but a baby toy was under the bed. The closets had lots of clothes, some shoes, and three hat boxes, but none of Ron's data.
"What if Lyman is a premature ejaculator and finishes her off before I find it?", I panicked. "Now where would a suppressive hide things in this stinking room?"
There was an air-conditioning duct on the wall of Lisa's bedroom closet.
"Could that bastard be sophisticated enough to stuff everything in here?", I asked.
I quickly unscrewed the metal cover with the thin edge of my nail clipper.
"Yes!", I screamed internally. There were Ron's papers, yellow with age from being preserved for over two precious decades, wrapped carefully in tissue paper as if they were caches of uncut heroin. I scanned the air duct again just to make sure that I did not overlook anything, and finding nothing else, I scurried out the window, scraping my elbow against the outside wall of the apartment.
Tapping three times on the living room window so that the Agents would know I had successfully rescued the data, I then ran into the street with the box of papers, so I could wait inside the beat-up navy Subaru that we used to drive there. I looked at my watch and realized that I had taken seven minutes to get in and out. I prayed that Fred Hare would not later reprimand me for taking too long and thereby endangering the safety of my fellow G. O. Agents.
Within one minute, the others came out the front door and got into the car with me.
"Is Lisa all right?", I asked.
"I gave her a shot of Sodium Nebutal and put her on the living room sofa to sleep off her hallucination", said Greg, who was one of Flag's Medical Officers assigned to the unit. "It'll take effect within thirty seconds and she'll keep for four or five hours."
"Won't she be able to call someone on the phone before she falls asleep?", I queried.
Lyman looked at me and laughed.
"I've got her phone cord right here!", he bragged, showing me the wire. "Don't worry, Fishman! It went perfect. No one ever opened the bedroom door, so she has no idea that we found the documents yet. That's why you were so beautiful! Still, what took you so damn long?"
"Do you have any idea where these papers were?", I asked in anguish. "They were hidden in an air-conditioning duct!"
"That's the first place I would have looked!", mispronounced the third Agent, a Brazilian Sea Org member whose name I could not remember because it was as unintelligible as his slang Portuguese dialect.
"Didn't you feel badly about raping her?", I asked Lyman.
"It wasn't rape!", he objected. "It was an enforced touch assist which was part of our mission. If I did not direct her attention inwardly to herself or onto her body, she might have fixated on noises that you were making in the bedroom, slamming drawers and opening the closet. At least in this way, she didn't have the chance to worry about anything that was really important."
"But she just had a baby a few months ago", I protested. "Her uterus was probably too sore for that kind of abuse."
"I didn't have to hold her feet down too hard", Greg laughed. "I bet she liked it!"
Lyman looked at me with eyes of scorn.
"Why are you so worried about a piece of shit wog?", he growled. "Don't you know that by hiding Ron's papers, she pulled all of this into her universe as one big motivator? Screwing her was no different than humping a corpse, except much more humiliating."
"What?", I replied in amazement.
"That's right!", he continued. "At least when you fuck a dead person, you don't have to confront the wild, psychotic dramatizations of the reactive bank. I would much rather do it with corpses than SPs!"
"Let me explain it to him", Greg offered. "Steve, handling the "two and a half percenters", or that segment of the planet that is actively working to crash the stats of the rest of us, is a damn good way to confront aberration. Lisa knew all along what she was getting into by attempting to stab Ron in the back. She'll know better next time."
"What about the baby?", I wondered. "What if there's an emergency during the next five hours that Lisa is knocked out from the drug?"
"He had his bottle", Lyman reassured me. "He'll be fine."
"So he'll have shit in his diapers for a few hours, so what?", the Brazilian guy said. "My mother let me crawl around like that for days when I was his age."
Greg shrugged his head as if I were crazy.
"That wog brat ought to be lucky that his SP mother didn't abort him!", he said. "Of all the choices he had in picking up a new body, imagine pulling in a mother like that? He is one sick, evil- purposed little kid."
"If you're going to run a psychiatric guilt number on us, you shouldn't be a part of the mission", Lyman explained. "These orders didn't come from me or Fred Hare. They are straight from Source."
Tingles went through my spine.
"Well, if Ron wanted it done this way, then Lisa sure as hell deserved what she got!", I sighed with immediate relief. "I thought you might have been taking things in your own hands!
"At Flag, there is only one hundred percent Standard Tech", the Brazilian guy asserted boastfully in his strange accent.
"You didn't look at those papers, did you Steve?", Lyman snapped, changing the subject.
"No, and why the hell would you ask me something like that?", I barked.
"I just wanted to make sure that you didn't have to have a Security Check", he cautioned.
"Would you please just get me to the airport and stop fucking around?", I implored. "It's 6:20 already, and I've got to get there before Lavenda does!"
"What a bumpy flight I had", I told my love. "We were in the center of this storm cloud, and I thought that my stomach would wind up right in the middle of my nuts that I got from the stewardess."
"I missed you so much!", she revealed tearfully.
"All I could think of during the last few hours is how deeply I have begun to care for you", I whispered, wiping a small tear from the outer periphery of her mascara, as I gave her the gift-wrapped necklace.
"Happy birthday, darling", I wished.
Lavenda was stunned at my kindness and generosity.
"This must have cost you a fortune!", she gasped as she turned toward me. "Oh, God, I am so happy!"
I held her in my arms in front of the Delta ticket counter.
"I can only hope that I continue to bring you as much joy as I have done today for a long time to come", I said softly.
"Why, do you have any other news?", she inquired excitedly.
"Nothing, except that Interpol is willing to pay eighty-thousand dollars for Ron's overts and withholds!"
"Oh how wonderful!", she screamed with the jubilation of a devirginized old maid. "Now you've got to let me take you out to dinner!"
"Well, if you insist", I condescended.
While Lavenda changed clothes and got ready for our night on the town, I told her the bad news.
"My house is loaded with bugging devices! I found over six separate ones. That has to be the work of the G. O.!", I raved.
"Are you serious?", she chilled. "Do you think there are any here?"
"Who knows?", I stated.
"Where did you find yours?", she asked.
"Behind the headboard of my bed, and under several of my dresser drawers."
Lavenda ran to those locations and found the fake eavesdropping sample devices which I had left there a week ago.
"Oh, shit!", she screeched. "I've got to call Lisa."
But Lisa's phone didn't answer. Without the cord from the wall jack to the unit, the telephone was unable to ring.
"That's strange", Lavenda analyzed. "My sister's not home."
"Oh, she probably is at a neighbor's house, or she might have walked with the baby to the convenience store", I comforted.
"I wish she'd buy an answering machine like I have", she pondered. "Still, she would have left me a message if something was really wrong."
"We can stop by later after dinner if you'd like", I suggested.
"No, you don't know how much she can chew my ear off talking", she laughed. "I want my birthday celebration to be a special evening with you."
And it was!
The King Charles Room at the Don Cesar Hotel in St. Petersburg had the best veal I ever ate. Lavenda selected a twenty-eight dollar bottle of German wine from Salzburg which made me lose all sensation in my toenails. It was such a welcome change to be bought and paid for by a grateful female. In fact, while staring into Lavenda's horny eyes during soup, I could not help but wonder whether I could make a living as a professional escort.
"No, on second thought, I'd have to screw a bunch of rich, shriveled old ladies", I quivered.
The mental image pictures which I subsequently mocked up of dried out, withered vaginas lined with white and grey pubic hair made me severely gag on the lobster bisque.
I waited to finish my key lime pie and also for Lavenda to pay for the check before I told her that I was married. My mission accomplished, there was no need to prolong the fantasy courtship with my seductive suppressive. Although I tried to use the most tact and diplomacy that a knowledgeable Guardian is possessed of, Lavenda's reaction was highly predictable. She threw the necklace that I had given her on the table, and ran out of the restaurant in an explosive state of bitterness. But there was always the bright side. At least now I could return the trinket to my beloved Jaime, its proper owner.
The cab ride from the Don Cesar Hotel to the Fort Harrison cost twelve dollars, so I took the city bus for seventy-five cents. There was no reason for extravagance. I was never the type of thetan to spend money wastefully. The moonlit ride along Route 19 was a veritable repository of joy, no matter which vehicle drove me back to the Guardian's Office. My car was parked in the garage there anyway, and I had to write up my final report for Fred Hare. God only knows, I didn't want to be around Lavenda when she received that gruesome message from her neurotic sister. It was much more comfortable being back at Flag, "the friendliest place in the world."
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