by Steven Fishman
10: A Valence In Every Port
When I returned home, Jaime had some excellent news. She reminded me about my last birthday party on the 26th of November, 1980, when she had given me fifteen free minutes of intercourse as a present.
"I'm pregnant!", announced my wife with joy. "Now I can keep you out of me until after the baby is born!"
Some people, apparently, can't even be bought when the stakes get too high.
So here I was, cast into the stew pot of sexual oblivion, with all hopes of using Lavenda as a substitute reactive sperm bank gone hastily into the crapper, although not for long.
Lavenda called me at midnight, a total wreck over the episode which the Guardian's Office had hoped that Lisa only dreamed about. She needed a little sympathy.
"Why did you run out on me?", I asked. "I was going to tell you that I absolutely hate my wife, and it won't be long before I begin legal proceedings to get rid of her."
I neglected, of course, to tell Lavenda that Jaime was once again an expectorating mother.
"I don't care about your fucking wife!", Lavenda cried. "My sister was raped today, and all of those papers I had in her house are gone!"
"You're lying!", I stammered into the mouthpiece accusatively. "I must have spent over a hundred dollars in telephone calls to people at Interpol in order to help you. After all that work, do you mean to tell me that you have let all that hot dope slip through your fingers? How the devil are we ever going to beat them now?"
"I don't know!", she sobbed irrationally. "Life is such shit, isn't it?"
"Not quite shitty enough for you", I thought.
To make things go right, Fred ordered me to call Lavenda's mother, so that I could politely threaten to rape Lavenda's eleven year old daughter Sabrina if Lavenda did not drop her civil suit. I used my Jewish accent that time, sounding like an old man with no teeth. The mother hung up on me, but I think she caught my drift. Fred said he would have five other G. O. Agents do the same thing at all hours of the night, and since most of them were Clear or above, I knew that I was in very excellent company.
Later that week, I phoned Lavenda and informed her that several G. O. Agents burst into my shoe store and threatened to tell my pregnant wife that I was having an affair with her.
"Your wife is pregnant now? And what affair?", Lavenda asked incredulously. "We never slept together!"
"Well, they must have thought we did if they were following us", I reasoned.
Strengthening her resolve, I told her that I didn't give a damn about what the G. O. agents told Jaime, and that she should pursue the lawsuit against the Church with the vigor of a deranged maniac.
It wasn't very long, however, before Michael Flynn asked Lavenda for thirty thousand dollars more to pursue her case. Apparently he was spooked by the dossier that I had included in her letter of complaint to him about the junk mail, and being quite a diplomatic suppressive squirrel attorney, he concluded that it was a lot simpler to ease Lavenda off his lines by asking her for more money rather than by turning her down flat.
Unable to pay him, my Clearwater paramour was finally beaten. I scolded Lavenda for losing faith in the principles of justice that I thought she once believed in.
"If I were you, I would raise that thirty thousand dollars even if I had to sell myself to do it!", I suggested.
Insulted, we fell out of touch, which was fabulous! Who the hell would want to maintain a communication line with an SP anyway? Fred Hare put a gold star in my Admin Folder for services very well done. I finally knew that Ron really loved me. Gold stars are very hard to come by.
It was time to continue flying up the Bridge. I made an advanced payment for my next step, which was Expanded Grade Zero. On this grade, which is also called the Communications Release, I gained the ability to communicate freely with anyone on any subject.
Armed with the Tech, I tried my darndest to communicate with the thousands of fleas flying around my house so that I could talk them into leaving. But since this fell into the category of a Problem, which is handled by Grade One, I was as capable as a rat's ass.
I especially liked the processes of "Grade Zero Havingness" that were run on me by Leah Abady.49
She called out the command, "Look around here and find something you could touch."
"Your tits", I said.
"Very good", Leah acknowledged, with her own TRs in and with perfect auditor's presence. "Now look around here and find something else you could touch."
"Your breasts", I answered.
"Okay", she replied as she fiddled around with the E-Meter. "Now look around here and find something else you could touch."
"Your nipples", I responded.
Suddenly, she ripped open her blouse, through off her bra, grabbed my hands, and made me give her chest a great big squeeze.
"Now can we get on with the real session?", she asked impatiently.
"Fine! I was only joking!", I said, highly embarrassed when I saw this saggy set of cow's tubes which she had nerve enough to take credit for owning.
"Flunk!", she yelled. "You don't ever joke in an auditing session."
"That's a lot of bullshit!", I objected. "I'm here to learn how to communicate freely on any subject, and if that includes joking around about your tits, that's my privilege as a Preclear!"
But it turned out not to be. Leah had me build model breasts out of clay for four hours until I was fully exhausted and had been completely overrun on the process. It was not in vain, however, because I learned that the best way to communicate freely during Expanded Grade Zero was to keep my fucking mouth shut.
Although we repaired our ARC break, which again for you novices is a break in Affinity, Reality and Communication, Leah was covertly still very pissed off at me. She told me that I wasn't doing enough to bring new people into the Org as an "FSM", or Field Staff Member.
I had this forty-five year old cousin named Sandra Lipshutz, who was thrown into a county mental institution called South Florida State Hospital by her mother, my Aunt Sally. Several months ago, Cousin Sandra stayed out for three days at the Doral Country Club in Miami Lakes with some guy that she met at the Social Security Disability Office, and Aunt Sally got very upset and bent out of shape over it. It was Cousin Sandra's first date since she was about sixteen, and Aunt Sally was exceptionally jealous, since the two of them shared the same bed since Cousin Sandra was allowed out of her crib in 1937. As a result, Aunt Sally had her daughter savagely committed to the spin bin, and I was the only family member from that point on who ever took the time to visit her.
It was my hypothesis that if she were able to get away from all those psychs and join the Sea Org, she would be a lot happier and healthier.
So, as she was permitted to leave the grounds with me on her family visitation pass, I brought her down to the Miami Org to see Valerie Naiman.
Within a short time after Cousin Sandra's interview began, excitable fat Valerie came charging out of her office, yelling at me at a pitch so piercing it could deafen an elephant.
"What is wrong with you, you stupid ass?", she roared.
"Why?", I shouted back.
"This zombie cousin of yours has had electric shocks, and she's all strung out on Lithium and Thorazine. If I were you, I would drop her off under the 79th Street Bridge and teach her how to be homeless. You're no better than an SP if you take her back to that psych hospital. They are killing her in there!"
"Well, why can't you help her?", I demanded.
"First of all, she hasn't got a pot to piss in! She's broke. She has no money!"
"Well, fuck that!", I screamed. "I've got plenty of cash in my reserve account from the Air West settlement check. She's my cousin, and I want to help her!"
"Look, you idiot!", Valerie preached. "What you have in your account here is for you, not for this walking totem pole you call a cousin. She couldn't fight her way out of a paper bag."
"Damn you, Valerie!", I sneered. "She used to have a good job. She worked at a fire station in Brooklyn sounding the alarm and ringing the bell when a call came in. She didn't work there very long, but she loved that job."
"How long did she work, a week?", Valerie snapped.
"No, just a few days", I replied, "but still she's a good person, and she always got the firemen out on time. She saved people's lives! There's got to be some lower level auditing you can help her with."
Valerie lost her patience with me. She threw a Hubbard Communications Office Policy Letter at me entitled "Book Income."50
"Read this section of the Policy Letter to me, you monkey-brained nincompoop!", she bellowed as she pointed her chubby index finger on a line in front of my face.
"Did Ron really write this?", I said with great surprise.
"Just read it!", she hollered.
"We retard or fail to advance to the degree that we seek to service the helpless", I read in shock. "Flunk! Your TR-1 is out!", Valerie yelped. "Read it again!"
"Blow it out your butt hole! I passed TR-1 already", I reminded her.
"You still flunked", she repeated a little more quietly.
"Why did Ron write this?", I asked in utter mystification.
"Turn back a page and you'll find your answer, Fishman!", she commanded.
And so I read further what Ron had written: "Scientology planning is built to make the able more able, leaving the unable strictly alone for the while. If we do this, we grow. If we, like some foolish persons do, tie around our necks the unable, the helpless, the backward, we won't be able to move high enough fast enough to then afford to help the helpless."
I glanced up at Valerie.
"Does that mean that it will be okay to help the helpless eventually?"
"I guess so, but until that time comes, take your loopy nut case cousin the hell out of this Org!", she shrieked. "And don't you ever bring trash like that back in here or I'll throw you straight into Doubt!"
On the way back to South Florida State Hospital, I cognited how right Ron truly was. Sandra never even understood what had happened at the Org. All she was interested in was having a dish of cottage cheese at Denny's Restaurant. She couldn't care less about anything else. Well, we could always pick her up again in another lifetime.
"Maybe she would keep herself away from the psychs the next time around", I prayed.
Everybody had heard about my faux pas regarding Cousin Sandra.
"Your ethics must be really out to make fools of us like that!", the Org Minister-In-Training Darrell Kirkland said.
"How was I supposed to know beforehand that we don't treat mental cases?", I argued. "I've since read the bulletin and I understand why now."
But even Kevin Bein, my senior in the G. O. agreed that I had to make amends for my dumb mistake. And, as always, there was a project eagerly awaiting my lofty talents.
Early on in the game, the Guardian's Office recognized my ability as a writer. I would never aspire to create any competition for L. Ron Hubbard, but nearly everyone at both the Miami Org and the Mission of Fort Lauderdale would agree that my Knowledge Reports were truly representative of the upper echelons of genius.
Consequently, Kevin recruited me for the Success Shore Story Project.
As absurd as it sounds, there are psychopaths out there in the aberrated world who have actually attempted to sue the Church of Scientology. Beyond the fact that we were protected by the first amendment of the wog constitution, and secondly from the purely philosophical viewpoint that truth is non-attackable, there were nevertheless a handful of insane holdouts who had cast their immortality to the wind in favor of a quick buck.
Obviously these were all Suppressive Persons, or at the very least, Potential Trouble Sources connected to SPs. Many of these lunatics had asked for their money back as Lavenda did, and some even had alleged the wildest of lies, such as the crap about Scientology being an evil cult that brainwashes people. What horse shit! Of course, any dramatizing psychotic who was bad-mouthing us should have been shot on sight. We all knew that.
But because I am terrified of guns, and since some historical shmuck once said that "the pen is mightier than the sword", I found that I could improve my ethics most effectively by thwarting the attempts of our enemies to harm the Church via the electric typewriter.
After Lavenda, I became quite proficient at culling the Preclear Folders of these Suppressives and Potential Trouble Sources. Most often they were suing to recover money for auditing levels which they had never completed, due to the fact that they were unable to confront their own overt acts in either this or any other lifetime.
What I did was nothing less than spectacular! I typed up Success Shore Stories for the auditing grade, training level, or academy course that these quitters never completed.
What is a Success Shore Story?
It is a Success Story that the person would have written, had he completed the auditing, training or course as he was supposed to. I obtained a whole stack of "Model Success Stories" that had been composed by very satisfied Preclears. These glowing testimonials were also pre-approved by the Qualifications Division of Scientology, which we lovingly call "Qual."
My job was to re-write the Model Success Stories using the data from the folders of the squirrels who were causing trouble to our legal department. In this way, after I completed my Valuable Final Product of a finished Success Shore Story, the Deputy Guardian of Miami would forward it to the Legal Officer World Wide, so that it could be used as evidence against the squirrel in a wog court, proving conclusively that he had completed the auditing, training or course, and furthermore that he was very happy with the results.
Typing the Success Shore Story was never a problem, but once in a while I hit up against a glitch in tracing the exact signature of the real person. Protecting the Church against these SPs was as much an art as a science. Unfortunately, the Guardian's Office did not issue an internal Nobel Prize for Success Shore Story literature. But sometimes it is far better to be remembered as one of the unsung silent heroes of Scientology anyway.
I would have been content spending the thirty-first birthday of the book Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health at the Miami Org, but the Fields Financial Planner International Ellie Bolger summoned me to Flag again, in order to give me some new directions which she told Peter would increase my production dramatically.
I don't know why I couldn't ever just meet her in her office. Last time it was under the umbrella around the swimming pool. Now, she was barricaded inside the Flag Sauna, trying to run out a wicked mass of skin cancer from her neck by doing the Sweat Program while overdosing on Niacin. Had I known, I would have brought my bathing suit. Sitting in a 140ø degree room discussing my post was not my idea of a good time, but Ellie was the boss, after all.
So while I was sweating my balls off, Ellie unwrapped the towel from her head and began glancing at some damp handwritten notes that she had compiled just for my benefit.
"You've been playing a very tiny game up to now, sending in claims only to your house and the shoe store. The smallness with which you think is starting to get on my nerves."
"I did whatever Peter told me to do", I protested.
"But you're a Scientologist!", she slobbered. "You're not supposed to act like a wind-up doll with your body still in pawn. When are you going to think, damn it? You should be coming to me with ideas to expand your production. I shouldn't have to bring you here to talk about it."
"No, not in the sauna you shouldn't! It's too hot in here to even think straight!", I cried. "Can't we go outside while we have this discussion?"
"I don't care what you do with your grizzly body", she suggested. "I am addressing you, the thetan right now. Can you hand me that oil, please?"
"Why couldn't you have told Peter Letterese what you wanted done, and he would have told me?", I said angrily. "He doesn't like it when you go over his head and talk to me directly."
"Peter has a Mission to run!", Ellie reprimanded. "All you do is play with shoe boxes all day. Some executive you are!"
"You sound just like my mother-in-law", I replied.
"Is she a Scientologist?", Ellie asked.
"No", I laughed.
"Then she's an idiot! I don't want to talk about stupid people", she hissed flippantly. "I want you to have an address in every major city in the United States to send the claims to."
"Are you plan on making me a real estate tycoon?", I questioned. "Because if you are, you've got about two minutes before I drop dead from dehydration in here."
"Take your shirt off if your warm!", she commanded. "I don't give a damn about that geek body of yours with no muscles. I could care less if you decided to walk around the sauna naked. It wouldn't impress me one bit. Damn you! Arguing about this bullshit made me hot! Go outside and get me some ice water. It's time for my Niacin pills, and you are throwing my whole schedule off kilter!"
I never appreciated the cool air of room temperature more than I did during that very minute. My clothes were wringing wet from perspiration, and Ellie had not told me a damn thing yet.
"How could I have addresses in every city in the country?", I asked myself, as I filled up a glass from the water cooler.
When I walked back into the furnace from the cold hallway with my drenched clothes, the heat actually felt good for a second, but by the time I could count to ten, I was roasting again.
"There's no damn ice in this water!", she screamed, throwing the contents of the paper cup in my face.
"That should cool you off!", she laughed. "Now go to the kitchen and get me some water with real ice in it! And ask the Deputy Salad Chef for a couple of carrots. Tell her it's for me."
I couldn't believe that I was about to catch pneumonia being Ellie's errand boy.
"Well, what are you waiting for?", she moaned. "I'm thirsty! Men are so damn selfish!"
So, after finding the kitchen and getting the ice water and the carrots and even a nice stalk of celery to keep her happy, Ellie finally calmed down and explained how to increase my production.
She told me all about remailing services, where for a fee, I could have an address in any city in the country. Mail could be received for me there under any valence, or mocked-up identity that I wanted, since all I had to do was write a letter to each remailing service under a new name and send them a money order for the annual amount, and then I would be in business. Every time a letter was received at the location of the remailing service, they would forward it to me within twenty-four hours.
"With a valence in every port, you could send in ten times the amount of class action lawsuits", Ellie encouraged.
Once having returned home, while I was laying in bed with 104ø degree temperature from this weird case of the flu which I probably picked up from some kid sneezing in my face at the shoe store as I was fitting him up with a pair of Jumping Jacks, I realized what a genius Ellie Bolger truly was. The possibilities for remailing services were endless! I just had to control my compulsion to send out requests for junk mail to the new addresses, since they charged for the postage required to forward each letter back to me. I had to get the idea through my thick skull that the remailing services were to be used for the acting classes and nothing else!
Even Peter Letterese was overwhelmed at Ellie Bolger's brilliant idea. Of course, later on I found out that Ellie never came up with it at all. The Guardian's Office had used remailing services for years, and the concept was originally created by Mary Sue Hubbard. Nevertheless, Ellie was so kind and compassionate to share it with me. I don't think anyone else in Scientology ever understood my urge to go up the Bridge any better than she did.
Peter followed through with Ellie's orders very efficiently, directing me to go to my favorite hangout, the Fort Lauderdale Public Library, in order to make copies of old telephone books of selected cities from 1975. He revealed to me that he knew some good Tech on picking out a suitable remailing service. He wanted to use solid reliable companies that were going to stay in business, not any fly-by-night scam firm that could possibly screw around with the mail and not forward it.
By comparing the 1975 listings to the 1981 listings, we were able to see which companies had stood the test of time and were still in operation.
"If a firm has been in business for six years, the likelihood of it staying in business for the next six years is greater than a new, fledgling company", Peter prophesied prophetically.
We decided to use the Mail Center of Chicago, at 323 South Franklin for my valence of Gussie Leviticoff.
I mean, who would ever turn down a claim for some nice little old Jewish lady named Gussie Leviticoff, right? Jaime even signed the forms to open the mail forwarding service as a personal favor to Meyer Lansky, which I thought was very highly commendable.
And soon afterwards, wearing the hat of the Acting Class Establishment Officer In Charge of the United States, I opened up addresses in St. Louis, Missouri; Gretna, Louisiana; Fullerton, California; and several others. I even had a real address in Lake Lure, North Carolina, because Jaime decided we should have a summer home.
"I bet that everyone who works for Meyer Lansky has a cottage up in the Blue Ridge Mountains", Jaime asserted.
My wife was getting out of control, but she was in her seventh month of pregnancy, and I had to appease her. It's not that I cared about her so much, but that I wanted the baby to be born in good health. Still, I had some sympathy for the kindness which Jaime showed me on my last birthday. Fifteen free minutes in the sack was very benevolent even for her, and anyone would agree with me that it was at least worth a house in the country.
Two months later Jaime rewarded me for all my upstats in life by giving birth to another beautiful girl, my second daughter Elysia Skye. She was born exactly nine months less five days for good behavior after the famous fifteen minute night on my thirty-first birthday, so I now knew positively and conclusively that you can't conceive a baby in just five minutes. I also wrote a mental note to make sure that all my whores had that new data too, because I had no intention of getting any of them pregnant. The last thing I wanted was to make my life complicated.
Our old housekeeper, Freddie, had smashed up Jaime's 1971 Lincoln Continental on a drunken spree, and was on the critical list of Imperial Point Hospital with broken bones and an ingrown toenail. If Freddie knew that she was actually a thetan, she could have recovered a lot more quickly than she did as an alcoholic. In the interim, Jaime hired a Jamaican housekeeper named Joy Green, coincidentally equipped with a green card hot off the press. This hillbilly from Ocho Rios was so dumb that she thought all telephone messages were supposed to be written on the walls, because that's how she did it at home. I knew she was a liar, because she never in her life once owned a telephone. She also found it impossible to arrange things in the house by height and alphabetical order the way I wanted her to do, but she was very good with the baby, so I kept her on for awhile.
Still, with the baby's hospital bills mounting and a permanent live-in housekeeper to pay, my personal debts kept piling up, and I told Jaime that as soon as she was able to get back on her feet, I wanted her to get a job.
She had other ideas, however. When the Forest Laboratories check for twenty-eight thousand dollars came in the mail under her own name of Jaime Lee Nureyev, she kept it all for herself, and I had no money to put aside for the next auditing step on my Bridge.
Peter was livid. He threw me in Liability for failing to handle my wife and for being unable to convince her to return the check to me. He told me that if I gave in to a Suppressive Person like Jaime even once, I was as guilty for suppressing my own Bridge as she was. After it was evident that Jaime had no intention of handing over any of the money for any reason, Peter decided that it was in my best interest that I make arrangements to get a divorce.
I begged Peter to reconsider because I did not want to be separated from my children, and finally, he agreed not to force the issue if I pledged to repay the entire amount which Jaime stole from us.
I agreed to take an extra five hundred dollars per week in cash out of the shoe store over the next year, until the shortage was made up. It was after all for my own Bridge, and I soon cognited that Peter had every right to insist that I keep my ethics in and pay the money back as soon as possible. He warned me that if Jaime ever did anything like that again, he would insist upon breaking up the marriage next time, no matter how badly I pleaded with him.
In order to get out of Liability, I was put on the work detail of cleaning out the toilets of the Mission of Fort Lauderdale for a full month. During that time, I had to wear a dirty gray rag in my back pocket, and no one in the Mission was allowed to speak to me. I was not permitted to get any auditing or training either. But it was truly for the best, since I was able to work my way up through the subsequent ethics conditions without any distractions. I thought it was ironic that I was a better toilet cleaner than my Jamaican maid, and that she was getting paid to do it. Still, I was so much better off than Joy Green, because at least I was getting my ethics in, and all she was doing was making money. What a stupid shit head she was, not to have realized that!
Auditor's Day is one of the holiest holidays in Scientology. It "celebrates the counseling achievements of each year, hears new developments, and provides an opportunity for auditors to get together. The event is usually held on the second Sunday in September."51
And so it was.
September the 12th, 1981, was one of the most memorable days of my life. After the Auditor's Day Event, Ellie Bolger, who was fully dressed this time, ushered me up to the Presidential Suite at Flag so that she could introduce me to someone very prominent in Scientology.
I actually got to meet the Fields Executive Secretary International, Diana Meredith DeWolfe Hubbard Horwich, who was the highest terminal on Fields Financial Planning lines for Financial Rescue, lately known as Acting Classes.
Diana was about my age, with red hair that was not quite as long as in her old promotional pictures. She was an accomplished pianist, although no one that I knew had ever heard her play. Physically, she looked very strong, with fine teeth and big bones. She would have commanded a good price if she ever were sold into slavery to the Arabs. Nevertheless, since I liked tiny, petite women, who unlike my wife were not a mental health hazard sexually, I doubt if I ever would have wanted to sleep with Diana had the opportunity arisen, which it didn't. She looked a lot like her father, L. Ron Hubbard, although he was probably a lot prettier.
"I have seen some excellent reports about our upstat Bingo player", Diana said as she extended her hand gracefully, not giving me the slightest notion as to whether I was to kiss it or shake it.
"The pleasure is all mine", I said, deciding to fake her out completely and bow like a Japanese slumlord.
"You are quite a financial warrior, handling the criminality of the psychs through the pocketbook where it hurts", she added. "Unfortunately, class action settlements are only a token payment for all the overts committed by those evil-purposed corporations against the fourth dynamic of mankind."
"I send in every claim that I can get my hands on", I assured her.
"She knows that", Ellie interrupted. "Diana reads my Knowledge Reports very carefully."
"Steve", frowned Diana, "I was very disturbed to hear about your wife."
"Well, it takes a little while for her stomach to heal after having a Caesarian", I explained.
"No, that's not it", Ellie corrected.
"What bothers me is that after what she has done with the Forest Laboratories check, that you still want to go on being married to her. Somehow, your ethics have fallen into a horrible slump."
"I just want to wait until my children are a little older before I divorce her", I whispered calmly.
"If you wait too long, you'll be putting your immortality on the line and you'll wind up being at risk as a thetan!", she warned.
"Well, can you suggest any sort of timetable for a divorce?", I inquired.
"That's between you and Ellie and Peter", she snapped. "I just wanted you to be aware that I perceive Jaime as a real threat to us, and your career in Scientology can only go so far along while you are connected to that Suppressive. In the meantime, I want you to get up the Bridge a lot faster. You're only on Grade Zero, aren't you?"
"I've completed it", I boasted.
"So why aren't you on Grade One yet?", Diana blurted admonishingly.
"Jaime took the money, and --"
"I rest my case", she replied. "You need to get through all of your Expanded Grades by the end of the year without any more farting around!", she ordered.
"I'll do my best", I promised.
"That's not good enough!", Ellie wailed.
"You'll just do it, that's all!", Diana insisted. "I've just assigned a top-notch, Flag trained auditor named Nancy somebody to the Fort Lauderdale Mission. I've seen her auditing on video and she's a real crackerjack. She will be working with you from now on."
"You mean I'll be audited by her at the Miami Org, don't you?", I clarified.
"No, she'll be at the Fort Lauderdale Mission", Diana repeated.
"You're putting a Flag trained auditor into a franchise?", I gasped. "What on earth is going on?"
"It's not commonly known yet, but we are eliminating all franchises and centralizing all of the Missions under a new Org called Scientology Missions International. The Mission Owners World Wide Network does not exist anymore. They are crooked and corrupt, and they stop people from moving up to the Central Orgs by hanging them up in Ethics."
"That's Treason!", I exclaimed.
"You're damn right!", she hooted. "Those that have done it are losing their franchises. And keeping that in mind, I want you to help out by volunteering for Operation Clean Sweep through the Guardian's Office. You'll be posted under Fred Hare, so you'll be very useful in assisting us to get rid of those franchise holding skunks."
"What's going to happen to Bruce, the Mission Holder of Fort Lauderdale?", I questioned, while very shocked by these revelations.
"Bruce is out on his head where he should be", Ellie explained. "He's one of them. Why are you always so worried about SPs?"
"Don't get into a long "Q&A" with him over this, Ellie", Diana ordered. "Steve, I just want your word as a Scientologist that I can depend on your help."
"What am I supposed to do?", I asked.
"For now, just volunteer!", Diana smiled.
"Consider me part of the team!", I saluted.
Diana looked very pleased as she motioned for us to leave the suite.
"Give some thought to what I said about that SP wife of yours", she reminded as we walked away.
"Don't worry, I will", I vowed.
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