by Steven Fishman
13: Breaking Up Is Hard To Do, But We Can Help
Within weeks I was knocking out completed class action claims faster than a nymphomaniac rabbit makes bunnies. Ellie suggested that I use the addresses of old Dean Witter Reynolds offices throughout the country that had been closed down due to poor sales volume as the brokerage houses of origin for the mocked-up forms. Also, I had been calculating broker's commissions for the buy and sell manually, until Ellie gave me a computer disc to automatically generate the commission amounts. It saved me two hours from doing the math. That was time that could be put to better use. There was a public shelter for battered females called Women In Distress, and hanging around in front of the place was a fantastic way of meeting desperate girls who I could put up for the evening in the nearby Budget Six Motel, ravishing and plundering them all night long for less money than I used to spend on common street hookers. During these escapades, I always talked my prey into signing a claim or two for me. It was incredible how those invisible faces in the dark were providing tens of thousands of dollars for my Bridge with a single stroke of the pen between multiple strokes of the pelvis.
It's a good thing that I'm a decent, regular nice guy. I could have become a pimp in no time if I wanted to take advantage of women and break the law. I thought about it, but I didn't want to tarnish my reputation or give Scientology a bad name. Kha-Khans have a higher standard of Ethics than regular thetans, you know.
My boss, Hank Martin, handled the portfolios of many wealthy clients, and I noticed that in order to retain their business, he used to discount their brokerage commissions up to fifty percent. Since I was submitting claims for ten thousand shares of stock, I decided to make the mocked-up confirmation slips reflect a similar discount. When Ellie received a copy of one of the completed forms, she carried on like a raving lunatic.
"You can't cut those commissions!", she objected. "That will result in a smaller settlement check for us!"
"I can't believe how petty you are, Ellie!", I rebuked. "The difference in the commission might affect the claim by four dollars at the most!"
"Well, four dollars can still buy a Dianetics book", she insisted.
When the matter was brought before Diana Hubbard, she fully agreed that a major client who was trading ten thousand shares of stock would be entitled to at least a fifty percent reduction in commission, and called Ellie a greedy, narrow-minded ostrich for opposing me.
"You're a lot closer to getting Ellie's job than you think", Diana revealed to me on my next trip to Flag, giving me a subtle wink.
It was at the thirty-third birthday party for Book One that Diana introduced me to David Miscavige, the most important executive in Scientology next to Ron himself. Actually, it was not much of an introduction, since I only got to shake his hand. Still, he had the feel of infinite cleanliness about him, looking in his white formal Sea Org jacket like an animated wax figurine toy puppet that never had to be wound up to go to the bathroom. He appeared far too perfect for dust to ever land on him either. If I were Ron, I would have wanted him for my own private collection too.
But just when I thought that I had finally made it into the big leagues, mingling with the inner circle of Source's Politburo instead of the hoi polloi of workaday Orgs, the shit began to hit the fan at the Mission of Fort Lauderdale. Peter had asked Denise to call on the status of several claims that had been settled during the time that I was denied the right to be audited, and I finally had to admit that I had used the proceeds of those checks to reduce the mortgage on my house, which of course was all Jaime's fault. Peter asked me to write up an Overt Withhold Report on the total amount of money which Jaime had swindled us out of by means of sexual extortion, blackmail and sheer piracy. There was no doubt that a divorce court could be seen through the binoculars of the future on a not too distant shore.
"You have second dynamic cancer!", Peter declared with stern melodramatic emotionlessness. "Why you would ever want the poison to spread over into your life is between you and your auditor. But when your malignant wife begins to infect us, it becomes another matter. I have no choice but to report you to Ellie as a stat crasher. How could you permit your bitch to talk you into anything so reprehensible as putting your Bridge Fund to personal use? She has turned you into a criminal, stealing from your own future! I have a mind to throw you out of Scientology completely!"
And that's exactly what would have happened had I not been awarded the title and status of Kha-Khan. Ellie yelled at me so savagely that she sounded like she was having a double hemorrhage while being raped by an elephant. It was a good thing that her tirade took place over the telephone. To muffle the noise, I sat on the mouthpiece as the vibrational echo of her shrill discordant shrieking tickled my rectum. It didn't feel that bad, actually, especially when I expelled some gas in her ear as she finished up her summation. But when Diana got wind of it, she threw Peter into Danger for failing to adequately supervise me properly. Instead of punishing the goose that was laying the golden eggs, Diana directed her attention toward eliminating the fox that was eating all of the chickens. That fox was Jaime, and a campaign had started to get her out of my life forever.
Ordinarily, Fred Hare would have handled the entire matter through the Guardian's Office. He always liked my idea to feed Jaime to the lions by having her committed to a mental institution. But Fred had his own troubles. Because of repercussions from Mary Sue's arrest and subsequent conviction, the Guardian's Office crashed and was renamed OSA, or the Office of Special Affairs, which was established by the public relations people in order to create the perception of respectability. None of us hard liners wanted anything to do with OSA's charade of blind reasonableness, and those who were not amused with the new saccharine approach toward the psychs and their organized crime government retail outlets of the DEA, the FDA, the FBI and IRS initially refused to join the Office of Special Affairs, and many others even boycotted it by withholding their support altogether.
Many of the old timers went to work for CCHR, or the Citizens Commission on Human Rights, which had been a relatively minor Org in Scientology whose purpose it was to expose the brutalities of psychiatry. Now, under the leadership of rising stars Dennis Clarke and Freddie Ulan, CCHR entered its renaissance, conducting protests called Psychbusts at every major psychiatric event on the planet. I too became instantaneously involved in Psychbusting, using my G. O. skills to be as disruptive to the evil demonic psychs as possible.
Nevertheless, a part of me died when the Guardian's Office crashed. No one knew how to silence the psych criminals with deadlier force than Mary Sue. As much as I liked and respected Dennis Clarke and Freddie Ulan, neither one of them could hold a candle to the Commodore Staff Guardian, whether she was in prison or not.
Fred Hare had his own problems. The United States Government for World Psychiatry started a big fiasco in order to revoke our tax exempt status as a Church. Fred was summoned at a witness at one of the kangaroo court proceedings and was told by Scientology International Management not to appear because the pleadings were a complete mockery of justice and a sham. Consequently, Fred had to remain low key for awhile until the suppression died down and the Federal Marshals forgot about him.
It was amidst all of these vicious attacks that Diana consulted her friend Annie Broeker, the Commanding Office of the Commodore's Messenger Organization, in order to assign one of her best messengers to the vital and courageous task of breaking up my marriage. Peter and I welcomed the idea with long-awaited enthusiasm and baited breath. I was dispatched at once to my summer home in Lake Lure, North Carolina, in order to meet my new "housekeeper." Her stat was to clean the house until my wife was gone.
Bonny Mott was the most incredible person I have ever met. Upon encountering her for the first time, you would think that you were talking to a highly educated, well kept and respectable professional nanny and governess, who in her fifty- four years, made Mary Poppins look like a rank amateur. Well, she was all of those things and more. Thirty years earlier she might have been very beautiful. She had a faded Nordic look with blonde hair and blue eyes; much the type that the Nazis liked to utilize for breeding purposes. Now she was older and wiser, but still very much a postulate-popping thetan.
I was very impressed with her references during our interview. And since she would be living with my family and I in Florida, I wanted to be sure that she was going to be a suitable influence and role model for my two small children. Her qualifications were perfect!
She revealed to me that she was from the planet Avodelegadra, and when the body that she was presently occupying was five years old, it was in a terrible fire, and the original thetan who was running the body abandoned it during the heat of the infernal blaze.
Bonny was a "walk-in", or a thetan that picked up the body of a five year old girl when the former occupant "did a bunk", which in Scientology means "on her way over the hills and far away and she's just now passing Galaxy 18."64 Well, that's Ron's definition for leaving the body and never coming back. That's when Bonny walked in, saved the body from the fire, and operated it ever since. In auditing, Bonny was unable to run any memory of birth in her current lifetime. Her earliest incident was the fire, and yet she was very aware of her entire chain of former lifetimes going back many trillions of years. It's no big deal. Every other OT Five Scientologist can do it on the E-Meter with the same relative ease as wogs can eat oat bran for breakfast.
Over seventy percent of her body was once burned beyond recognition, but over the years through New Era Dianetics auditing, only faint scars could be seen where charred skin tissue once had been. She completely rehabilitated her body through the skills gained in Scientology.
I once asked her why she had chosen to pick up a body that had been burnt to a crisp instead of getting born like everybody else. The pain that she endured must have been insufferable.
"If you think that I was about to go through the conception sequence like all of you other crazy monkeys, then you've been dancing under the lights of the operating room too long", she said. "I wasn't about to waste nine months of my life being bored to death in the womb of some strange woman who might even try to abort me!"
"Some expectant mothers are like that", I recognized.
"Well, I'll take my chances in a towering inferno a lot quicker than playing baby daughter to a pro- choice bitch!", she argued correctly.
I finally met a woman who knew what she was doing. What a relief, too! Why did the sane ones always have to be too old for me? She would have been simply marvelous if she were thirty years younger, although she tried to convince me unsuccessfully that the difference in our biological ages did not matter. It sure did to me!
Bonny's life had been a total disaster before coming into Scientology. Her first husband was an alcoholic who made a living selling his blood for a bottle of Johnny Walker Red. Her second marital partner had murdered his parents, and then expected the judge to feel sorry for him at sentencing because he had become an orphan. Bonny's last lunge at love did them both a favor and killed himself.
She also had four children whom she no longer talked to because they were still Christians, and after a few bad rounds with LSD in the 60's as a midlife crisis hippie, she wandered into the Church of Scientology of Detroit in Royal Oak, Michigan. Her first major post had been that of the L. Ron Hubbard Communicator of Ann Arbor in 1968, and by 1975 she had attained the status of Commodore's messenger.
Before joining staff, she had been to numerous mad psychiatrists who all tried to make a fool out of her because of what she said happened during the fire and before this lifetime. Scientology was the first group that not only believed her, but actually audited out the pictures of the blaze which had traumatized her for so very long. Then, with the help of the Purification Rundown and other advanced Standard Tech remedies, she fully healed and rehabilitated her body. Then after receiving additional processing on the expanded grades and OT levels, she finally cognited on who and what she was, and which planet she had come from.
Having fully rehabilitated her memory of the last seventy-six trillion years, Bonny was anxious and eager to help me raise my daughters and educate them in the wisdom of Scientology, in order that they would benefit from her personal experience. I told her that it was equally important to reduce the tentacles of influence which my sick, demented wife held over them. Bonny and I were both terrified that Jaime's destructive wog ideas would prevent my children from growing up standardly and normally with Ron's Tech under their little belts.
"Don't worry", Bonny reassured me. "Arielle and Elysia will very soon turn into outstanding Sea Org Cadets -- I'll see to that! And you'll be out of your disgusting marriage before Ron's next birthday! I've got my own secret recipe for human wog divorces!"
Firing my previous housekeeper was easy. Julie Lombard and I never got along ever since I hired her to replace Joy Green. She was a chain-smoking Indian Rights Activist who stuck me with a long distance telephone bill for thirteen hundred dollars from calling every known tribal chief in the United States. She had been plotting to overthrow the Government and install the leader of the American Indian Movement, Russell Means, as Chieftain of the American Territories. Now there is nothing wrong in my opinion with overthrowing the United States Government. It's a good idea in principle, but only when done by Scientologists and not by wild Indians, despite the fact that I liked Russell Means a lot and I certainly would have voted for him if he were successful.
Yvonne Shirley Mott, which was the name that Bonny's mother gave the girl who occupied her body before the fire, arrived at my home in Davie, Florida with her 1970 candy apple red Bonny-Bonneville Pontiac convertible. Her first order of business was in getting me back on production swiftly and efficiently. She couldn't believe what a criminal Julie Lombard had been by saddling me with those outrageous phone charges. We decided that we would remedy the outness by sending in the very next class action lawsuit in Julie Lombard's name.
The National Student Marketing Case was going to be a big fat juicy settlement, with an eventual check for over one hundred and thirty thousand dollars. It was only fitting and proper that my Indian Telephone Princess be the claimant. In all of the excitement in getting the claim sent out on time, I used Julie's real Social Security Number on the form instead of mocking up one. Peter Letterese was shocked that I had goofed up so carelessly, and he asked Bonny to make a postulate which would prevent my mistake from ever being recognized by the Internal Revenue Service. Postulates work a hell of a lot better than holy water, you know. Ron always said "Intention is Cause", and when you make a postulate, you intend something, causing it to actually happen. With Bonny and Ron behind me, I had nothing to worry about. Besides, every thetan is entitled to at least one mistake.
Jaime loved having Mrs. Mott around the house! Bonny befriended my wife immediately, telling her how cruel and selfish I seemed to be, and how Jaime was a martyr and a saint to put up with my idiosyncrasies over putting everything in order. Bonny cooked for her and brought up meals to her room, which was something I had never allowed other housekeepers to do before, even when she was pregnant. You didn't expect me to spoil the bitch by rewarding her downstats, did you? Still, Bonny had the task of gaining Jaime's confidence, and who was I to argue with an OT Five genius?
Whenever I went near Jaime to pretend to hug her, Bonny came after me with a roll of paper toweling, hitting me on the arm and scolding me to leave her alone. My wife felt that she finally had someone in her corner. Late at night, after Jaime went to bed, Bonny and I had a good laugh over it while she audited me in her room on her own Mark Five E-Meter.
"Wait until you see what I have in store for that bad-ass suppressive!", Bonny promised.
As much love and ARC as there was in our home, now that we were formulating our Battle Plan to permanently handle Enemy Jaime, Bonny felt it was vital to run the household like a Sea Org Training Base. In the morning and at night we would salute each other with the Sea Org Motto "Revenimus", which is the Latin word for "we come back."65 This of course refers to our native ability as thetans to pick up one body after another, lifetime after lifetime.
The purpose of the home was to get in Ethics, just as it is the purpose of the Sea Org.66 Accordingly, Bonny ruled the roost, assigning me lower Ethics Conditions when I screwed up and higher ones when I had significant upstats. My personal lifestyle was finally being properly handled through the simplicity of Standard Tech. When I did well, Bonny rewarded me by organizing the house in size place and alphabetical order in the way that I liked it, telling Jaime that I "forced her to do it" as a good excuse. When I failed to follow her orders and had consequent downstats, she kept the house clean but extremely chaotic. Imagine how gruesome I felt when I opened up my refrigerator and found that all of the food wasn't lined up like soldiers! I nearly had a heart attack from the disarray. One or two experiences like that was enough to keep me in line, I can assure you. Bonny knew my buttons and how to stomp on them hard when she had to. I loved her for that.
Bonny got me all the way up from the Ethics Condition of Emergency to Affluence, handling my ethics on a daily basis by running Security Checks on me at night, and sending me down to the Org to get a Security Check Review by Leah Abady once a week. Every day while still in Emergency, I had to submit a Completed Staff Work Report to Bonny, whose actual post in Scientology was the Authorization and Verification Unit Officer of the Commodore's Messenger Org for the Eastern United States. Although Bonny reported directly to Commanding Officer Annie Broeker, she worked very closely with Peter Letterese and Nancy Witkowski on my local scene. It was such a pleasure to function so securely in a highly structured environment. I knew that one day I too would join the Sea Org. She maintained Ethics in so many wonderful ways. On one cool August night while Jaime went out to the lesbian bars with her gay friend Wendy Weil the veterinarian, Bonny and I had a splendid bonfire, burning every book that I had in my den on psychiatry and psychology. We roasted hot dogs on top of the ashes of Freud, Wundt and Pavlov, and the children loved it. Bonny always became very nostalgic for her childhood every time she saw things go up in flames. She was such a sentimental person.
It was nice that Bonny trusted me too. She had twenty thousand dollars in the bank which was an insurance settlement from the death of her son Joey who she hated anyway, and she directed me to invest the full amount for her at Dean Witter Reynolds. Because she was a Scientologist, I took very good care of her portfolio. She was the only customer that I ever had who actually made money with me. When she closed out the account she had twenty-three thousand dollars. There was no way that I would have ever treated her in the same slipshod way that I handled my wog accounts. No, I took full responsibility for her money as if it were either the Org's or my very own.
The children loved Bonny too. She would tell them exciting stories about her past lives, and what happens to a thetan after the body dies. If I paid her five thousand dollars a week to be their nanny instead of the one hundred and fifty that she received in salary from the shoe store, she would have been well worth it. My children learned all about the Between Lives Area, where thetans are implanted with horrible hypnotic suggestions called "forgetters." Before putting them to bed, Bonny explained to my girls that forgetters are horrible implants which blocked out their memory and recollection of their former lifetimes in an evil effort by various prehistoric psychiatrists like the Emperor Xenu to confuse and suppress them. Wasn't it great that my kids were rid of the false ideas of heaven and hell and could actually sleep nights without having nightmares of the Devil and other highly restimulative illusionary wog dramatizations? I thought so. I was hoping that they would be ready to join the Cadet Estates Org by the time they were twelve. The Cadet Estates Org is the junior training organization for the Sea Org, and Bonny and I couldn't wait to sign them up so they could help Ron in Clearing the planet.
Bonny played some great games with the kids. She always made sure that they scribbled their crayons in the Bible, and when my girls were frustrated, Bonny allowed them to hammer and pound on Hanukkah candles. She was an equal opportunity iconoclast, washing the ticks and fleas off the dogs with a Bhudda Beach Blanket; and at birthday parties, teaching the kids to play "Pin the Tail on Mohammed", and offering candy and cookies as upstats for the highest score on her Jesus Christ Dart Board. With Bonny, no wog cult even had a prayer.
Since Scientology is the only true religion, it was critical that the children had the point driven home hard, so they would be quickly and permanently disabused of their "Jewishness", as well as whatever wicked lies they were taught from wog books and wog television about any other false and pointless barbaric belief systems.
All in all, it was very exciting to be around Bonny and to have an on-purpose on-Source Tech terminal in my home. During her free time, Bonny audited herself on OT Five in order to complete the level. On the upper bands of Operating Thetan, or OT, one does Solo Auditing, which means one audits oneself. On the lower grades where I was, a preclear is not trained well enough to do that, and has to be audited by a certified auditor. Therefore, I enjoyed sitting in Bonny's room and watch her do her Solo Auditing. Every week she put her worksheets in an envelope and had me mail them off to Alain Kartuzinski, her Case Supervisor at the Flag Land Base. One day I peeked at her worksheets before mailing them and was I ever surprised to find out that when Bonny lived on Planet Avodelegadra, I was one of her husbands! It is just amazing how we thetans always seem to get together again and again, even after so many years and through so much empty-headed space. It was a rare honor to have once been married to such a mighty and powerful thetan. I hope that I was worthy of her. Thinking about it still gives me goose bumps.
I was summoned to the Miami Org by Beverly Flahan, the newly appointed Director of Special Affairs. She had taken over the old post of the Deputy Guardian of Miami, because all Guardian's functions had been updated and revised, and were handled by the Office of Special Affairs now.
Beverly was a short, squatty, stocky, stodgy, pudgy, flabby specimen who looked like your average and ordinary brick shit house. Despite her physical insignificance, she was an excellent recruiter, because within five minutes, I had signed up as an OSA Operative. In OSA, we no longer called ourselves "Agents." We were trying to be fancy, similar to the way that whores now called themselves "courtesans." It's all public relations hogwash, and I'm sure that Ron hated it every bit as much as I did. The changes in semantics did not affect my duties or old hat in any way. I still worked on Bingoing, Ethics Bait, Familial Disconnections and Freeloader Retrieval, but it was now euphemistically called "Making Things Go Right." It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?
The only new thing I had to do was to sign an OSA Security Pledge, promising never to divulge any confidential data about the Office of Special Affairs to anyone. God, I hope that I am not doing any of that right now. The last thing I want to do is to get into trouble!
On Grade Three auditing, I found that I was already exterior, or out of my body, even before I sat down in the auditing chair! Often I would shoot outside my head while walking in the front door of the Mission! With Bonny backing me up at home with moonlight auditing while the wog world was watching Johnny Carson, I was getting to be one hell of a powerful thetan!
In Routine R2-65, known as "Alteration", Nancy Witkowski asked me, "Can you recall a time when you failed to change some energy in this universe?"
"Well, just this morning I tried to leave a fart and change it into thin air, but instead, I shit in my pants", I remembered.
"Very good", Nancy acknowledged. "At what other time did you fail to change some energy in this universe?"
"I once tried to cook some hard boiled eggs, but I left on the light of the stove all day, and there were egg yolks all over the ceiling", I admitted. "Dried exploding yellow eggs has to be the worst smell in the world, even more horrible than week-old vaginal discharge."
But Nancy was looking for events that were on a much grander scale. We went back into former lifetimes, and while I stood there, being three feet in back of my head, looking down at my shloompy body, I recalled a time that I wrecked an entire climate by pulling the air cover off of a planet called Arslycus. At first I went into deep shock, realizing that by committing such a heinous crime, I killed the bodies of several billion thetans. However, when I found out that most of the population was actually trapped and imprisoned there by an evil psychiatrist, I was relieved with joy to discover that by wrecking the atmosphere and killing the people, I actually set them all free! I had never cognited that death was a fantastic form of liberation before! I always regarded it as something unpleasant to be avoided! It is life that is the real trap. What a dumb ass I had been, looking at everything backwards!
I got a good charge out of R2-50 also. That one was called "Changing Minds." Nancy ordered me over to a spot in the room, and then commanded me to appear there. As soon as I did that, she told me to change my mind and decide to disappear there. Afterwards, Nancy directed me to change my mind a second time and appear there again. I never told her that the spot into which I kept appearing and disappearing was her left tit. She must have intuitively known though, because she kept scratching me off of it. I thought that if I gave her a good hard bite with my thetan teeth, she would consider me a macho guy and notice me. All women like to be slapped around, and I thought I could play upon her natural feminine instinct. However, I had no such luck. We could have had such a damn good time together, with or without our bodies, if she only gave me half a chance.
"Get the idea of another changing you", Nancy continued, running a Change Process.
"I'll tell you what", I proposed. "Tomorrow I'll bring an extra set of clothes, and you can undress me and change me as many times as you want. We can play Dianetic Doctor."
"Okay, but for now, get a different idea of another changing you", she encouraged.
After going through a thousand and one ways to be made naked for several hours, I realized that the worst change that anyone ever did to me was trapping me in my body in the first place. There I had been, a happy idyllic thetan, contemplating the navels of the universe, when I was suddenly and brutally forced into my first shell of flesh, seventy-five trillion years ago. My original body didn't even fit me correctly. It needed to be taken in a couple of inches at the shoulders, and I had to have my penis lengthened. The guy who stuck all those pins in me to have me measured properly was also a real prick. I finally realized where the insanity of acupuncture came from. You don't think some cockeyed Chinaman invented it, do you?
The final process on Grade Three was Routine BS, or "Before Scientology." Nancy asked the proverbial question, "What was your life like before Scientology?"
It was very difficult to think that far back. Did I really have a life before Scientology? It was all so fuzzy. The mental image pictures of the last seventy-five trillion years all seemed to blend together in a puff of stale wet dreams. In this current lifetime, before I came into Scientology, I was nothing but a pathetic self-indulgent whore-mongering exhibitionist. Of course I still had all of those good qualities, but now at least I knew that I didn't need my body to be what I wanted to be.
As a thetan, or pure thought, I no longer had to depend on anything to be nothing and yet still create something. All I had to do is be myself and not my body, which was actually a big load off my mind.
Even though I sent my lump of flesh to work at Dean Witter Reynolds on a daily basis, I really wasn't all there. I enjoyed exteriorizing inside my Quotron machine, which was the name of the computer terminal on my desk which gave me all the stock and commodity prices. Having done Grade Three, it was fun to be a dot on the automated ticker tape travelling along the bottom of the machine. I lived a whole lifetime as a green flickering light in less than five seconds. The Quotron computer soon became one of my best friends, telling me secrets that no human could explain or convey. For example, I learned how to read quotations for the prices of Uruguayan Mink Pelts and Icelandic Sealskin. There was even a code for the bid and ask for Soviet Vodka. Peter Letterese was astonishingly right. The world economy was one big psychiatric conspiracy linked together through despicable global machinery like my Quotron. It was so ironic that I had come so far in awareness as a Scientologist, and yet as a stock broker, I was now a cog in the wheel of international corporate treachery.
Nothing I learned from the Quotron symbol book had anything to do with my clients, but who the hell gave two shits about them anyway? I had the claim forms, so I could leave at any time. I was just hanging around Dean Witter Reynolds for my own amusement. Sabotaging the wogs out of their money was a bigger thrill than getting my rectum tickled with a feather.
Although I was the kiss of death for every customer except Bonny Mott, I still had a large following, because my office was more like a social club and carnival atmosphere than anything else. I had a sign pasted on the wall which said "You cannot come in here with a tie", and there were always lots of pornographic magazines in my file drawer for my clients to glance at, in case they were having a real bad day.
I started to attract a rowdy group of compulsive gamblers who had severe mental problems. They worshipped the God of Corporate Greed, trading stock options as well as the Standard and Poors 500 Commodity Index, where a long term investment was no more than about five minutes. At least I was there to bear witness to their evil purposes.
One of these connivers was a young lawyer named Keith Nassetta who looked very much like the actor Al Pacino, only he was about a foot shorter. He used to bring huge suitcases of cash into the office that were reputed to be the assets and holdings of drug dealers who were rotting away in jail. I hope that they all had life sentences, since Keith lost at least two hundred and fifty thousand dollars of their money trading with me. If any of them were released on early parole, they might get annoyed with him for that. With all of my blundering incompetence and deliberate insouciance, Keith still liked me, except when I talked to Peter Letterese on the phone for hours and told him to wait until I was finished reviewing the Mission Stats before putting his order in. By that time, his two hundred dollar loss turned into a four thousand dollar debacle. You certainly didn't expect me to ask Scientology to take a back seat to a stupid client, did you? Still, Keith would never dream of transferring his account anywhere else. I often kept him spellbound with my memories of Planet Arslycus, where I spent ten thousand lifetimes polishing the same brick, working alongside L. Ron Hubbard, until we banded together and pulled off the air cover like I told you about before. Keith didn't believe that I really had been Ron's Loyal Officer back then, but at least he was getting a taste of historical reality which was more than I could say for most people.
"Only the privileged few get a smidgen of Source", I kept telling him.
One brisk morning in January 1984, I came downstairs before going to work in order to look in the bottom of the bird cage, so that I knew which stocks to recommend to my investment junkies for that day. To my amazement, there were no parakeets! They were gone!
I ran into Bonny's room, and started nattering to her about my missing feathered squawkers.
"You remember TR-3, don't you?", Bonny asked sarcastically. "Do birds fly?"
"Are they loose around the house somewhere?", I panicked. "There are seventeen rooms here. We have to find them right now!"
"They have just as much right to be free as we do", she mumbled as she wiped the sleep out of her eyes. "They are thetans stuck in parakeet bodies. They should never have been in a cage."
"Do you mean to say that you let them go?", I gasped.
"They flew bye bye!", she smirked. "Steven, do you honestly think that I enjoyed cleaning their shit every day?"
"But Jaime loves those birds!", I protested. "She'll be heartbroken when she finds them gone, and so will the children."
"She's not going to find them gone, because you are going to march upstairs right now to her ivory tower and tell her that you were the one who turned the birds loose."
"What?", I shrieked. "You did the damage and you want me to take the blame? I won't do it!"
"I'm afraid you have no choice, my precious thetan", Bonny explained. "I've just been thrown into Emergency by Annie Broeker. It is now the 29th of January 1984, and I have been living in your madhouse for six months, and you are still not divorced yet! Even you will readily admit we have been sitting on our fannies being "reasonable" about Jaime instead of doing what we set out to do and making things go right. The bare truth is such that I have no intention of being stuck here forever in your psychotic environment when we have the urgent task of a planet to Clear. So either you help me get rid of her or I am throwing you straight into Doubt!"
"I can't believe that I have to be the one to tell her about it!", I objected. "I loved those parakeets too, you know."
"You are trying my patience", she warned.
And so I marched up to Jaime and I proudly announced that I had set her birds free. She seethed in a reaction of rage and hatred, throwing her Cosmopolitan magazine in my direction and hitting me in the lip with it.
"Do you think you're ever going to get laid again?", she threatened. "Never! You have the ugliest dog's dick in the world! You sweat all over me like a disgusting pig! I hate you! I wish you were dead!"
"Oh, you hate me, do you?", I emoted. "Well that's wonderful, because I would love you to develop the worst kind of leprosy, where your skin falls off, and every cell in your flabby, varicose vein-ridden body starts howling in excruciating pain! You should only die a slow death where every one of your nerve endings are on fire, and your vital organs begin decaying one at a time until gangrene seeps out of your mouth every time you try to talk! And if you think you are ever going to blackmail me with sex again, you are crazy! I am going to fuck you right now, and I'm never going to pay you another cent for your mucous-laden vagina for as long as I live!"
I started to take my pants off in the heat of this wild animosity. Jaime reached for a huge pair of orange cooking shears that she kept in her bedside table either to ward off burglars or to fantasize about them.
"If you come an inch closer, I swear to God I'll cut your cock off!", she bribed.
As discretion was always the better part of valor, I curtsied and bowed out of her room with a false psychiatric smile and went on to work.
"What a long Knowledge Report I have to write today!", I moaned to Bonny on my way out of the house. "I'll never have any time to sharpen my pencils or play with the adding machine. I can't even have any fun today! Getting divorced is more of a pain in the ass than I thought!"
"Oh, but you'll thank me later", she assured me. "Anyway, we still have a long way to go before your wife is over the edge."
There were so many new surprises happening at Ron's seventy- second birthday party in Miami. We watched a televised simulcast from Flag, where Guillaume Lesevre announced that two new Orgs had been established and were in full swing so that Ron's Tech could be used in every wog business on the planet! The World Institute of Scientology Enterprises and Sterling Management Systems would now be equipped to educate raw meat public on Scientology leadership, marketing, report writing, productivity, sales, surveying, expansion, and above all else, Ethics! He said it would soon come to pass where every organization on Earth will be a Scientology organization! Our Executive Director said that humanoid business practices controlled by the suppressive arm of psychiatry shall soon be dead forever!
I received the Warner Communications class action settlement check, and Peter Letterese said that my sizeable advanced payment was partially responsible for the ability of the Mission of Fort Lauderdale to relocate into ultramodern new quarters at 2414 West Oakland Park Boulevard. Imagine finally having our own Scientology showplace in a fashionable section of the city! We were only six blocks from the main Post Office and only a short walking distance from Taco Viva! Peter stunned us with more joy by announcing that within a year at most, we would be a full-fledged Celebrity Center as well!
On the following day, Peter gave Bonny and I the grand tour of the new facility. Both of us volunteered to help prepare the move by packing up the old Preclear Folders, Central Files, and Ethics Office with its several hundred thousand reports. You have no idea how much paper work had accumulated since the Mission was founded in 1973! The second five year lease for the downtown location was due to expire on May the 1st, which only gave us six weeks to move. We wanted to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the Mission in our totally new location.
When the Soviet Union celebrated the sixty-seventh anniversary of the Communist Revolution on May Day, I wanted them to know through our big publicity splash that they were actually commemorating the tenth year of the Mission of Fort Lauderdale. I even sent a letter to the Soviet Minister of Cultural Affairs in Washington, reminding him to bring all of his comrades down to our new party headquarters in order to get audited. I told Peter that it was very important to me that the Russians knew that there was a hell of a lot more to life than just Josef Stalin and John Lenin.
Peter commanded a beautiful new office, and brought in exquisite leather furniture which created the homey atmosphere of dead cattle. In keeping with tradition, he gave me first crack at putting his Scientology Library in size place, and in organizing his stat charts. Barbara, Nancy, Fran, Reggie and Denise had less ostentatious offices down the hall with high windows that you couldn't see through even if you were a giraffe with a stiff neck, and these served as interview rooms. There was an elegant mushy salon equipped with television and a video with several soft, supple sofas suitable for seduction, and two adjacent auditing rooms loaded to the gills with the latest Mark Six E-Meters. The west wing of the Mission had a state-of-the-art courseroom with a separate acoustically perfect sound chamber for listening to Ron's tapes. The only space I didn't like was the bathroom. It was much smaller than in the other place, and since it was right off the main corridor, you couldn't even masturbate without everybody hearing you. Still, I couldn't be expected to wait until I got home to do that, not with this exciting new environment permeating around me!
It was amidst all of this joyous pandemonium that Nancy Witkowski audited me on Grade Four, which is the called the "Ability Release."
The first step was to run Routine R2-59, known as "Survival."
"Point out some things in your surroundings which aren't surviving", Nancy commanded.
"My sperm!", I observed. "They are always dying by drying up on walls, on toilet paper, or in my brown sock."
"What brown sock?", Nancy asked.
"This one that I keep in my back pocket", I confessed as I pulled it out. "I use it when I drive around in the car. Why are you engaging me in a conversation about it? That's a bunch of Q&A! Your TRs are out! You flunk as an auditor! I have an ARC Break!"
"I was acknowledging you", she insisted. "Now point out some things in your surrounding which are surviving."
"Fleas!", I screamed. "They are all over my house, in the carpets and everywhere. I wouldn't mind if they all flew upstairs and bit my wife in the clitoris, but they are attacking my children!"
"So we've got sperm not surviving and fleas surviving", she indicated, writing all of that down very diligently on the worksheet.
"You're the magician", I declared. "Tell me how to change fleas into sperm."
"Point out some unknown methods of surviving", she continued, ignoring my request.
"If they are unknown, then how the hell can I point them out?", I argued.
"Just point out some unknown methods of surviving", she repeated.
"Do you want to know a method? If I was invisible, then I could spend eight hours a day in the girls' locker room of a high school gymnasium, watching the cheerleaders soap themselves up in the shower. I would be just fine doing that all day. In fact Nancy, I would have survived a lot better if I had never been trapped in my fucking body in the first place!", I screamed.
That happened to be the very answer that Nancy was looking for. My needle was floating so cleanly on the dial that it felt like I was shooting up theta into my veins.
"Now as part of R2-59, we are going to run "Dream Processing", she continued. "What dreams about yourself would you find uninteresting?"
"Obviously if I'm dreaming about myself I am finding it interesting enough", I objected.
"Well, what dreams about yourself would you find uninteresting?", she repeated again.
"I suppose a dream where I was making love to a bunch of dead sheep", I stated dispassionately.
"Are you certain that you would find that dream uninteresting?", Nancy queried.
"Well, maybe I would watch the end of it for the curtain calls", I said indecisively. "How about a nightmare? That would be pretty horrible to sit through."
"But would a nightmare about yourself be uninteresting?", she delved. "The auditing question was, "What dreams about yourself would you find uninteresting?"."
"Damn it!", I shrieked. "Nightmares might be interesting too! Are you sure that you're not evaluating my answers? No, you're a Class Eight. You wouldn't do that. Let's see now, I just don't know. I think I would find all my dreams interesting. Let's go on to the next auditing command."
"I'll repeat the question", Nancy reiterated. "What dreams about yourself would you find uninteresting?"
"If I dreamt about myself as a thetan!", I cheered as the light bulb went on it my head. "If I thought of myself as a big nothing, then the dream would have to be uninteresting! I would have been bored to death! Hey, maybe that's the same reason why I allowed myself to be trapped in this body originally! I was too scared of not having enough things to do without a body to do them in! Wow!"
Grade Four had me all wired up and keyed out! I floated around for hours and hours in the middle of my own mock-up, all the while putting my attention on the quickest way to throw myself out of my stinking, boring dreams! They wouldn't be dull anymore if I kicked myself into oblivion. After all, do you think I get turned on while looking at my own naked body in the mirror? Do you think I am some kind of deviant pervert that gets sexually excited by staring at my own ass? Well, I have news for you, honey. I'm not that kind of thetan.
What right did I have to invade any of my perfectly peaceful dreams with uninteresting scenes from my pointlessly stupid life? I already knew what I was like, so why the devil did I have to spoil my nocturnal tranquility? My reactive mind was a miserable bastard, putting pictures of my hideous puss into dreams for me to stare at. Is that fair? Damn it, I was producing and directing the images, so I had a right to keep all of my own crap out of it, didn't I? How would you like it if you had to watch yourself sticking your tongue out in your ugly face for eight hours every night? You would be plenty pissed off, and you might even start to dislike yourself! I decided right then and there to banish myself from every dream I would ever have from that moment on, for this lifetime and for all future ones. What if my mock-up did something idiotic like get fresh with me during the night? Imagine having to spend the entire evening watching dramatizations of yourself getting raped by someone as revolting as you? Well, maybe you're not as loathsome and detestable as I am, so it wouldn't bother you. But put yourself in my wretched place, damn it, and don't start accusing me of being schizophrenic either, because that is psych talk! Psychiatrists are the ones who caused me to have all of these problems in the first place!
I realized that I could stay outside the physical universe for as long as I wanted to because I was a hell of a lot closer to being a real thetan if I maintained the ability to kick myself out of my own dreams. Can you even comprehend how powerful I began to feel when I found out that I was this amazing nothingness that nobody could destroy? I found the ultimate method for my own survival! All I had to do was to exteriorize by being outside of my repulsive body, and get a good grip on how vast the universe was without any matter, energy, space or time to bust up my chops with! Life inside genetic human flesh was for utter assholes! The sensation of just hanging out in nowhereness, watching the immense complexity of nothing happening all around me was so overwhelming that I almost caused a five car collision on the Interstate. I vowed never to do that again while driving, although between you and I, it's a lot more fun to steer when you are twenty feet above the wheel, with the wind blowing you all over the road as you crash into telegraph poles and bridges.
Jaime had been moody and depressed for over a month, so Bonny brought her up some nice hot chocolate chip cookies. I had laughed when I saw my housekeeper spit into the batter just an hour before.
"You are such a nice sweet girl and Steve treats you so badly", Bonny comforted Jaime.
"I really prefer being alone anyway", Jaime mumbled.
"But between the stock brokerage office, the shoe store and Scientology, he doesn't pay any attention to you at all!", Bonny remarked.
"Scientology?", Jaime jumped. "Steve doesn't have anything to do with that crooked organization. He works for an old retired investor on Miami Beach, collapsing foreign currencies and organizing world finance on a computer. Right now he's busy setting up a gambling casino on an Indian reservation in Alaska. None of it has anything to do with that stupid cult, you know."
Bonny was fuming inside, but she had her TRs in quite marvelously.
"I beg to differ with you, young lady, but Steve doesn't work for anyone on Miami Beach. I know all about what your husband told you, but Meyer Lansky died over two years ago. If you don't believe me, call the Miami Herald. Steve never worked for the old man at all. He has been lying to you all this time because he knew how antagonistic you were about Scientology. He's been deceiving you left and right", she added.
"No, Steve goes to Tampa to run errands, and he even went to California on Meyer Lansky's request", she stammered.
"He went to Clearwater to the Flag Land Base of Scientology, and when he went to California, your husband stayed in the Manor Hotel, which is part of Scientology's Celebrity Center", Bonny revealed.
"No, you are making all of this up!", Jaime yelled. "I told him I would divorce him if he had anything to do with that bunch of thieves!"
"But it's all true!", Bonny laughed. "Come with me into his den and I'll prove it to you!"
As they walked downstairs together, Bonny put her arm around Jaime, telling her how a marriage that was based on deception is no foundation for happiness.
"Steven is a pathological truth stretcher who would do anything to conceal his involvement with Scientology from you", Bonny said. "Just look at all these books in this room written by L. Ron Hubbard! Here's The Phoenix Lectures, Dianetics: The Original Thesis, Mission Into Time, Lives You Wished To Lead But Never Dared, The Creation of Human Ability! There are over twenty Scientology books in here. Okay, here's one that he just brought home a week ago: Understanding The E- Meter. Check the date of publication if you think I am making up stories just to cause trouble. Aha! 1982! When did you say he got out of Scientology?"
"My God, you are right!", Jaime screamed. "He's still in that sick cult! That's where all his extra money has been going! I am going to kill that liar!"
"No, violence never solves anything, honey", Bonny soothed. "Do you want my advice? The best thing you could do is to put some love and romance into your life. Get yourself a boyfriend; some man you really like. I can see that you don't love Steve. Lord knows he doesn't deserve someone as kind and good as you."
"He robbed me of my youth and took away my innocence!", Jaime protested.
"Well, we're going to remedy all that, my dear", Bonny assured her. "You're closer to me than my own daughters. It's no good for you to lay in bed all day moping about in despair. You've got to do things for yourself, and get into better physical shape. What about joining a health club?"
"I always wanted to take karate", she confided.
"Karate?", Bonny repeated in surprise. "Okay, then you call a karate school right now and register for classes. That'll be good therapy for you. There will be plenty of available men to meet there also. Let's put some spice in your life!"
"Oh, Bonny! I don't know what I would do without you!", she sobbed, hugging her.
Within weeks, Jaime was having an extramarital affair with a Karate teacher named Joe Hess. Joe was married with three kids, and he had achieved some minor notoriety making grade-Z karate movies and instruction videos. He was your typical martial arts gorilla brute, who thought he had the right to sleep with every lady he met for free. I always said you could never trust a man who didn't know the value of a woman in dollars and cents.
As if one Karate Joe wasn't enough, Jaime soon became involved with another married karate master from a different school named Joe Kellijhian. The two Joes even looked alike, with big pot bellies, smelly armpits and scruffy hair. I often wondered whether either of them objected to her reading magazines during intercourse the way I did. No, it was probably just my own silly hang up, not theirs.
Jaime was also friendly with both of their wives, although neither one of them knew that she was having an affair with their husband. She also had a brief flingy interlude with an instructor at the Broward County Police Academy named Colonel Stanley Wisnioski, who was bald and old enough to be her father. I have no idea why she had this thing for teachers of violence, but both Bonny and I felt it was nevertheless a good idea for my wife to get used to other men. She even convinced me to put a deposit on a studio apartment in the Galt Ocean Mile section of Fort Lauderdale Beach, so that she would have a bachelorette pad to fuck those fat monkeys. The doorman at the Galt Ocean Club, whose name was also Joe, thought that Jaime was running a high-priced escort service. The condo worked out fine for me too, because on the days when Jaime was at home, I was able to bring my whores there from the female shelter, "Women In Distress."
It was fabulous having an open marriage like we did. Jaime and I never slept with each other and therefore kept our arguments and frustrations to a minimum. In fact, we came to an understanding. We could be better friends if sex were not involved in our relationship.
However, Bonny wasn't sympathetic at all. Her initiative backfired. She thought I would be jealous when I found out about Jaime's boyfriends. I was actually happy for her that she was capable of feeling any emotion at all, especially lust! She was less of a bitter bitch after she had a session in the sack with one of her black-belted turkeys.
However, Jaime and I would still often fight about money. She resented being lied to all of those years about Meyer Lansky, and absolutely hated the idea of my association with Scientology. To get back at me, she started running up our credit cards, buying porcelain dolls, expensive imported stuffed animals, and dozens of additional pictures of Rudolf Nureyev.
By the end of May, I had charge receipts exceeding one hundred thousand dollars worth of crap! She got on a Japanese kick because of her karate boys, and started collecting jade, ivory, and other knick-knacks that I wouldn't give five cents to pick my teeth with. Bonny and I were furious because Scientologists who are qualified to join the Sea Org are not allowed to have any outstanding debts of any kind, and she was running them up like an enema waterfall.
"We are going to have to lay all the cards on the table and handle your psycho-dog wife once and for all!", Bonny swore.
Despite my need to organize everything in the house, I had always left Jaime's personal effects alone. I knew how horrific her make-up drawer looked, with eye liner laying on top of lipstick which was next to nail polish. Nevertheless, with the drawer closed, I was able to put the underlying mess out of my mind.
When Bonny commanded me to turn Jaime's room into a Sea Org Battle Station, I hesitated at first. However, when I thought of how important it was to put some organization into the life of my honey lamb bastard, I decided to take up the challenge faster than psychiatrists addict pre-schoolers to Ritalin.
"Man the turrets!", I shouted as I scurried up the stairs.
I burst into Jaime's bedroom, with Bonny right behind me.
"What do you think you're doing?", Jaime asked indignantly.
"The forces of good are commandeering this fortress of evil!", I announced. "You are to vacate this sector of my galaxy until order has been efficiently restored!"
I proceeded to dump all the contents of Jaime's drawers onto the floor.
"Have you prepared the trash can, Messenger Mott?", I inquired.
"Garbage intensive to the ready sir", she saluted.
Jaime looked at Bonny in shock.
"Why are you going along with this insanity?", Jaime asked her.
"Orders are orders!", she shouted. "Captain Fishman is in charge. This is a Sea Org Command Post now, young lady."
"Oh my God!", she screamed. "You're one of them too!"
"The sun never sets on Scientology, my love", I reminded.
"What we're doing is for your own good", Bonny smiled. "Sanity is the ability to recognize differences, similarities and identities.67 Obviously you can't do that Jaime, so you're hopelessly insane."
"Look at your fucking drawer, bitch!", I directed. "Old candy wrappers stuck in the middle of unfolded hosiery, strewn asunder under earrings! I can have you committed to an asylum for a lot less than this!"
"Oh, most definitely!", Bonny agreed. "She's a danger to herself and the thetan community."
Jaime started to tremble, tears flooding her cheeks in hysterical terror.
"It's too late for theatrics, huggy pooh", I growled. "Everything in your room that is not categorizable according to form and function is history! You are a disgrace to my status as a Kha- Khan!"
"Don't forget that you're an unfit mother!", Bonny scowled. "Imagine poisoning the minds of your children with worthless drivel about their only living once! They ought to be taken away from you!"
"I'll see to it!", I promised.
Jaime was clearly nearly at her wits' end.
"How dare you call me an unfit mother!", she screeched. "You are a fine one to talk! Your children don't even want to know you! I want you out of this house today! You are fired! You aren't going to come within one foot of my daughters!"
"Don't you even think of speaking to Bonny like that!", I hissed. "When I hired her, it was forever! If you don't like the way we are running this household, you can leave, but without the children!"
"Arielle and Elysia are being trained to join the Sea Org Cadets!", Bonny assured her. "You have no command value over them anymore! It's completely out of your hands."
"Get out of my room!", she sobbed.
"Not so fast, young lady!", Bonny admonished. "Your husband has given you an order. You have a choice. Either put every single cylinder of lipstick and nail gloss in size place to please him, or I promise you that everything you own will be taken to the city dump!"
"Why are you both doing this to me?", she howled, frozen in terror.
"Because we love you so much, you stupid moron!", I explained. "And after your room is perfect, you are going to strip down to your stretch marks and I am going to fuck your brains out!"
"But you promised not to abuse me anymore!", she pleaded.
"Filthy tramp!", I said vivaciously. "I lied. Make something of it!"
"Stick to the subject!", Bonny warned me.
"If there is one item that is not put away perfectly, I am personally going to throw it all on the floor again and make you do it over and over until you are blue in the face!", Bonny encouraged. "Right now you are in Treason!"
"You are crazy!", she stated unceremoniously.
"We'll see which one of us is crazy", Bonny responded with a grin of glee. "The days of your husband being afraid of you are over! He is a Scientologist and you are a Scientologist's wife. We would rather have you dead than incapable!"
"It wouldn't be very hard to sell you to a Saudi Arabian stablemaster, so don't provoke me!", I proposed. "Bonny here told me about one who could tame you with a lot less compassion than I have shown you over the years."
"You could always kill yourself", Bonny suggested. "The kids will never miss you."
"Yes they would!", Jaime cried.
"Maybe for a month or two, but then they'd forget all about you", I reasoned. "All we'd have to do is burn all of your pictures. There would be no trace left of your memory!"
"There's always your next life", Bonny comforted with a dose of reality.
"You mean as a cockroach in a psychiatrist's toilet?", I laughed. "That's what she'll be!"
Jaime put her hands over her ears.
"You want this room straightened out? Fine, I'll do it! I'm probably the only person in the world who is forced to clean up to please her own housekeeper", she complained.
"Not only me but your husband who is damned good to you!", Bonny prompted.
"If you want it done, just get the hell out of here and I'll do it!", Jaime begged, sobbing at the top of her lungs as she sat pathetically on the floor in the pile of debris.
"One other thing, sugar piss", I said. "I don't give two shakes of a wolf's tit how you feel about me. You can call me the worst scum bag in the world and I won't care. But if I ever hear you say one derogatory word which is critical of either L. Ron Hubbard or Scientology, I will personally stick your head in the toilet three times and take it out twice; and I promise you faithfully that you will be kissing my stool sample while I'm doing it!"
"You have one hour to get this room organized before it is garbage time!", Bonny concluded. "We are done pampering you!"
After slamming the door and skipping down the staircase arm in arm, I asked Bonny if she thought Jaime got the message.
"You'll never change her in a million years", she evaluated. "Unless she were audited and was interested in her own case as a thetan, she will unfortunately always remain an SP. I'm just giving her the chance for the sake of your children to withdraw from the marriage gracefully."
"She doesn't deserve such kindness", I commented.
"No, she doesn't", Bonny agreed.
"But I'm confused about something", I interjected. "Why did you baby her for so long and all of a sudden come forward with the truth?"
"Shock value", she grimaced. "ARC didn't work on her, so it was time for Jaime to bite the bullet."
"How long do you think it will take her to pack up and leave?", I wondered.
"If she's not out by the summertime then you might as well send me away for some electric shocks!", Bonny joked.
"What about the kids?", I asked. "I don't want her to take them away from me."
"Jaime will never get custody in a million years as sloppy as she is", Bonny guaranteed me. "How can you worry when Source is on our side?"
"Yeah, silly me!", I said as I went to find some Hefty Trash Bags for the balance of Jaime's stuff.
Bonny hatted me in some sizzling hot OT Processes where I would lay in bed while exteriorized, postulating the death of Jaime's body. I tried to dislodge Jaime's brain from her skull by commanding it to happen, but I apparently needed more auditing before I could do it correctly. I knew that we had the Tech to disassociate her from her body, but yet my own abilities were not up to snuff enough, I suppose. Still, I never entertained the thought of harming my wife physically, because if I couldn't use Ron's Tech to kill her, then there was obviously some deficiency in my own power that I had not learned to adequately confront yet.
That being the case, Bonny felt that she had to take more drastic measures to get the divorce done. After all, her stats were at risk.
Jaime had always dabbled in art since she was a child, and was quite talented in a mediocre sort of way at drawing cartoon frogs with pen and ink. She had once given airbrushing a shot, but splattered the paint all over her flea bites and gave up in mild apathy. The only time that she ever sold her artwork occurred when a bottle of Crystal Springs Mineral Water cracked and leaked all over her drawings, since we used to keep the bottled water machine in her art room. Jaime's client was the State Farm Insurance Company, who paid her the assessed market value for the damaged canvases, based on some phony orders which she was able to get from her friends. As you can see, the girl didn't have one shred of integrity, and would do just about anything for money. Nevertheless, as an artisan, Jaime prized her remaining collection of frogs which dated back to 1962, from when she was six years old.
Bonny not only threw it all out, but she thrashed, tore and stomped on the amphibian renditions so that even if Jaime tried to retrieve them at the city dump, they would be unrecognizable, even to her.
When the mission was accomplished, Bonny phoned me at Dean Witter Reynolds and told me what had gone down.
"That's spectacular!", I cheered. "I can't wait to see the look on her face when she comes home and finds all her junk missing."
"Don't forget to tell her that you destroyed the drawings for her own good", she reminded.
When Jaime came back to the house, she never bothered going into the art room, which was a small atrium off the breakfast nook on the far west side of the residence. When I came home from work, she was unaware that her current lifetime portfolio was all gone. As usual, Jaime was in her bedroom with the door securely locked. I knocked and pounded until she reluctantly let me in. Her room looked like a cyclone had hit it. Her four cats were chewing on dirty sanitary napkins that were full of blood from Jaime's menstrual period. It was a sight that will live in infamy, with clumps of plasma-stained super absorbency puff balls stuck in the teeth of the furry feline monsters.
"What the hell do you want?", she asked adroitly.
"Is that any way to greet your husband after a hard day at the office?", I inquired.
"Get to the point!", she rushed. "I'm watching Mikhail Baryshnikov in a ballet on Channel 2, and I don't have time to bother with you."
"Oh, are you thinking of changing your last name again?", I asked.
"Do you need something?", Jaime moaned in dire annoyance.
"Wait until you hear what I did for you today!", I bragged.
"You got a new credit card for me with a ten thousand dollar limit", she smirked. "Now get the hell out of here. I'm sick of you!"
"Better than that!", I gloated. "I threw out all of your artwork! You have a fresh new beginning now! You no longer have to look at any of your old failures! Aren't you pleased?"
Jaime pushed me aside in a fit of numb panic and flew down the stairs, charging through the hallway in the direction of her art room.
"You insane mother fucker!", she howled as saliva drooled from both sides of her mouth in frozen fright. "You'd better tell me where you've hidden all my drawings!"
Bonny came strolling into the kitchen with a mile-wide grin.
"Today is Friday", she pointed out. "Jaime, you know the trash is picked up at eleven in the morning. Isn't that right, Steven?"
"I thought you would be proud of me!", I gasped in feigned shock.
"Tell me this is just some sick Scientology joke!", she cried, unable to stop her legs from shaking.
"I'm afraid we take life quite seriously", I clarified. "You haven't been keeping your drawers clean, so I had to put you into a lower Ethics Condition, that's all. Once you maintain one hundred percent Standard Ethics in organizing your personal articles and keeping good hygiene, and you prove to me that you are worthy of an upgrade, I promise you that I will not keep you in Danger any longer than you need to be."
"What do you mean, in "Danger?", she blurted. "Are you threatening me or something?"
"No, pumpkin seed", I reassured her. "Danger is the Ethics Condition between Emergency and Non-Existence. The first thing I want you to do is to read the copy of Introduction to Scientology Ethics that I have in my den, because later tonight I am going to quiz you on it."
"The first thing I'm going to do is to pack my bags because later tonight I will be on an Amtrak train with my two children on the way to New Jersey, and I will be very non-existent because I am leaving you!", she screamed.
"You'll never get up to Affluence that way", Bonny cautioned.
"You can take your Affluence and shove it up L. Ron Hubbard's fat ass!"
The honeymoon was over, I feared. Bonny finally had her upstat and could go on to OT Six. With Jaime out of the way, my docket was clear to start Grade Five, or New Era Dianetics, which we lovingly called NED for short.
Bonny was summoned to Flag in order to help mobilize against a female squirrel in Portland named Cristofferson who started a lawsuit against the Church, and I was left all alone in the house. I started having terrible nightmares, and began experiencing the horrors of being stuck in my dreams without being able to get out of them. Because of my Grade Four auditing, whenever I had a bad dream, I tried to back out of the pictures by running the sequences backwards or earlier. This landed me in an even worse nightmare, and then I was faced with the problem of backing out of the new images that I became stuck in. After two or three of these sequences, I got completely trapped in the basic incident, or earliest series of pictures of the dream. This phenomenon is one of the dreaded side effects of auditing the Upper Grades, and is known to Scientologists as "Free Wheeling." Because I exteriorized automatically upon falling asleep, being locked into a series of dreams prevented me from re-interiorizing, or returning into my body to wake up. The only mechanism I had for getting pulled back into the body was some shattering noise such as the buzzer of an alarm clock. However, during my eight hours of sleep, it seemed like I was going through living hell for days, months, or even years, since a sleeping thetan has no sense of time.
To handle this dilemma, Nancy Witkowski prescribed a potion of Vitamin B-1, Magnesium, Paba, Inosotol, Biotin, Manganese, and Iodine in a brew of liquid parsley, alfalfa, watercress and rice bran, which tasted a lot like butterfly shit. The purpose of that was to stabilize my body, which we call the "genetic entity." It must not have worked very well because the bad dreams also caused me to have diarrhea. No matter how good they are, vitamins never stay in your system when you have to crap your brains out twenty times a day.
The summer was very peaceful without the putrid stench of Jaime to clutter up the house. I gave all of her cats away, and it was so nice to come home after work and find everything in the same exact place that I had left it. I missed the children, and for that, I bombarded Jaime and her wicked parents with tons of junk mail at their New Jersey house. To keep from feeling lonely, all my evenings were spent at the Mission, and when I did go home after the eleven o'clock staff meeting, I enjoyed endlessly organizing the house until it was absolutely perfect. Throwing out things that I did not think Jaime should be allowed to keep was also a great deal of fun. In all that time, not once did I care or wonder about what my estranged wife was thinking or planning.
But on Friday the 21st of September 1984, I returned home from work to find half the house missing! Jaime had returned unannounced and incognito, and moved out all of our possessions to an unknown and undisclosed location. I called the police and told them to come over immediately. When they arrived, I was shocked when they served me with a legal restraining order giving me two hours to vacate my own house! That corrupt Colonel Wisnioski from the Broward County Police Academy must have had his evil hand in it! No wonder she slept with him! His name wasn't Joe like all the others; it was Stanley, so she must have had an ulterior motive. Jaime had also somehow convinced an SP judge that I was mentally insane and that I would cause Jaime physical harm! I would never hurt my wife. I just wanted her to temporarily die by dropping her body and picking up a new one, that's all. It had nothing to do with violence. In Scientology we take care of things with postulates, not murder. I was the most peace-loving thetan on the whole aberrated planet! Even Jaime could never deny that I used to rescue spiders that were lost in our house by putting them outside so they could live. She's the one who wanted to step on them. I don't know why that demented bitch didn't just kill herself like she was supposed to!
On that fateful night, my best friend Steve Goldberg was too busy to help me move my things out of the house. He had invited his girlfriend Felicia over, who had promised to tie him up and whip him with an old fan belt from a 1963 Corvair until he was orgasmically satisfied. I couldn't expect him to cancel one of his favorite fantasies just for me.
Peter Letterese told me that he couldn't leave the Mission to help me either because he had to do the radio show on WEXY called "Scientology Works." It wasn't until a week later that I realized that the show was taped in advance, and Peter had just given me a lame excuse.
"You pulled in all this entheta with Jaime into your universe on your own", he said in answer to my plea for help. "I told you to divorce the suppressive hag four years ago!"
The only person who came through for me was Dr. Geertz. He and wife Dorli rushed over in his rickety Chevrolet station wagon, and together they helped me move out all my clothes, as well as my Scientology books, my four framed posters of the Flag Land Base, my Bridge Chart of the Route To Total Freedom, my Mark Five E-Meter, my typewriter, my photocopy machine, and my Kermit the Frog telephone. It was amazing to me that of all the people I knew, the only ones who I could depend on in my time of need was a suppressive German psych and his Austrian wife!
I moved into the studio apartment on Galt Ocean Mile, which was Jaime's old love nest. The first thing I had to do was wash out all the bedding, because it smelled from karate sweat. I wouldn't put it past Jaime's orangutang boyfriend to wipe off his hairy phallus all over my designer bedspread after he got through spilling his guts into her malignant uterine cavity. At least those activities would be done elsewhere from that point on. Jaime moved back into the big house and was perfectly capable of goosing him at home.
After being served with official divorce papers, I brought them over to Peter Letterese, so that he could tell me what to do.
"Do you think I have time for your insignificant wog problems when we have a planet to Clear?", he reprimanded. "You'd better solve it yourself, but keep Scientology out of it! And by the way, you've got to make good and sure that she doesn't get her hands on any of our settlement checks!"
Peter was right! Warner Communications, Texas Instruments, Waste Management, Coleco, and National Student Marketing were all "floating", which was Peter's term meaning "in the process of being paid." I wouldn't put anything past Jaime. She was a crook! If she diverted our funds to a different address, the rest of my Bridge could be postponed for years! I was not about to allow that to happen. I monitored the settlement payments a lot more closely.
My first real break from the tension of the divorce was on October 7th, when I went to Flag in order to celebrate the creation of Ron's latest Org, the International Association of Scientologists. The IAS, as we abbreviated it, was based at Saint Hill in England, in order to escape the ruthless arm of the suppressive Internal Revenue Service. Getting away for a few days was such a welcome relief from dealing with all of my present time marital problems. October 7th was also my father's birthday, and although I had promised to spend the day with him, nothing was more important than my presence at that monumental event. The purpose of the IAS was to fund the War Chest, which would finish off our enemies and rid the planet of psychiatry permanently.
Since no one from the Mission could go to the Fort Harrison besides myself, Peter had appointed me the IAS Representative of Fort Lauderdale, and each delegate was part of a task force whose hat it was to submit written suggestions for ways of implementing and carrying out the goals of the new organization.
I suggested that when Scientology prevails in taking over the Fourth Dynamic Government of Earth, we immediately establish and set up concentration camps for psychiatrists and psychologists on all continents. I stressed the necessity of separating and isolating all suppressive elements in our degraded society from the balance of worthy thetans who were going up the Bridge and getting their auditing as useful, productive members of our new civilization, and I impressed the panel with the need of handling the out-ethics of these SPs by exposing them to the same torture that they have deliberately foisted on the current population. It became apparent to me that any psych who refused to be rehabilitated through the Purification and Drug Rundowns as well as extensive PTS auditing should be hooked up to their own electric shock machines and given lethal doses of Thorazine, Lithium, and other abominable strains of their toxic psychotropic medication. At any rate, we could lessen their overts by having them work their way up through the Ethics Conditions Formulas from the bottom, so that in their next lifetime, they would not present as formidable a threat to us.
I received a thunderous round of applause for my initiative, and Dennis Clarke, the Commanding Officer of the Citizens Commission on Human Rights, gave me a vigorous handshake that felt like I had busted several blood vessels. He was extremely impressed with my outstanding suggestion for the Motto of the camps, which appropriately was "Ethics Will Set You Free." Upon revealing this, the group gave me a three minute standing ovation. Dennis gave me the biggest hug that any man gave me in my whole life, and promised faithfully that my contribution would be speedily communicated to Ron. In appreciation for my plan, he vowed that I would be in charge of setting up the Psychiatric Rehabilitation Estates Project Force as soon as the last wog government bit the dust. I fully agreed that his suggestion for the name of the Org sounded a lot more socially acceptable than "concentration camp" from a public relations viewpoint. That Dennis sure had a way with words! He told me to start preparing myself to head up the project right away, and suggested that I research a German architect by the name of Albert Speer in the public library for any well-grounded ideas on how to turn my stroke of genius into practical reality.
I had no idea until I looked him up that Albert Speer was the Nazi architect who Adolf Hitler had commissioned to construct the gas chambers and death camps which were used by the Gestapo to kill the Jews during World War Two. Still, if there was valid Tech on the subject, there was nothing wrong with borrowing from proven experience. The Germans were quite efficient, and if Dennis Clarke recommended reading some reference material, who was I to argue? In any case, I thought it would be poetic justice if the psychs were exposed to the same treatment and facilities that Nazi psychiatry had brutally used on innocent people a generation earlier.
"It's great to be "Speer-heading" the project", I wrote in my Knowledge Report to Dennis.
At the end of the IAS Celebration, the principal dignitaries and Org executive strata signed the "Pledge To Mankind", promising to take responsibility for defending the Scientology religion against those who would attack and enslave mankind. The original document was signed at Saint Hill in England, and a facsimile was prepared at Flag and simultaneously broadcast on television by satellite to all Scientology Orgs and Missions planetwide. The intensity of actually being a part of the first initiative in seventy-five million years to rid the world of the plague of psychiatry was too overwhelming and joyous for even me to bear. I couldn't wait for the day to come when I could be standing at Ron's side, hanging thousands of psychs on barbed wire to fry by the groin. Upon the Commodore's command, ten thousand volts of electricity would surge through an electrode attached to the inner sanctum of each psychiatric anus, and I fervently prayed it would come to pass that I would be given the honor to throw the first switch.
Hopefully I could persuade Dr. Geertz to be re-educated, since he had been nice enough to help me move my things on a moment's notice. But if he refused, I would have to wash my hands of him. The one thing that I could never do as Commanding Officer of the Psychiatric Rehabilitation Estates Project Force is to show any kind of wog mercy. One has to confront evil, not go into humanoid emotional reactive agreement with it. After ten trillion lifetimes, I was not about to start feeling wishy-washy about my psych tormentors now, even if one of them happened to be a "seemingly" nice guy who condescended to do me a favor. Dr. Geertz could always pick up a new body if he had to.
After the event at the Fort Harrison, I conferred with Ellie Bolger on the imminent collapse of my marriage.
"I am not going to hold still while your psychotic wife drags Scientology into the mud through any wild accusations she might have or hallucinate about in divorce court!", Ellie trumpeted.
"What wild accusations?", I asked.
"About your income, you fool!", she inferred. "What if her lawyer asked you where all the money came from?"
"Then I would tell him it was valiantly reappropriated from greedy corporations tied in to the suppressive World Federation of Mental Health!", I asserted. "What's the big deal? You don't have a thing to be concerned about. There are very few thetans who are as fully briefed on the perils of psychiatry as I am. I'll tell the truth. There is nothing to hide! The public is on our side anyway."
"Don't you realize that your SP wife would insulate herself behind the apron strings of the unpredictable wog law in order to cause public embarrassment and humiliation to the Church?", she groped. "How selfish can you be to place us all at risk like that, when you know how intensely Jaime hates Scientology?"
"But wog law is insane!", I argued. "This whole divorce isn't a question of justice, it's a matter of expediency! You of all people should appreciate how she was sticking her grubby hands into our cycles of production!"
"Your wife seems to be turning it into a question of money!", Ellie revealed shockingly.
"Yes, and look how much she owes me!", I insisted as my blood pressure agglutinated. "Do you have any idea how much I paid her over the last eight years in exorbitant fees for bad sex?"
"No, and I don't care, because you were stupid!", she declared. "Any man that has to pay his wife to sleep with him is a castrated faggot!"
"Well, what choice did I have?", I reasoned.
"Oh, who gives a damn about your personal problems!", she antipathized. "The condition of your second dynamic is despicable! Anyhow, I spoke to Diana and the Inspector General for Administration Marc Yager about you, and we all agree that you have to settle the divorce quickly and quietly. I don't give ten goddamns about your wounded pride. If you had any self respect you would have bought a revolver and shot the parasite when Peter told you to. You're going to settle this divorce by giving her whatever the hell she asks for! I want her out of your hair so you can get back on post and start producing like the upstat Kha-Khan that you say you are!"
"But she wants the house!", I pleaded.
"So give it to her! Who cares about a house when you want a Bridge!", Ellie reminded. "You can always make more money and buy another ramshackle place for your body to live. But if you should drop dead before you make it through OT Seven, then how are you going to get through the Between Lives Area? During your next lifetime you might pick up the torso of a starving sewer rat in Ethiopia. Is that what you want? Is that the thanks you are going to give Ron for all he has done for you?"
"No, there's nothing more important to me than going up the Bridge!", I indicated.
"And another thing, Steve", she added. "You're too much of a sick sex degenerate to ever get married again. Stay away from women. Have you ever thought of having sex with young boys?"
"I'd rather leave that to you", I whispered generously.
But Ellie was right about my inability to handle my wife. Jaime was a double barreled bitch on wheels. In a cruel and devious move, she succeeded in persuading the court to prevent me from seeing my children unless an impartial expert deemed me to be mentally sound and emotionally suitable for visitation purposes. And this so-called "expert" was nothing more than a fucking psych! Jaime knew how I felt about psychiatrists and psychologists, and she enjoyed driving a stake into my heart by forcing me get the "approval" of one of those suppressive bastards in order to get permission to see my own kids! I was livid with rage. I vowed revenge against that smelly harlot.
Jaime's lawyer even blocked me from using Dr. Geertz as an expert witness because Jaime accused him of being "biased and partial." How the hell could any psych, including Dr. Geertz, ever be biased and partial towards a Scientologist? It was just the sick hogwash that wog kangaroo courts are made of. Objecting to the psychological testing on religious grounds still wouldn't have accomplished the net result of enabling me to see my daughters, so I was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
It was the Office of Special Affairs that came to my rescue. They furnished me with copies of every known psychological test, as well as the answers which were regarded by the psychs as being the most "desirable." Notorious amongst these was the MMPI, or Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory of five hundred questions, composed by some deviant sadist who enjoyed keying in the reactive bank. The Director of Special Affairs Bev Flahan also gave me sample answers for the Rorschach and Thematic Apperception Tests which would convince a psych that I not only was quite "normal", but also extremely well adjusted to my environment. Any thetan who has to adjust to the environment rather than causing the environment to adjust to him is nothing but a weak swishy pussy, and belongs at the receiving end of a psych's shock machine. In any event, those tests were a part of the old Guardian's Office files which we used to use in order to help our parishioners escape the wrath of involuntary commitment in psych slaughterhouses and deprogramming by suppressive theta butchers.
Voila! I was adjudicated to be one of the sanest men on Earth! The dumb cunt who conducted the testing was a chain-smoking lunatic psychologist named Ann Polito. There would have to be a special section in the Psychiatric Rehabilitation Estates Project Force reserved for whores like her. Despite the fact that I passed her exams and scrutiny with flying colors and was now allowed to visit with my children, I knew in my heart that igniting a blowtorch up her vagina would be too mild a remedy for her out-ethics. What right did that rotten, stinking, unholy crotch of a Freudian bitch have to evaluate my sanity? That alone shows you what kind of upside-down society we live in where women and psychologists have more rights than honest people!
When I called Gilardi and Company, which was the claims agent for the National Student Marketing class action lawsuit settlement, I found out that Jaime's brother Don Tollin had sent in a request to divert the $ 135,000 check to the home of Jaime's parents. I knew at that point that things were really getting out of hand, and I could not depend upon the lawyers to resolve the divorce issues with good ARC and ethical on- Source jurisprudence. Therefore, at the request of Peter Letterese, I met privately with Jaime at a park near the public library in the City of Plantation, with Karate Joe ferociously standing in the background for her protection. You'd have to be whacked out of your gourd if you think I was afraid of a stupid old dumb black belt gorilla! As one of Ron's Loyal Officers, I was accustomed to defending myself against evil-purposed bruisers of his ilk throughout the time track. I would be happy to compare his record of valor and bravery with mine any day. During my auditing, I found out that I used to blow up space ships billions of years ago with just my eyes in glare fights. You exteriorize a guy like Karate Joe and take him out of his body, and he wouldn't even be able to kick his way out of a storm cloud.
It was amidst this show of force and ostentatious trepidation that Jaime and I negotiated our divorce settlement, without the high priced shyster squirrel attorneys. I instantly agreed to bequeath her the seventeen-room house, and she granted me permission to keep the beachfront condo and our summer home in North Carolina. She promised not to interfere with the $ 135,000 check if I would use it to pay off her credit card debts and the attorneys' fees. Regrettably, the last thing she cared about was my Bridge. There was no point in trying to convince her of that. I was also permitted to visit the children twice a week. On December 3, 1984, I became a free man. Bonny Mott finally had her upstat. The horrors of living with Jaime Nureyev were finally over. It was big of me, but we were actually able to part as friends.
"You're going to miss me", I said. "I was the steadiest customer you ever had."
"Well, you certainly were the best housekeeper that ever worked for me", she admitted nostalgically.
L. Ron Hubbard once said that "Communication is the universal solvent."68 Thanks to Scientology, after eight years of bickering, we finally learned how to talk to one another. I only wanted the best for Jaime. Had she respected my wishes and died before we came to this profound understanding, I would have been more than happy to scatter her ashes in the beautiful gardens at Flag. She would have looked so natural, spread out amongst the hibiscuses. In Scientology, you see, it's never too late to bring somebody in for auditing.
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