by Steven Fishman
15: Death Of A Sailorsman In A Billion Year Time Warp
I was sipping some freshly squeezed apricot nectar while doing my Solo auditing on the Time Pilot Rundown, when suddenly I realized something so ferocious that I went into shock and spit all over my E-Meter.
After you drop the body and go to the Between Lives Area, there is no guarantee that when you come back to pick up a new body, you will be in the same chronological time frame!
That scared me half to death!
So, if I were to die tomorrow, I might come back in the year 206, or possibly the year 3841. I had no way to know!
How did I find this out?
God, why did you have to ask me a question like that?
In the Time Pilot Rundown, Ron asked me to scan backwards on my time track, from my present lifetime on earlier. I used the E-Meter to verify the truth or falsity of the mental image pictures in my mind.
What actually happened was that the lifetimes were not validated on the E-Meter sequentially or chronologically. It just wasn't making any damn sense. My lifetime as Malchoot when I was born in the year -22 B. C. proved out to be more recent than my lifetime as Mordecai Kusvitz who was born in 1895, by the unwavering reactions of the E-Meter needle.
Now I don't know how brilliant you are, but the year 1895 is supposed to come after the year -22 B. C., correct?
Yet, the E-Meter definitely stated that Malchoot was a more recent lifetime. Not only that, the E-Meter indicated that my spin in the body of Mordecai from 1895 to 1948 happened over eight lifetimes ago on my time track!
I only had two choices. Either I had a broken E-Meter, or I was insane!
Let me tell you something. My E-Meter was regularly calibrated every six months. But just to make sure, I rented a second E-Meter from the Miami Org. There was nothing wrong with either theirs or mine. Both pieces of equipment yielded the identical results.
So you think it's me, right? Fine, be that way. Go ahead, attack my state of mind. Well, I'm not insecure about it, so do whatever you have to do. I have heard all of that garbage before. The psychs have called me a bi-polar schizophrenic paranoid psychotic, but they are thoroughly evil. You'll never hear the average man in the street calling me vile names like that. And in Scientology, the only time that I lost my cool was when I flipped out of my own valence because I was being chased and bombarded by Body Thetans, but don't you see? I'm a conduit for that sort of thing. That has nothing to do with my sanity. I may get emotional from time to time, but admit it: has anyone else had the courage to tell you the truth about life? Hell, no. I have passed every Confessional and Security Check that was ever flung at me. You should only be as down to earth as I am, and I tell you that with all sincerity.
What is sanity anyway?
Let's look at what Ron says about it.
"Sanity is the ability to recognize differences, similarities and identities."75 That is definition number one in Modern Management Technology Defined. I can safely inform you that I know the difference between my ass and a hole in the ground. There isn't any. They are both full of shit.
Lets look at definition two now.
"Sanity consists of producing a valuable final product for which one is then recompensed by support and good will."76
How the devil do you think I earned the rank of Kha-Khan, from being nuts? I may not have been the highest producer of securities class action lawsuits in all of Scientology, but I was by far the most dedicated to putting a stop to the corporate greed of psychiatric suppression. Any two day old infant can tell you that I wouldn't have been able to do all of that if I were out of my mind.
So if my E-Meter wasn't on the fritz, and I was as sharp as a matzoh ball, what gives, Sherlock?
The answer had nothing to do with my machine or my cog wheels. There was a third choice.
Time was crazy.
"Now what the hell does that mean?", you must be wondering. How could "time" be crazy?
That's not so hard to explain. If it's eight o'clock in New York while it's five o'clock in Los Angeles, is that normal? Should we just sit idly by on our fat cans and permit that to happen? Well, what have you done about it lately?
I'll go one round better.
What time is it on the moon right now?
If you look up at a star which is twenty-five thousand light years away, it took the light twenty-five thousand years to get from that star to you. Therefore, you are seeing the place as it was twenty-five thousand years ago. It might not even be there anymore. If they are looking at us right now, they are seeing us in the stone age.
Time is a bunch of horse shit!
I don't have all day to give you a lesson in physics. If you're that interested in it, then either go become a two dollar-an-hour high school science teacher or else use your brains and turn yourself into a practicing Scientologist.
Here is what I learned on the Time Pilot Rundown in a nutshell without getting technical or boring you to death.
When you die, you drop your body and go to the Between Lives Area. There you get implanted with hypnotic suggestions to forget who you were in your past life. After that is done, you return to the physical universe to pick up a new body at the moment of conception of your next set of parents. That's it.
Except for one thing.
When you return to your next body, you do a shift in time as well as in space. There is no guarantee what year you will return to. Your guess is as good as mine. It's a nice, predictable world the psychiatrists made for us, isn't it?
What? You thought God created the universe or something?
God would never create a world wherein every time you have to eat, some plant or animal has to die. God created us as thetans. Some of us were rotten thetans and became psychiatrists. They built this mess we call the physical universe, not God. They also set up the Between Lives Area and then later got trapped by it themselves. It's about time you stopped blaming God for the suppressive acts that were done by the World Federation of Mental Health.
The moral of the story?
Your time track as a thetan has not a blessed thing to do with chronological time of clocks ticking away and day turning into night.
Death is a bitch, isn't it?
You drop your body and you pick up a new one anywhere and anytime from here to eternity.
That is the secret of life, and why the reactive mind is so reactive. I just saved you three hundred thousand dollars in auditing fees right there. Take that money and take a trip around the world with a cute redhead who looks a lot better than Ron's daughter.
Look at the facts, man! Let us say that your current lifetime ends in 1990, and then during the next time around, you are pushing an ox cart for a living in the Ottoman Empire circa the year 1202. Yet, you have dreams about watching Madonna take off her clothes on MTV and then they behead you for trying to express yourself.
It even gets worse than that. Men come back as women, and women sometimes come back as psychologists. Homosexuality is nothing more than the phenomenon of a poor guy who has some unconscious memories of his former lifetime as a woman when he had various pleasure moments that he enjoyed far too much to ever forget about. Do I actually have to teach you the whole Saint Hill Special Briefing Course in this book? No, I'm not doing to do that.
Nevertheless, when I did the auditing on the Time Pilot Rundown, I came to realize that we are in a bigger trap than I ever thought was humanly possible.
Strange things like time overlap can occur, such as one thetan operating two bodies at once, even though they occurred at different points on the thetan's own time track.
Don't get confused.
Just remember that your time track has nothing to do with the chronological time that everyone "thinks" is real. The ticking of clocks is nothing more than complete and utter bullshit which is holding the entire illusion of the physical universe together by a thread.
So what did I do when I finally understood what was really going on?
I wrote the whole thing up as a Knowledge Report and sent it directly to Ron.
You see, there was a very big problem staring at us in the face which I wanted the Commodore to know about.
When a Scientologist joins the Sea Org, he signs up for a billion year contract. That's right, one billion years. Why? Because a Sea Org member vows eternal service as a thetan, not a body.
Just how is one supposed to live up to his billion year contract?
When you pick up your next body after death, you are supposed to rejoin the Sea Org as soon as you cognite on having previously belonged to the group in your last life. You are scheduled to report back. The Motto of the Sea Org is "Revenimus", meaning "We Come Back" in Latin, and is spelled out on the bottom of the Sea Org Coat of Arms.77 If Sea Org Member Mamie Glutz dies for example, and when she returns in a new body, she finds out through auditing that she used to be Mamie Glutz before, she is supposedly welcomed back on her old post by the Sea Org Recruiter. That's how a billion year contract is designed to operate.
Except the Sea Org contract is a fraud.
If Mamie Glutz dies in 1992 and then returns to life in -1066 B.C., how the hell is she going to rejoin the Sea Org? Was there a Sea Org back in -1066 B.C.? Not unless Flag had a retreat in Babylonia that I don't know about. Now it still might be okay for Mamie Glutz if she returns to her next life in the year 5000 A.D. I am pretty sure that if the world is still here, Scientology will have a majority in the House of Representatives by that time. So it is a rather safe bet that the Sea Org will find some kind of hat for Mamie to wear when she reapplies for her post. But after that lifetime, should our friend Mrs. Glutz be put back into the sixteenth century, she'll go bonkers.
Screw-ups in time travel from lifetime to lifetime is the primary cause of insanity anyway. Back in 1950, Ron tried explaining that to various psychiatrists and psychologists, and they all accused him of being crazy! Are you starting to see daylight here?
Like a good scout, I wrote a letter to the Commodore and told him to destroy all my data from the Time Pilot Rundown because it could have the potential negative effect of crashing the entire Sea Org. I felt that it was far better to fool the Sea Org members into believing that they had valid billion year contracts rather than to endanger the very fabric of Scientology itself. After all, it would be the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics to maintain the status quo.
Once we Cleared the planet and sprung everyone out of their bodies, all we would need to do is destroy the physical universe and pass an Ethics Order where time would be rendered illegal. Anyone carrying a watch would have to be castrated or something. No, that wouldn't work, because thetans don't have penises. Well, Ron would know how to deal with it.
"Living without a penis?", I thought to myself in horror.
I wasn't sure how well I would like that.
"Well, in no time Ron would answer my letter and straighten the whole thing out", I concluded.
Two weeks passed, and I didn't hear a peep out of Source. I was starting to get apprehensive. Maybe my cognition had caused Ron to have a nervous breakdown. I didn't want to be responsible for making him go off the deep end on my account. I just wanted to give him the facts, so why the hell didn't he answer me?
In a panic, I packed a lox and cream cheese sandwich without tomatoes or onions in an overnight bag and drove off to Flag.
"Ray Mithoff would tell me what Ron is doing to save the Sea Org from destruction", I assured myself. "He'll just have to destroy my worksheets and withhold the data from the Personnel Recruiter, that's all. But how could Ron, who is the Source of all Ethics on this planet, condone such a horrible withhold? Is it fair for people to join the Sea Org and be promised a billion years worth of job security, only to find out that when they die they were actually shafted? And yet, without the Sea Org, how could we Clear the planet?"
We were damned if we do, and damned if we don't.
I couldn't believe the bomb that Ray Mithoff dropped on my head when I finally got through the red tape to see him.
He didn't know a damn thing about the Time Pilot Rundown at all! Ron had never informed him that he sent me the paper work, and he didn't have the vaguest idea of what data the Time Pilot Rundown contained!
So do you know what I did?
I explained it all to Ray, telling him that the time shifts which occur during the Between Lives Area could not possibly guarantee a predictable return along a chronological time stream.
He thought I was nuts!
"Look, I know it sounds bizarre", I apologized, "but unless we do something about it, the Sea Org will crash as soon as Scientologists start dying!"
"It sounds to me as if you have been squirreling", he replied with a thud of ominousness.
"Squirreling my ass!", I screamed. "If you don't believe me, just check my time track on your E-Meter. No, on second thought, check your own time track. You'll have the same screwy results as I did, because this is not just my problem--- it's everybody's problem!"
"Check it for what?", Ray asked.
"For sequence!", I blared.
"That is not Scientology", he argued. "There is no check for time track sequences anywhere in the Tech."
"No, not in anything you've seen, maybe. But that is exactly what I have been running on the Time Pilot Rundown", I protested.
"You know it against Policy for me to go into agreement with your squirreling when there is no Source Data to back it up. Where are your worksheets?"
"Ron ordered me to send everything back to him!", I cried. "It was a confidential level. I was dying to keep a copy of it for myself, but I was too terrified of having an overt or a withhold against Ron. My God, copying and retaining confidential materials without permission would show up in any Security Check I was given and really get me in trouble. When I was in the Guardian's Office, I used to hunt down SPs who did things like that."
"You know I just can't take your word for it", he shrugged.
"So now what are we going to do?", I cried.
"We aren't going to do anything. You, on the other hand, need a False Data Stripping to get these squirrel ideas out of your mind, and I also want you to be Security Checked. I knew it was a mistake to approve your eligibility for the Pilot Rundowns in the first place."
"Mistake?", I screeched. "You were the one pushing for it!"
"Are you kidding?", he scoffed. "You haven't even attested to the State of Clear yet. You're in no shape case-wise to audit a Pilot Rundown of any kind. Those are for Scientologists on the highest levels of Operating Thetan, at least at OT Five. With all of your overts from fathering Christ, and with all your years of brainwashing by that animal Dr. Geertz, it is no wonder that you started to spin, making up all kinds of false data about a Pilot Rundown which never ever existed."
"How can you invalidate me like that, Ray?", I demanded. "I really did audit the Time Pilot Rundown! I would never make up something like that. I'm not worried about myself. I can handle coming back to life during the era of Nero or Torquemada. It's the Sea Org that I am concerned with."
"We're going to do just fine without your negative postulates, thank you", he miffed. "Your responsibility is to get your income produced and to go up the Bridge quickly so that these wild ideas that you have dreamed up will not have any command value over you. But let me warn you, I am not about to tolerate any references to non-Standard Tech. Squirreling will do nothing for you but get you thrown out of Scientology."
"Damn it Ray, you stupid son of a bitch!", I agonized. "You are all the way up at the top of the Bridge, and you don't have any answers for me! Can't you see that the Sea Org contract is a fake? It's a ripoff and not worth the paper it's printed on if you can't assure the staff that they can pick up their posts in the next lifetime where they have left off in their present one."
"You are psychotic, aren't you?", he gasped.
Ray got real pissed off and sent me to Alain Kartuzinski, the Case Supervisor of the Flag Land Base. Alain ran a Joburg Security Check on me, and much to the dismay of Inspector General Mithoff, the results did not show any evidence of evil purposes. On the contrary, the E-Meter registered that I was telling the truth. His conclusion was that I had been subjected to some vast, overwhelming false data and that I had mistakenly believed it. At least passing the Security Check spared me from an Ethics Review and a Committee of Evidence for the criminal charges of advocating off-beat squirrel practices.
Nevertheless, I was brought before the International Justice Chief by two unarmed Messengers. Paul Laquerre was very incensed when he read Ray Mithoff's grim Situation Report.
"I knew you were trouble", Paul hissed as he stabbed his right ear with his pinky, trying to get the wax out.
"I have a problem with the same ear ever since Christ's bodyguard cut it off with a knife", I sympathized. "Every time I hear the song "Three Blind Mice" I have a horrible somatic in my Eustachian tube---"
"Shut up!", he howled. "I don't want to hear any of your stupidity. You need more responsibilities within Scientology Organizations. Then perhaps you wouldn't have time to get in touch with suppressives like David Mayo."
"What do I have to do with David Mayo?", I stated with an onslaught of renewed exasperation.
"You know all about it! David Mayo has been trying to crash the Sea Org for years, ever since we threw him out!", Paul revealed in a frenzy. "I've heard this crazy talk on time sequences before, and it came from him, that's who! I know all about his squirrel group called Diantology or Scienetics. We're shutting those SPs down! They have infringed upon the Commodore's trademarks and because of that they are in a lot of hot water in the wog courts. He sends in spies to steal names from our Central Files all the time. Is he related to your girlfriend, Lida Mayo? Is that how he made contact with you?"
"I've never met David Mayo in my whole life!", I stated in my own defense. "Lida Mayo was my ex-girlfriend and her last name was just a coincidence! Put me on an E-Meter if you don't believe me. Anyway, Ron is going to set you all straight when he answers my letter. You, Ray and Alain will have egg all over your face when the Commodore comes to my rescue."
"I've got something more important to talk to you about then your dubbed-in delusions", he squawked. "Lavenda is acting up again. An Investigator from the Office of Special Affairs sent me a telex indicating that she has been getting in touch with various attorneys in the Sarasota area in order to start up her lawsuit one more time. Fortunately, one of these lawyers happened to be a Scientologist on the Flag Executive Briefing Course, and he reported the incident to Lyman Spurlock. You were supposed to follow up on Lavenda, you know. Instead, you're running around enturbulating Ray Mithoff and everybody else, dramatizing all kinds of psychotic suppression. Your imaginary correspondence course auditing has David Mayo written all over it. How much did you pay him? You are just damn lucky that the Security Check didn't conclusively prove to me that you were stirring up all of these lies about the Sea Org deliberately. Maybe if you took a few moments out from your heavy schedule of squirreling to handle our enemies, you wouldn't turn out to be one yourself."
"Can we agree at least not to disagree on the Time Pilot Rundown until all the facts are in?", I asked, trying to spread a little ARC.
"That is all I've been trying to tell you for the last ten minutes!", he stammered.
We shook hands, and I promised never to bring up the Time Pilot Rundown again to anyone, under the most severe penalty of Ethics. As fair exchange, Paul gave me his word that none of my "squirreling" would appear in either my Case Progress File or my Ethics Folder. We had reached an understanding. It was not to my satisfaction, but it was only temporary until Ron would come forward and make it all go right like he always did.
Since Lavenda had relocated in the Sarasota area, Paul Laquerre did not find it productive for me to work with Bev Flahan, the Director of Special Affairs of Miami. This was old Guardian's Office business anyhow, and Paul suggested that I team up once more with Bonny Mott.
"This is right up your alley!", Paul grinned. "Bonny has infiltrated a squirrel group called "Eckankar", which studies "soul travel" and other "new age" garbage in the hope of getting our hands on their central files mailing list so we can bring all of their raw meat into Scientology. Our success ratio is very high among groups that already have a solid understanding of past lives and the time track. In any case, Bonny invited Lavenda to one of their events, and the two of them have become friends. Bonny is passing herself off as an ex-Scientologist just like you did, in order to gain her confidence as an ally."
"If Bonny is handling Lavenda, so then what do you need me for?", I pondered.
"Bonny hasn't been able to get any information out of her so far, and we know she is about to make another legal move against us", he outlined. "I need you to find out which lawyer she is using, and how she intends to pay for it since she only has two hundred dollars in the bank."
"Perhaps an out-ethics attorney would take her case on a contingency fee", I ventured.
"Not after four years he wouldn't, and especially with our gag order on Michael Flynn", he stated.
"What's a gag order?", I asked. "Did somebody finally stuff a dirty grey dish towel down his throat?"
"No, he is not allowed to talk about us anymore or divulge any information about Scientology to other SPs."
"How did we ever manage that?", I asked.
"Well, unlike you, man is basically good", he rhetoricized. "There is still some justice in the world after all."
"But there is something you ought to know", I added. The last time that I spoke to Lavenda was right after my divorce, when I told her that I was not ready for another serious involvement."
"Fine!", Paul lashed out. "Guess what? You're ready now."
Lavenda was thrilled to death that I invited her to spend a few days with me at my apartment on Fort Lauderdale Beach. She loved the romantic poem and lavender flowers that I sent her "to match her heart and her beingness." Part of the poem I wrote for her was plagiarized from L. Ron Hubbard's Hymn Of Asia, but she was too dumb to know.
Why did I go to so much trouble to win over Lavenda's affection?
Actually, I had not been able to find a reasonably priced whore lately to be my steady girlfriend, and I decided that now might be a good time to seduce her for the hell of it. Suppressive or not, I still had to get laid.
Four years of hard wog life did not bide well with the now very middle aged Ms. Van Schaick. She had gained over thirty pounds, and was quite flabby, chock full of midriff bulge and marred with stretch marks from one too many chocolate eclairs. Nevertheless, in the dark, how much difference could it possibly make? There was no doubt about it. Lavenda had fattened herself up for the kill, and was now ripe to be plucked.
As a lapsed Operating Thetan, she still possessed that old black magic that she wore so well. As we walked barefoot along the beach in back of my condominium by the ocean at the strike of midnight, she stopped to continue the lesson she started four years ago. According to her, I had once again forgotten how to kiss.
What did she expect? I had gotten out of the habit of kissing prostitutes on the mouth, because most of them had more seminal residue packed under the gums than the average cow has cud.
Nevertheless, I couldn't help but wonder what the hell I was doing on the beach kissing this overstuffed failed thetan.
While swooning in the twilight's dampness, Lavenda dramatically announced that she would make it rain by postulate, and the storm cloud which we were standing beneath opened up as if all the angels simultaneously decided to take a piss in unison. It was then that I realized how dangerous Ron's Tech can be in the hands of a deadly SP.
As if we were acting out a maudlin scene from a trashy dime store novel, we embraced under the moonlit stars as frozen steam from lipstick-laden clouds crashed passionately against the drenched saliva of the nocturnal salt water air. I drank deep of the spit, slush and slime all around me, until I became distracted enough to observe how big Lavenda's tits had become after having gained thirty pounds. The rain water had betrayed her, turning her thin blouse into an unwitting exhibitionist.
"Bigger breasts are always the one positive factor when a woman lets herself go and gets fat", I thought to myself as I licked one of her unfilled cavities with my tongue in unexpressed disgust. Foreplay was always such a complete waste of my time. Only women are insecure and sick enough to actually like it. It was very hard to overlook the fact that my date for the night was thetanly unacceptable, having come from the wrong side of the Tech.
Despite our differences, as we made love during Lavenda's rainstorm, this became the one night in my life where sex was actually both romantic and beautiful. I exteriorized during the orgasm, and I shot up to the Between Lives Area so that God could feel my body's pleasure too. I wanted some good to come out of this most unholy union.
On the following night, I introduced Lavenda to Steve Goldberg. We sat around his swimming pool overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway while he told her how much he would like to lick the bottom of her feet if they were dirty enough. Lavenda couldn't believe that he was really serious. All she wanted to talk about is how abandoned children at Flag are fed poison pellets by the Estates Section Nursery Nanny In Charge because she no longer wanted to take care of them. If there were ever a time that I felt like strangling two people to death for talking stupidly, this was it.
Neither Steve nor Lavenda were very impressed with one another. She thought that he was a sloppy, masochistic pervert, and he got the distinct impression that she was a tense, uptight bitch who was obsessed with her private war against Scientology. I warned him in advance not to dare tell her that I was "still remotely interested" in the subject. It was so strange to see Lavenda argue with Goldberg about the Tech. He accused Scientology of being a "cult", and Lavenda pounced on him like a wounded jackal. She spent two hours defending the religious tenets of Scientology while she vehemently attacked the Guardian's Office. Steve Goldberg was laughing under his breath since he knew I had been a G. O. Agent.
"You remind me of Hitler with a Jewish mistress", he said while she went to the ladies' room to urinate. "But as long as you can get her to fuck you for nothing, you ought to marry the girl."
"I don't hate my body that badly to put it through that much torture", I sneered insincerely.
On the way home, Lavenda kept on asking me how I could have ever been friends with such a lowlife wog such as Goldberg.
"Hey, we are both considered lowlife wogs now", I reminded her.
"Not that low and never that woggy", she argued.
On the following day, while Lavenda took some time out from our ungratifying romance to do some shopping at the Galleria Mall on East Sunrise Boulevard, I ran down to the Miami Org and wrote up a Knowledge Report on her. She finally admitted to me that her attorney was a friend of ex-Mayor Cazares of Clearwater, who had been on the Guardians' Enemy List for many years. Lavenda was planning to sell her 1979 Black Cadillac Eldorado to pay the lawyer a retainer of five thousand dollars to renew her civil case against the Church. She also told me that her insurance company wanted fourteen hundred dollars to continue her automobile coverage because of her poor record of accidents and traffic violations, and that she decided to sell the car instead of paying for another year of high-priced insurance, especially since her mother permitted Lavenda to use her own car whenever she wanted to do so, now that she was too old to drive.
It always amazed me how much confidential information you can learn while you sleep with somebody. I gave my completed Knowledge Report to Leona Littler, the Flag Banking Officer of Miami, who Federal Expressed it to Paul Laquerre at Flag, advising him that I would await any further instructions. I also called Bonny on Longboat Key and read her my glowing Success Story.
Lavenda went back to Sarasota, never knowing that I had betrayed her once again.
It was high time that I continued with my auditing. I was very close to attesting to the State of Clear, and Nancy Witkowski called me in to pick up where we left off.
I explained to her that I had been Free Wheeling within violent nightmares in which my sense of time was markedly distorted.
While exteriorizing in a light state of reverie, I did a drill which was supposed to increase my theta perceptions and at the same time handle the bad dreams.
"Recall the future and tell me what you see", was her command.
It was the most horrid and shocking mental image picture I had ever seen. I watched the world get blown up in a nuclear holocaust at 2:42 P.M. of the 9th of September 1997. Bodies were instantly turned into white molten ash, hotter than the temperature on the Planet Mercury. Thetans were splattered out of their heads in a grotesque chain reaction which was spewn with blood, guts, and randomity. I was knee deep inside the bowels of the future, recalling death rolling along as if it happened yesterday. In less than twelve years, the world was going to be destroyed.
"Who is responsible for such a ghastly thing?", I asked Nancy in writhing terror.
She directed me to go further and further into the trance of reverie, while at the same time maintaining full awareness of my unconsciousness.
I finally figured out who was planning on killing us all.
It was my bastard son, Jesus Christ!
He was back in action, operating a body in the twentieth century, planning to wreak havoc and destruction on the whole planet, the way he had done previously on Marcab, Ixolia, Otai Keola, Arslycus, Avodelegadra and Montaluxa.
But just who was he in his current lifetime?
Nancy Witkowski did not know.
The uncertainty was just about enough to drive me completely crazy, and between the anguish of being awake and the horrendous haunts of my dreams, I felt as if I were slowly losing my balance. My reactive mind was having itself a field day. Even my scrotum began to get goose bumps all over it, which never happened to me before.
To get even with Jesus Christ, I started sending junk mail to the ministers and priests of various local Fort Lauderdale churches. I tried my best not to discriminate, and to always distribute the business reply card requests fairly amongst the Baptists, Catholics, Episcopalians, Lutherans, Methodists, Pentecostals and Presbyterians. If I left any minority Churches out, I am truly sorry.
Damn it, I forgot all about the Jehovah's Witnesses.
My lucky break came during the monthly Office of Special Affairs briefing at the Miami Org.
Beverly Flahan told us that there was an evil cancer of a suppressive looming in the wings named Larry Wollersheim, who had started a vicious lawsuit against the Church in which as high as forty million dollars was at stake. Wollersheim was a treasonous Freeloader from the Sea Org, who had the unmitigated gall to accuse the Church of driving him insane. Whoever was degraded enough to drop out of the Sea Org had to be psychotic in the first place.
Any idiot knows that Scientology makes the able more able, and does not accept people for processing who have a history of mental illness. We carefully document and often modify our Success Stories in order to prove how much better a preclear gets after processing, in case lunatics like this evil Wollersheim try to twist the whole thing around for their own selfish personal gain.
In the old days of the Guardian's Office, they wouldn't have had to ask for volunteers to put a bastard like Dirty Larry out of his misery. I would have offered up my services to vanquish him in less time than it takes an assembly line prostitute to ask for the money. Even now with assholes running the Office of Special Affairs who were more concerned with their "Public Relations Officer" image than they were about putting a lethal enemy out of business, I still wanted to help out in destroying Wollersheim.
The connection didn't hit home until Bev Flahan showed me his picture. Wow, did I go into shock. He had the exact same face as Jesus Christ did when he was my ingrate son! I burst into Nancy's office, and under profuse duress, I finally got her to admit the truth which I instantaneously suspected she was holding back from me all along.
Larry Wollersheim was the current life cycle of Christ who had come back to haunt us in his putrefied, blemish-bedecked body, in order to put a dent into Scientology by bankrupting us in the courts, and to use that ill-gotten money to fund a project which would destroy the world in a nuclear holocaust. Nothing was ever clearer to me than anything else in my life. My mission should I decide to accept it was to stop Larry Wollersheim while we still had a chance before we were all literally sweating our balls off in a pool of Uranium 235.
"Even if an ordinary Scientologist fails, a Kha-Khan never would!", I promised Beverly as I pledged my help for the newly-formed Miami Chapter of the Battle of Los Angeles Religious Freedom Crusade.
"Together, we would beat the shit out of my bandy-legged son this time", I swore to Nancy. I cognited that we could never possibly have true religious freedom in the world until every last follower of Jesus Wollersheim and all of his demented psychs were dead and buried.
In my pledge of help to the Church, I wrote that "The greatest contribution which the ancient Romans gave to civilization was in feeding the Christians to the lions. However, now that we have Scientology, I vow to feed every last Christian a lion's share of Source Data, and to win a Crusade of Religious Freedom from Christ for every last thetan."
I finally had the opportunity to save the world before I was even eligible to set man free.
"Imagine if I were really able to do both!", I thought gloriously.
I still couldn't get the Time Pilot Rundown out of my mind. I kept on having violent dreams of being catapulted into the dinosaur age after the death of my current body, and thereupon having the unfortunate consequence of not knowing how to get into good ARC with a hungry Icthyosaurus.
In a fit of consternation I sent a telex to Diana Hubbard, asking her "Why hasn't Ron answered my letter yet?"
To this day, she has never replied.
On the positive side of life, the Texas Instruments class action lawsuit which I had filed under the name of Harriet Lynch was paid in the amount of sixty thousand dollars. Once again I had money for my Bridge. I made an advanced payment for the Saint Hill Special Briefing Course in Los Angeles, although I could not go out there right away, since I had not yet finished my prerequisite auditor training in Miami.
In the meantime, I was studying the Hubbard Class Five Graduate Auditor Course, which I loved even more than I enjoyed the strippers at the Naughty Mouse Lounge on State Road 84. Some of the OT phenomena that I was able to audit on others were "omitted space, missing scenes, twisted ideas, delusions, hallucinations, false beings, unbelievable events, and contrary facts."78
There is a great deal of power to being an auditor. Unlike psychiatry, you can get away with playing God a lot more effectively, because you have Standard Tech behind you to back you up.
For example, I was auditing a cute girl named Nicole Furlin, who was on staff at the Miami Org as the International Association of Scientologists Membership Secretary In Charge. I had a fetish for her at one point because she had very attractive elbows, but Nicole liked gay men such as Ray Jourdain. This infuriated me, and as her auditor, I was able to get even. During an intense session while I was running the incident of a past life abortion on her, I caved her in real good, sticking her in the middle of vicious mental image pictures and unflattened incidents from the Between Lives Area.
"That will teach her to pay attention to other men!", I plotted with a barrage of sour grapes.
Just don't tell anybody that I did that to her, okay? It's actually a violation of the Auditor's Code. But what the hell, I had feelings too, and if my preclear didn't have sense enough to realize that I couldn't stand to be ignored, then she can just go audit herself.
After the New Year's Event of 1986, Peter Letterese asked me to come over and visit with him at the Mission.
"I want us to repair our ARC Break", he said in friendship.
"Why, how much money do you need?", I wondered.
Peter did not make any attempt to hide his intentions. Beyond all of the pretense, we were able to read each other like a weather-beaten book.
"I saw that you got in the Texas Instruments check", he beamed. "I need your help to make our Mission into a Celebrity Center once and for all."
"It wasn't our mission when you threw Nancy Witkowski out of here", I rebuffed. "It is very hard for me to forgive you for that."
"I actually helped her career", he laughed. "She's doing very well at the Org."
"Unfortunately Peter, I am playing bigger games now than simply trying to glorify the Fort Lauderdale Mission. As you know, since I renewed my five year staff contract this past November, I am on International lines, not on Mission lines", I explained.
"Well, we still log your claims in the book for you", he argued.
"Yes, for which you receive a twelve and a half percent commission on all my auditing, training, and products. To me, that seems very fair."
"It used to be worth a lot more than that for us when you were doing everything here", he sighed.
"Okay, fine!", I groaned. "You deliver the Saint Hill Special Briefing Course right here at the Mission, and I won't have to go all the way to Los Angeles to do it."
"So what you are saying is that you've outgrown us!", he stated self-servingly, trying to make me feel very guilty.
"Damn it, Peter!", I caroused. "You've seen my Battle Plan! I have a responsibility to Clear half of this planet alone! I don't have the time to worry about your pipe-dream Celebrity Center. If John Travolta or Priscilla Presley ever comes to Fort Lauderdale, neither one of them are going to stay here. Do you think either of them would want to share a cot in the warehouse with Michael Hambrick and his smelly unwashed T-shirts?"
"So you're not going to donate any money, is that it?", he snipped combatively.
"I have every intention of buying my two hundred and fifty thousand dollar L. Ron Hubbard Library through this Mission", I promised. "But as far as throwing the money up into the air, I'll tell you right now that you can have every cent that sticks to the ceiling. I am following my Battle Plan, pure and simple. And one other thing, Peter. I am only buying my products through the Mission because of our many years of friendship, and because I am deeply indebted to you for teaching me everything I know. It would be just as easy to make the purchases through the Org and cut you out of your percentage. However, I am an ethical being and I won't do that, unless you make life impossible for me with your high pressure flea market tactics. You have already cut off your nose to spite your face by chasing my auditor away. I don't know how much cash revenue you lost by upsetting Nancy. With the fight to the death we are in with the SPs, I don't have any patience to argue with you over petty squabbles."
"What happened to the old Steven I used to know and love?", he said with a tearful-eyed tinge of nostalgia.
"What happened to me? It's called purpose. It's a thing known as responsibility. It's being at cause over life!", I lambasted.
Peter offered me his hand.
"Let's still be friends", he whispered simperingly.
"Why not?", I shrugged. "Twelve and a half percent of my blood money is better than nothing, right?"
Bonny Mott was on the other end of the telephone, as furious as a diabetic ant in the sugar bowl.
"Have you lost your mind?", she shrieked.
"Not yet, but I feel I'm real close", I fluffed giddily.
"What is wrong with you? You went to the trouble of bringing Lavenda to Fort Lauderdale. You got her to confess about her plans to re-establish the lawsuit, and then in typical Fishman fashion, you dropped the whole thing like a hot potato. Is that how I taught you to handle suppression? Didn't you learn the hard way with Jaime that the minute you become complacent, all your stats start to crash and your ability to confront life goes right down the toilet?"
"Bonny, I was following orders!", I explained. "I sent Paul Laquerre my Knowledge Report, and I was awaiting his further instructions."
"That's right. You called me to read your dinky Success Story full of hooey, but you didn't think enough of me to send me a copy of the Knowledge Report to my address, did you? What's the matter? Can't you afford a twenty-two cent stamp? Paul Laquerre is wearing fifty thousand hats, and has no time to put together an Action Program to stop Lavenda. You conveniently bypassed the Director of Special Affairs at Flag so that he was completely paralyzed to do anything meaningful, and so nothing got done! Now my Senior at the Commodore's Messenger Org is asking me for the data on how Lavenda was handled, and I didn't know what in the goddamn hell to say to her! Once again you have run a failed communication line from here to stinking high heaven!", she caterwauled.
"Do you think I like spending time with that chunky slut?", I moaned, trying to cope.
"You don't have to waste another minute with her. Just follow my orders! Lavenda just moved from Sarasota to Tampa. Her new address is 10301 Pennytree Place. I want you to go there and blow up her car!", she commanded insightfully.
"What did you say?"
"What, are you deaf now?", she mocked.
"I don't know anything about explosives", I pleaded. "Can't you do it instead?"
"Do you have any idea what I'm working on right now?", she steamed.
"No, but I think I'm about to find out", I quivered.
"David Miscavige has been negotiating for the purchase of Ron's new ship, an ocean liner called "La Boheme". There are several SPs from a drug cartel who are pushing to buy the vessel for a much higher price. I'm working undercover as a housekeeper for one of these wogs named Bud Fields, a boat broker who is representing competitive buyers who are trying to interfere with the sale. I don't have time to rock the boat right now. We are this close to winning the battle, and I don't have to tell you how important this Flag Ship is for the delivery of New OT Eight. I have to be here twenty-four hours a day observing and gathering data for David. The least you can do is step on a termite like Lavenda before she bites us again", she said.
"Bonny, I understand how very important what you are doing is for the Third Dynamic", I conceded. "But I don't know anything about blowing up cars!"
"That's a load of nonsense", she screeched. "When you were eleven years old, didn't you set the auditorium of your summer camp all ablaze? And what about that squirrel Church you burned down this past March?" "I threw mothballs in the fireplace of the auditorium of Camp Wigwam", I clarified. "That has nothing to do with explosives."
"Who said anything about explosives?", she repeated. "What you need is a can of gasoline, a dirty grey Liability rag and some matches, that's all."
"And then what?", I questioned perplexedly.
"You soak the rag in the gasoline, shove it into the gas tank, and then light the match", she illuminated. "Don't you know anything? Oh, wait; I forgot. Tear the rag in half and do the same thing inside the muffler. Look, the whole job takes thirty seconds. Her car isn't insured. She'll be wiped out and there will be no money for her to give the squirrel attorney."
"But what if I burn myself?", I feared.
"I don't care how you start the fire. If you have to, just pay some teenage punk to do it like you did when you burned down the Church", she suggested.
"Oh, you've got the facts all wrong. Mark and Mary found Gene Gates for me. He's the one who set the fire to the "animal house." I don't even know if he's still alive", I advised kindheartedly.
"It doesn't matter who does the job!", she cackled. "Why don't you be a good eagle scout and rub two sticks together? Just remember that the stat has to be done within forty-eight hours. I would get off the phone and make plans to leave for Tampa right now if I were you."
Finding a crack cocaine addict to detonate Lavenda's car was easy. You have no idea how desperate the street wogs are for money. I felt it was slightly unfair for me to have to pay the one hundred dollars in "torch fees" out of my own pocket. Notwithstanding, I felt very sorry for this black fifteen year old boy named "Mother" who was living hand to mouth for his next "rock."
I know you must think that I am a complete coward for not being able to confront setting the car on fire myself. I had no objection to handling an old flame, since lighting fires often helped me to become more sexually aroused. After all, it was only a car, and I've made love in the back seat of lots of them. I would never dream of causing bodily harm to a thetan. Preventing Lavenda from resuming her lawsuit against the Church of Scientology was by far the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics. I just couldn't face the danger of getting burned in the deal. Now, don't get the wrong idea. I used to love fire drills in elementary school. I wasn't thinking of the risk of pain and suffering to my body either. On the contrary, I was unable to take a chance of damaging the one person who could Clear half the planet, which was me. If the gasoline backfired in an explosion and killed someone, the world would miss a hopped-up, knife- wielding drug addict a hell of a lot less than it could afford to lose Malchoot the Antichrist. Fortunately, I didn't have to make that choice. Lavenda's Eldorado went up in smoke without incident. The most frightening part of the evening was in keeping my promise to "Mother" and driving him through Tampa's "crack town" so that he could spend the one hundred dollar bill on ten cocaine "rocks." I was afraid of getting lost in that kind of a neighborhood. Apparently I still had some unflattened after-shocks from the old MacDuffie race riots of 1980 that still needed to be audited out.
Although I promised to wait for him while he was making the "buy", I went into a lower Ethics Condition with him and sped off, leaving the poor lad in the lurch to fend for himself. I once heard on TV that it was against the law to drive around with anyone who was transporting drugs. The last thing I wanted to do was to commit a wog crime while I was engaged in a battle to the death in fighting suppression. I never even had the opportunity to even talk to the misguided adolescent about getting some solid help at Narconon for his addiction, or about doing the Purification Rundown. He had no idea how lucky he was, living in such close proximity to Flag, and yet he failed to take advantage of that golden opportunity. With it all, I hope that "Mother" can find it in his heart to forgive me for stranding him in what I perceived to be the middle of nowhere. He was such a nice boy. I fervently pray that he got home safely without me.
It was quite a relief to inform Bonny that Lavenda had once again been taken care of, this time for good.
At eleven o'clock in the morning on Monday, January 27, 1986, I was summoned by Bob Levy, the Executive Director of Miami, to the Academy Courseroom at the Org. I had no idea why he needed to see me, or why he had instructed me to be there precisely at two o'clock in the afternoon.
When I arrived, there was a silent and solemn mystery unraveling. All of the staff members were huddled together and buzzing around, awaiting a broadcast from David Miscavige who was supposed to announce some news from the Hollywood Palladium. Why the devil did he want to talk to us on a Monday afternoon? It was eerie. We were all hoping that it was the breakthrough we had been waiting for--- that the new Flag Ship had been purchased and that New OT Eight was about to be delivered. Yet, there was something wrong. The usual enthusiasm amongst the upper Org executives was curiously missing. The tone level of the Org was at an all time low, somewhere between fear and numbness. Somehow it didn't look like good news. Everyone settled down, waiting for the televised message in silence. From where I was sitting, I could see Bob Levy trembling, his left arm wavering in an automatic motion that indicated without any doubt that he was visibly shaken.
On the projected TV screen, David Miscavige stepped up on a platform that finally made him look as tall as any other human being.
As he approached the microphone, a dead hush fell over the audience.
"Fellow Sea Org Members, Org Staff, and Scientology public; I am here before you today to announce that Ron has moved forward to his next level of research. It is a level reaching beyond the imagination, and in a state exterior to the body. Thus, at 2000 hours, on Friday, the 24th of January, 1986, L. Ron Hubbard discarded the body he had used in this lifetime for seventy-four years, ten months, and eleven days. The body he had used to facilitate his existence in this universe had ceased to be useful, and in fact had become an impediment to the work he now must do outside its confines. The being we knew as L. Ron Hubbard still exists, and is still with us. Although you may feel grief, understand that he did not, and does not now. He has simply moved on to his next step on the Bridge. L. Ron Hubbard in fact used this lifetime and body we knew to accomplish what no man has ever accomplished. He unlocked the mysteries of life and gave us the tools so we could free ourselves and our fellow men.
As many of you know, eight days ago, in Flag Order 3879, captioned "The Sea Org and the Future", Ron ascended to the rank of Admiral, to fill the vacant post of Commander-In-Chief, putting the Sea Org into the future where he awaits us at the top of the Bridge.79
When L. Ron Hubbard left us in 1980 to do his researches, he took with him his two most trusted friends and companions. These two people were Pat and Annie Broeker. They lived with him for the last six years during the entire period of this research."
I was in shock. My stomach felt like it was falling at zero gravity from the roof of the World Trade Center. I knew why Ron had dropped his body, and it was my fault!
"Why didn't I do more to save him?", I wept bitterly.
Barbara Koster, the Bookstore Officer of Fort Lauderdale, was seated next to me, and she saw that I was taking the news very badly. Others in the Academy were crying unhappily too, but I was the only one who was totally out of control. I cognited that the overwhelming complexity over the Time Pilot Rundown had killed poor Ron, and I alone was to blame for not realizing what a devastating impact my auditing results had made upon him.
My body was in such a state of agony that I couldn't stand to stay inside myself for one more minute. I exteriorized and watched the rest of the speech from the ceiling, sadly looking down in the dumps.
Pat Broeker was the next dignitary to venture forth.
"As Commander Miscavige mentioned, it was my profound honor to serve under the Admiral these last six years and before that in the Sea Org. And there has been no greater honor, and there is no greater honor then to serve him. Those of you in the Sea Org know exactly what I am talking about.
Specifically, because I was close to Ron these last six years, there are some very important subjects I wish to discuss with you very briefly.
First, I want to reiterate that it was absolutely Ron's causative decision to discard his body. About the summer of 1984, Ron told me that he would not be able to continue supporting the mock up while at the same time research well into the upper regions of OT. He knew that he would soon come to a point where he would have to move on from where he was, through phenomena that required him to be free from encumbrances.
On January the 19th, he stated that this was it, and then he handled in session all things that were necessary so that he could completely sever all ties, all ties, which, by the way, was research in itself. We now know what those ties were, because he wrote it all up.
Secondly, after making generous provisions for his wife and certain of his children, he has left the balance of this estate, which is substantial, to the Church of Scientology. It is Ron's wish and postulate that we Clear this planet now, and he has given us this gift in order to get the job done.
There is only one Source. Source does not pass to Management. Source is Ron, the only one! The Power of Source is the Route to Total Freedom, and Ron has asked only three things of you to keep the show on the road; That you follow Standard Tech, that you adhere to Standard Policy, and that you expand through Standard Ethics."
Driving home from the Org, a chill of ice came over me. Now I would never know the truth about the Time Pilot Rundown. Logically, I knew there could only be two alternatives which would explain why the Commodore, oops, the Admiral did what he did.
Either Ron dropped his body in order to to move through the upper bands of Operating Thetan in order to solve the puzzle of Time, or the unthinkable had happened. Time had caved Ron in. I believed Pat Broeker when he said that Ron's decision to drop his body was his own. But did he abandon his current lifetime because he needed to solve the riddle somewhere in another universe, or did he just throw in the sponge and give up the ghost? It just had to be the first choice. I never knew Ron to be a quitter. Then again, I never knew Ron at all. The closest I ever came to knowing him was at the other end of an unanswered auditing folder.
On the following night, Tuesday, January the 28th, Peter Letterese prepared a taped eulogy and biographical release on L. Ron Hubbard for his radio program on WEXY Y-15 Gospel Radio, entitled "Scientology Works", and delivered a funeral service that Ron had written for himself in advance. I volunteered to deliver the master tape "hot off the press" to my friend Doug DeVos, the radio announcer at the station. After the broadcast, I ran home in order to duplicate the tape before returning it to Peter, and to this day, it is one of my most treasured possessions.
"Goodbye, Ron", Peter said. "Your people thank you for having lived. Earth is better for your having lived. Men, women and children are alive today because you lived. We thank you for coming to us. We do not contest your right to go away. Your debts are paid. This chapter of your life is shut. Go now, dear Ron, and live once more in happier time and place. Thank you, Ron. And now here lift up your eyes and say to Ron "Goodbye." Goodbye, our dear Ron, Goodbye."80
I suppose vanity comes with being an Admiral.
If you think of it later on, please remind me to write my own funeral service too, between now and the time that I drop dead. No, on second thought, just scribble the following note on my waterproof Hefty trash bag before you throw me out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean:
"Just like his E-Meter needle, here floats the fucking bum whose flubbed-up worksheets caused Ron to pack it all in. May he do better as shark shit than he did as an auditor."Yeah, that will do nicely.
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