Lonesome Squirrel

by Steven Fishman

16: History Can Always Be Re-Written

You don't need a library card in order to sink your jaws into Ron's Tech. All you need is a credit card.

I had always been obsessed with collecting things. As a child, I treasured my photo collection of headstones from the Jewish cemetery. No one else I knew ever had one. This sort of passed away when my Instamatic camera broke and I started accumulating junk mail. I wanted to have the largest collection of corporate advertising in the world, so that one day an extraterrestrial visitor from outer space would acquire that in exchange for a special ability or talent such as causing women's clothes to disappear. I always had a much deeper insight into potentials of reality than the average kid on my block did.

If I had only known about L. Ron Hubbard in those days, I would have left home at the age of fourteen to be his personal galley slave like my idol David Miscavige. I would have given anything to be in David's shoes, except I wore a much bigger size.

So when I found the luscious bounties of the L. Ron Hubbard Library, I felt as if I had been administered a lifetime vaccination of thetan Nirvana in my lower left cheek. It was ecstasy. I became a Tech junkie, and it was just sheer heaven having the Scientology monkey on my back. Some of the one night stands who I brought home couldn't fathom why I wanted to listen to Ron's Phoenix Lectures while I humped them. Maybe I was trying to disseminate in more ways than one. My Bookstore Officer, Barbara Koster, did not consider me a hard sell. Anything written by Ron gave me the rush of my next fix. I was high on Hubbard.

But in April of 1986, I was in between paid claims. The thirty-five thousand dollar Spectra Physics settlement which Steve Goldberg had signed was due to be received any day, but I wanted the Tech right away and I couldn't wait that long!

I had a major problem. My credit was no good. During the divorce, my sleazebag psychopath of an attorney named Keith Krasnove told me not to make any payments on my credit cards. Eight months later, my credit was ruined.

I had one lousy Visa card from the North Carolina National Bank with a limit of five hundred dollars on it. Do you think something as trivial as that would stop Peter Letterese from selling me a product? Hell, no! He ordered me to sign sixty-three charge slips for fifty dollars each, so that he wouldn't have to call in the charges to the authorization center for an approval code! Fifty dollars was the "floor limit" of the Mission, and as long as he kept each invoice at fifty dollars or under, no one from the issuing bank could reject any of the transactions. It was just a big pain in the ass to write my name so damn many times.

Peter was always, is now, and will forever be a genius. He was a wizard at Making Things Go Right.

But over in Tampa, something was going very, very wrong.

At 9:52 P.M. on April the 4th, Lavenda called me up on the telephone in order to brighten my spirits. She told me that we were getting married right away because she was pregnant and I was the father. Perhaps Hitler wanted to pick up a new body or something.

"Do you see what happens I make it rain?", she bragged with great pride, referring to our romantic interlude on the beach.

Now normally I would have become disturbed at a situation like this. But I was a former Guardian's Agent now with the Office of Special Affairs, and since my affair with Lavenda had in fact been quite special, it was not that hard to keep my TRs in.

"That is fantastic!", I feigned elatedly. "I can't wait to be a father again! We are going to be so happy, you and I. Oh, I can't believe it, Lavenda! I feel like dancing!"

Tentatively, we scheduled the wedding for Friday, May 9th, since we both knew that no Scientologist would dare disrupt the blissful occasion on Book One Day, as the Orgs would be too busy with their own event to pay any attention to us.

Peter could not believe that I had gotten myself into such a mess. He was outraged beyond belief that Bev Flahan, the Director of Special Affairs of Miami, had no idea that I was still assigned to the Lavenda case without either her consent or permission. After I wrote about a hundred pages of Knowledge Reports, which included the raunchy intimate details of my sexual act with Lavenda, Peter sent me to Flag in order to see Fred Hare, who had been diligently working with Bonny Mott on David Miscavige's Flag Ship project.

Fred had gotten older, but none the wiser. He still smoked his God-awful pipe, and he had married a cripple in a wheelchair named Dori whose arms shook as if she had a case of the heebie jeebies. How Fred's wife could be at OT One and not be able to repair her disfigured body was completely beyond my comprehension. She was hatted as one of Flag's many Ethics Officers. Her disability enhanced her career magnificently, since there was a big push at the Fort Harrison Hotel to hire the handicapped. It probably was an advantage for Fred too. With feet as limp as jello, he most likely found it less complicated to have sex with Dori more easily. I don't know for certain how he did it, but steering one's private parts into a disabled person is arguably a lot less resistive than mounting a normal human being. Remind me to try it sometime if I ever meet up with a hooker who can't walk. Somewhere in Archives, L. Ron Hubbard must have written an instruction manual on how you make love to a paraplegic, because in Scientology we have a stable datum: "If it isn't written, it isn't true."81 Anyway, as an Ethics Officer, Dori Hare was just as capable of throwing as many thetans into Treason as the rest of them, and if her physical disability served any purpose at all, it most assuredly made her become more vicious and therefore more effective.

"This stunt has to end once and for all!", Fred buffaloed. "I'll have Bonny handle Lavenda before she ropes you in permanently."

"I think I'm already roped in", I remarked enlighteningly.

Unbeknownst to me, Bonny "handled" her by telling her that I was a Guardian's Office Agent all along, and that I work for the Office of Special Affairs now. At any rate, I was quite alarmed when Lavenda showed up on my doorstep unannounced and caught me without a sufficient opportunity to hide my Scientology library from view.

Storming out of my building like a wounded crow in a mad rage, she vowed revenge, screaming that she hated me even more than she despised the Scientologists.

"That doesn't make any logical sense", I explained. "You have to hate us both with the same degree of intensity because I am one of them, or shall I say that they are everything to me. It would be very out-ethics to distribute your anger unevenly."

Without batting an eyelash, she slapped me in the face, and then later with a paternity suit. I couldn't believe how much horror had arisen from Bonny's less than intelligent handling of the situation.

To add insult to injury, Fred Hare suggested that I order Steve Goldberg to take the paternity test in my stead, in order to establish that my blood type could not have possibly matched that of the infant.

"We certainly can't give Lavenda the opportunity of proving that she slept with you!", Fred disclosed.

When Goldberg refused to have anything to do with it on moral grounds, Fred's wife offered to provide a blood sample from her dog Jasper, a healthy black mongrel who was full of piss and vinegar.

That evening, I got a call from Sabrina Dukoff, who was Lavenda's sixteen year old daughter. She screamed at me for a full hour over my cruelty to her mother and my failure to take responsibility for the pregnancy.

I quickly quieted the girl down by describing the intimate details of how I made love to Lavenda, and furthermore I told her what kind of nymphomaniac-crazed sex poodle her mother was. I think I shocked the unprepared girl, which in fact was truly a great deal of fun, considering that she was the wretched offspring of a degraded suppressive who always seemed to turn up like a bad penny.

It didn't end there, however. Lavenda called me back at two o'clock in the morning when I was fast asleep, using the old Guardian's Office tactic of waking people up when they were disoriented. Little did she know that when the phone rang, I was having a sex fantasy about Sabrina. Lavenda was absolutely livid that I had talked to her innocent daughter about our sexual escapade together.

"You must be the lowest depraved snake that ever walked the face of the earth!", she said modestly.

"Honey, I should have raped Lavenda when she was eleven years old and I had the chance to!", I regretted. "She would have been a lot better target than your complacent sister Lisa!"

"You are going to pay for this until the end of your days", she vowed.

"Let me tell you what will happen as soon as our baby is hatched, you humongoloid fat worm!", I said honestly. "Scientology always safeguards the rights of its members and their children. The newborn darling will be taken away from you at birth, and I promise faithfully that I will find our beloved infant a suitable home in Saudi Arabia. I know a Sheik in Abu Dhabi who loves to charcoal- broil suppressive babies as an exotic gesture for his dinner guests. Little kids are quite a delicacy over there, you know."

"You fucked up son of a bitch!", Lavenda observed radiantly.

"Finally my luvvy-duvvy icky pooh, if you have any weird ideas of following through with your paternity suit, you'd better start making provisions for Sabrina to inherit whatever paltry sum remains in your bank account after the funeral. Oh, on second thought, she can live with me after you're gone. I simply adore taking care of sixteen year old girls. I hope you don't think that I am joking, because by the time women turn eighteen, they are over the hill as far as I am concerned! Sabrina can move in tomorrow. There's no need to wait until you Make Things Go Right by confronting your own death. By the way, turtle dove, I don't know where you possible could have entertained the notion of marrying me, because there is no way in hell that I would ever have consented to sleeping with a slobbering elephant like you for the rest of my sweet young life!"

After that, the phone line went dead. Ever since the breakup of AT&T, none of my equipment has ever worked properly.

On April the 15th, the day when wog taxes were due, Bonny Mott called, all jolly and bubbly with good news.

"I want to report the upstat of a lifetime!", she cheered. "Lavenda has had an abortion and she'll never bother you again!"

My heart sank through the floor.

"That bitch killed my son!", I shrieked. "How can you be happy about something as horrible as that?"

"Oh, come on now!", she swooned. "The little devil will go right on back through the Between Lives Area and pick up another body somewhere else. How can you be so attached to a wad of semen?"

I started crying senselessly.

"She murdered my baby boy!", I wailed in torrents. "And it's all your fault!"

"My fault?", she gasped. "This is the second time that I have saved you from a marriage of doom, young man! You've got a hell of a nerve. Is that how you thank me?"

"Who is talking about the marriage?", I stammered. "I wouldn't have had to marry her! I could have driven her insane and taken the child for myself! She is an ex-Scientologist. You know how easy they are too push over the edge! I could have had my cake and eaten it too! I would have gotten custody of the baby, and she would have received some well-deserved electric shocks. Now I have nothing!"

"What you've got, dear Stevie boy, is off the hook from an embarrassing and humiliating paternity suit! Wise up, you stupid idiot! Now you can get on with your life and forget about her evil threats!"

"But the poor baby", I cried sadly.

"If you're that much of a humanitarian, go down to an orphanage and adopt one!", she recommended. "Otherwise, get over your wog sentiments and start boosting your stats up. Production is the basis of morale. Don't you know that the only barrier there is to production is human emotion and reaction? Ron said that on Lecture Number Two of the Flag Executive Briefing Course!"82

Consumed with guilt, I scheduled some auditing time with Leah Abady to overcome my present time problem, since Nancy Witkowski said that I was unable to continue my auditor training until whatever was bothering me was fully handled.

"I shouldn't have said those cruel things to her about feeding our child to the Arabs", I wept with deep remorse. "That is probably what pushed her over the breaking point."

"Oh, bullshit!", Leah scorned. "That little baby of yours would have probably wound up to be the next Son of Sam with a mother like that! She would never have given you custody! Anyway, how would you have been able to Clear the planet with a demanding spoiled brat on your hands for twenty-four hours a day?"

"Don't you have any compassion?", I asked. "Anyway, I would have hired a nanny -- someone good and kind like Bonny."

"That baby is better off dead and you know it!", she raved.

"It's not the child's fault! Be reasonable!", I begged.

"How dare you expect any "reasonableness" from me!", she chastised. "I'm not in the business of handing out downstats! Look at the facts, Fishman. Whatever thetan chose Lavenda as his mother by pulling her into his own universe must obviously be guilty of an overt act of the greatest magnitude, and the abortion was the appropriate Ethics Action to be taken against that degraded being. I am absolutely convinced that in this case, terminating the pregnancy was appropriate for all parties concerned. The last thing you should have wanted was to increase the population of suppressives."

"It's a harmless little baby!", I screamed. "I could have helped him in spite of Lavenda! I could have given him love; the same love I show my own children."

"Pick up the cans!", she commanded.

It was time for some repair auditing.

For the next three hours, Leah had me waste parts of the body, mocking up various bowel movements and flushing them down the toilet. After that she ran the routine called "nomads of gonads", ordering me to create a mental image picture of huge gobs of semen containing lots of dead babies. Then she directed me to watch them dry up on my pajamas, leaving an unsightly stain and smelling like uncured fondue vomit. Despite all of her excellent processing, nothing seemed to help. I felt guilty, and that was all there was to it.

"You imbecile!", Leah Abady said in disgust. "You've already fathered one stinking Christ. What the hell do you want to do, make the same mistake all over again?"

Leah was no help at all. Nancy did not want to be bothered with me until some of the charge was blown off my case and I stopped dwelling on the incident.

"If I could do that", I thought, "then why would I ask her for her aid in the first place?"

Peter was no one to talk to either. He was wrapped up in his Celebrity Center madness and was about as sympathetic as a piranha. Beyond that, he was untrustworthy as a thetan. Michael Hambrick was still starving and generally doping off in a trance most of the time, even when he was on post. Barbara Koster was too busy selling books to give me even the slightest bit of attention, and Denise Monce was having her own troubles, going through a painful divorce with Reggie. Again, the only one who I could turn to was Dr. Geertz.

Just as it always was, talking to my psychologist made me feel a lot better. Throughout the years, he was not only my doctor, he was my friend. No matter what happened, he was always there for me when I needed him. Long ago, I had decided that when I establish the Psychiatric Rehabilitation Estates Project Force, I would risk expulsion from the Church by hiding him in my attic. I would turn him into the "Anne Frank of Scientology." Unfortunately, ever since Jaime threw me out of the house, I no longer had an attic. I lived in a one room studio apartment. Hopefully, before the situation became critical I would have a more logical solution to exempt him from the psych concentration camp than to have him move in with me.

Somehow, talking to Dr. Geertz made everything seem all right. He explained how it wasn't ever my decision that Lavenda chose to have the abortion, and why I should not harbor any guilt over it. Lavenda had not consulted with me at any point -- she just went ahead and did it. He said that I did the only thing I could by refusing to marry her because I was not in love. Finally, he stated that by breaking off a deceptive relationship, it would give us both a healthy opportunity to go our separate ways. For the first time in years, I started to feel good about myself again. During the next few weeks, I saw Dr. Geertz regularly. He encouraged me to meet somebody new. That seemed to be an excellent idea, and since I was too shallow and insecure to find anyone on my own, I naturally asked Steve Goldberg to do the work for me.

Like a true angel of mercy, Goldberg came through bringing double the pleasure, introducing me to the most beautiful prostitutes walking the streets of God's green earth. I met the two loves of my life, Dusty and Lisa.

How he met them was no great mystery. He was driving along the Keystone Point area of Biscayne Boulevard, and when he noticed the girls standing in a telephone booth at the shopping center on 127th Street, he pulled next to them and started playing with himself. After he paid them fifty dollars to lick their asphalt-stained metatarsal arches, he drove them to my apartment to meet me. The night was young and they were full of Michelob, eager to turn over another trick.

Lisa Lawson was seventeen, a voluptuous bleached blonde with mammoth tits and a skinny waist; her arms covered with fake silver bracelets and her legs embellished in pointy-heeled, ankle-length, torn white boots. She was a heavy metal freak who loved the boys in the band while the rest of the world had to pay for her services. Lisa's black book included the most prestigious attorneys, accountants, engineers and drug dealers in South Florida. She even had a City of Hollywood policeman, a Baptist minister, and a Miami Beach Traffic Court Magistrate among her clientele. Since Lisa had no phone number, she always had to call them.

What I liked most about Lisa was her navel. It was the warmest and tastiest one that I had ever met in my life. The Body Thetans in there were far more amenable than the ones under the back of her knee, for example.

As perfect as Lisa was, Dusty was still my favorite choice. I would have been crazy to reject that eighty- pound, four-foot-eleven, fifteen year old troll with nipples smaller than mine. Her scroungy, dirty-blonde hair that flowed down to her butt had the alluring aroma of old pillow stuffing, and I always had been a hopeless sucker for fragrances like that.

From the first time that I laid eyes on Dusty Hipps, which amazingly enough was her real name, I knew that one day I would marry her. She was the first girl that I actually fell in love with since my spark for Jaime had died.

Her actions even reminded me a little of my ex-wife. During intercourse, she enjoyed doing funny things to me like blowing smoke in my face and popping pimples on my ass. Also, Dusty was so easy to talk to. She didn't put on any airs like civilized people. After all, she had dropped out of the seventh grade. Who else but an innocent adolescent, unspoiled by the stigmas of sterile wog education would have believed that I had trouble breathing while wearing a condom?

In all fairness, I had a choice between Lisa and Dusty when Steve Goldberg brought them upstairs for me to examine. I selected Dusty because I knew that a girl that tiny would have a very tight vagina. Having done the Data Evaluator's Course at the Miami Org, I had the Tech under my belt to inevitably make the right decisions under pressure. Lisa wasn't insulted, just surprised. I gave her a rain check for my next twenty-five dollar bill, and vowed to be faithful to both of them for the rest of my life.

It was so nice to just sit back and make love to two adoring women without any ulterior motive of using them in the way I had done so dispassionately with Lavenda. It was even more fantastic to have two brand new signatures for the class action lawsuits, and it always made me feel happy to be able to give Peter good news like that.

Peter, on the other hand, had been plagued with calls from Lyman Spurlock and Fred Hare, who both feared that Lavenda was still a powder keg waiting to go off and start some horrible legal flap against the Church. In the meantime, Bonny Mott sent an enthusiastic Knowledge Report to Commanding Officer of the Commodore's Messenger Org Annie Broeker with glowing success about Lavenda's abortion. All of this was occurring while Lavenda was making inquiries trying to connect the fire in the gas tank of her car to members of the Church of Scientology. In her own warped, sick mind, I never became a suspect. An arson investigator from the Tampa Fire Department even showed up on the doorstep of Flag asking questions. This caused the Flag Public Relations Officer to have a conniption fit and to start sending Situation Reports to the Watchdog Committee and every other concerned puppy on the planet.

When David Miscavige got wind of this stench, he ordered my complete Guardian's Office Agency Folder purged and destroyed, and any record of my name in connection with Lavenda Van Schaick Dukoff permanently removed from all Scientology files. The Flag Operations Liaison Office Action Bureau of the Office of Special Affairs raided the old filing cabinets of Fred Hare as if he had just robbed Fort Knox. A great cover-up ensued all the way down to the local Org and Mission. My entire history as a Scientologist was re-written, in order to disavow any knowledge of my actions in case Lavenda planned to sue.

The Director of Special Affairs of Miami Bev Flahan read me the telex from her superior officer, Lyman Spurlock.

"A legal flap by SP Van Schaick is a real potential threat in keeping with her previous acts of suppression. The correct on-Source handling is to establish new Tech, Ethics and Admin Folders in present time for those concerned parties who were active in handling her case", said the cable.

It was my sworn duty as a Kha-Khan to insulate Scientology from any and all lawsuits originating from such a degraded being.

Accordingly, I was ordered to back up this whitewash by writing up Success Shore Stories for silly little mini-courses and basic services in order to protect the Church from attack, as if I were a brand new raw meat Scientologist. Because of this sacrifice, I was very irate when Peter Letterese had nerve enough to charge me full price for these courses in order to help boost his stats! He argued that if he ran my course completions through the Mission without any fair exchange, I could be later accused of receiving free services, and he could be equally charged with providing them. It sounded like a lame excuse to get money out of me for actions that I had completed seven years before, but who was I to argue with Peter's smooth salesmanship and excellent reasoning. I was helping the Mission stats, after all.

Due to the fact that I swung heavily into my Battle Plan to have the largest L. Ron Hubbard Library in the world on the 8th of February 1986, that was the arbitrary date before which all records of my existence were removed from Central Files of all Scientology Orgs, with the obvious exception of my auditing and training certificates, which were kept in the safe at the Miami Org, available only to the Director of Special Affairs of Miami Bev Flahan, the Ethics Officer of Miami Frank Thompson, and the Certificates and Awards Officer of Miami Vicki Kirkland.

I felt as if I didn't exist anymore! And still, it was all for nothing. Lavenda faded out of our lives like the whimper of an overt fart, never to plague us again.

Bonny Mott had her own troubles too. As you recall, she was working undercover for a drug smuggler from Longboat Key named Bud Fields who also wore the "bad hat" of a boat broker who was trying to interfere with the sale of the ocean liner "La Boheme", which David Miscavige wanted very badly as our new Flag Ship. According to Bonny, one of the major cruise lines had hired Bud Fields to act as their broker or intermediary and bid higher for the vessel than the Sea Org was willing to pay. Certainly the boat's owners wanted to sell it for the best price to the highest bidder. As there were millions of dollars at stake, plus we were at risk of losing the only chance to prevail in purchasing the boat altogether, Bud Fields' murder was made to look like a drug deal that had gone sour. Bonny had already succeeded in breaking up Bud's marriage to his wife Lee, and according to her, "whatever mysteriously happened to Bud was just icing on the cake." Nevertheless, Bud's children had become very attached to their Nanny Bonny, and were very upset to see her leave. The charming Mrs. Mott had her faults, but nobody could ever deny that she was a damn good governess.

I don't know why the hell the wog world doesn't realize that fucking with our stats can be dangerous. Clearing the planet is our number one priority. What do we have to do to get that message across?

Bonny and I met for dinner in Lakeland, and we had a champagne toast celebrating the upstat of acquiring the new Flag Ship. David Miscavige changed its name from "La Boheme" to the "Freewinds." This was going to be the showpiece Sea Org flotilla which would deliver the technical breakthrough of New OT Eight.

Shortly thereafter, David Miscavige benevolently ordered Bonny to "get out of town" for awhile, and concomitantly the Commanding Officer of Scientology Missions International for the Eastern United States Cary Goulston dispatched Bonny to Western North Carolina, in order to establish a brand new Mission there.

Fred Hare called me late one night and said, "Under the circumstances, while the Lavenda thing is still considered a smoking gun, it might be wise if you went up to North Carolina also and offered to help Bonny with her Mission project."

How could I turn down a guy like Fred? Of course I agreed to go.

Although Bonny had a son named Charles living in the town of Old Fort, North Carolina; Bonny found it a lot more comfortable staying with me at my summer home in Lake Lure. The location which Scientology Missions International had been trying to buy for its new "Mission of Western North Carolina" was a very well-maintained idyllic "new age" retreat on a peaceful hill in the quaint town of Black Mountain, situated near Asheville. The squirrels who owned the property called it "The Light Center."

Despite the fact that The Light Center was in financial trouble, the trustees had informed Scientology Missions International upon initial inquiry that they did not wish to sell their retreat to Scientologists. What they were looking for were investors with fresh money who could revitalize the existing retreat under the management of the status quo.

"What a bunch of stupid downstatters they are to think that they could make their efforts work without the benefit of Ron's Technology", Bonny scoffed.

Bonny's Project Mission Orders issued by Cary Goulston called for us to infiltrate The Light Center in order to "secure the purchase of the property by whatever means necessary", and to "effectively introduce Scientology Technology to the squirrel group via a dissemination program utilizing gradient acceptance level processes of Standard Tech."

The Light Center had three trustees.

First, there was Reverend Jim Gore, their resident squirrel minister who seduced more young ladies than either Jim Bakker or I ever dreamed about.

Secondly, there was George Perkins, Director and Treasurer of the retreat who also owned a new age bookstore in town and therefore pocketed all the profits he could generate as a makeshift off-premise Bookstore Officer, which in Scientology we regard as not only highly out-ethics but also criminal.

Third and finally, there was Carolyn Kirby, a menopausal, psychopathic pianist, composer and out-of-tune singer who went under the dopey name of "Sunsurei" just because she liked it.

It was this unholy trio of losers who were responsible for the crashed statistics of The Light Center.

Bonny and I couldn't believe it!

"It's a wonder that the place didn't just disintegrate by itself due to its failed administration", she observed.

Just to show you how insane squirrels can get, The Light Center had a "meditation room" where you could sit on plastic cushions and watch a series of spotlights change color over a twenty minute period. I never saw anything quite so nonsensical as that in all my life! They also had a "flotation therapist" named Floyd on the premises who set up appointments for the congregation to spend an hour or two per week in a dark, eight-foot egg filled with warm water and epsom salt, complete with the piped-in new age music of Sunsurei for added subliminal restimulation! I was surprised that they didn't have a staff psychiatrist on hand to give their parishioners a series of electric shocks to go along with the light show and scum bath! Now do you finally see how dangerous and thoroughly out of control the wogs can be if they are not effectively handled? I sure hope you do.

On Monday, April the 28th, Bonny and I gave an introductory seminar on Dianetics and Scientology at my summer home, and out of the two hundred and thirty members of The Light Center who we invited, only twenty-eight people showed up. Despite the low turnout, we enlightened our guests about the Eight Dynamics, the ARC Triangle, Cycles of Action, Conditions of Knowingness, Beingness, Doingness and Havingness, as well as the Between Lives Area and what happens to a thetan when he drops his body and returns to the cycle of life in order to pick up another one. We dispelled the false data about the psychotic illusions of heaven and hell, and I casually explained to the group that I had been the biological father of Jesus Christ, but I was trying to make amends for that horrible misdeed in my current lifetime.

Regrettably, both Reverend Jim Gore and Director George Perkins had boycotted the seminar. Sunsurei came, but tried to embarrass and discredit us, and in fact succeeded in turning our audience against the ethical principles of Ron's Tech which we were endeavoring to impart with good ARC.

Apparently they were victims of Christian brainwashing, and with all of their "new age" predisposition toward love, peace and flower power, it still did not mask the fact that they were quite flooded with the suppression of Jesus. Bonny concluded that we were facing a hostile takeover, and the best way to accomplish our goals and purposes was to ruin The Light Center and its trustees financially.

Bonny offered to handle the two men in her own way, but she ordered me to drive Sunsurei insane with junk mail and through a campaign of disinformation known as "Valence Hunger", which used to be one of Commodore Staff Guardian Mary Sue Hubbard's most effective methods in rapidly caving in a Suppressive Person.

Valence Hunger was a simple operation of flattering someone through a communication line across a distance, while at the same introducing arbitraries and randomity in order to cause a desirable effect. You probably don't know what the hell I just said, do you? The psychs would call it "inflating someone's ego in order to induce a psychotic break." I just hate using their slang, that's all.

The principle is easy. You get your enemy dependant upon you by making the person feel very important through a continuous barrage of insincere praise. The End Phenomenon of your initiative is when your enemy knows with full certainty that he or she is dependant upon you for his or her own survival. It is done by alternately granting and withholding communication on the basis of statistics, thereby creating a scarcity or a "hunger" on the part of your enemy for the synthetic personality you mock up, or "valence."

For Sunsurei, I used the remailing service mock-ups. I began to flood her with fan mail from Pearl Blashinsky of Chicago, Anne Thacker of St. Louis, Marguerite Strawn of Gretna; Simon Lantos of Fullerton, and Virgil Venatta of Bakersfield. None of these people actually existed. They were the names of the class action lawsuit claimants. I convinced Sunsurei that "Jesus told them about her", which I knew was the predictable button of her stark raving acceptance level. With Sunsurei, I kept a separate log book of all incoming and outgoing correspondence, and I also used a different typing element which matched the personality or "valence" of each of these pen pals. Every one had a different story to tell Sunsurei about how wonderful she was, how her music was "divinely inspired by Christ", and how she was the "Godmother of Heaven." Following the precise steps outlined by Ron in our old Guardian's Orders, I made Sunsurei entirely dependant upon these five "cosmic masters." Their letters from Sunsurei were forwarded to me by the remailing services, and my letters to her using these lame valences were postmarked by the mail forwarding centers from their cities of origin. Sunsurei never knew that all of her letters were coming straight to me.

Within a short time, Sunsurei was totally dependant upon her "spiritual guides" for sustenance. She dropped out of mainstream life, just so that she could keep in touch with her "messengers of Jesus." Little by little, I had each of the valences introduce Scientology philosophy to her, so that by the time the campaign was over, she was a practicing Scientologist without even realizing it! Her five "friends" could have told her anything and she would have believed them. Had I been an out- ethics person, I could have bilked her for every cent she had. But I would never do a thing like that. My Ethics were too high to stoop to such a low level. I never would consider exploiting her for money. I suppose the wogs would find it very hard to understand why I never took advantage of her financially. It was not her cash I wanted -- it was her mind. My orders were to drive her crazy, and that was my stat. It took a lot of time and energy to pretend to be five different people all over the country, writing to her nearly every day for almost two years, but no one ever said that the hat of eliminating suppression from the planet was easy. It takes a lot of confront and dedication to Source to get the job done.

Still, I have to concede that rendering Sunsurei insane was very therapeutic for me as well. I was able to redirect a lot of my anger towards her which I harbored against Jesus. She became the woman that I loved to hate, even though I had nothing against her personally, over and above her dedication to squirreling.

Although I don't want to jump ahead in time, I am dying to tell you what finally happened. The fate of Sunsurei was simply fabulous!

After I went back to Fort Lauderdale, Bonny Mott stayed on to handle Jim Gore and George Perkins. Within a short time, Jim died of a heart attack, and George, who had cancer, dropped his body under mysterious circumstances from some poison he drank, and with both of those SPs out of the way, there was nothing in Bonny's road for going to The Light Center's creditors and making a bid for the property.

However, as per Ron's Policy, Scientology Missions International insisted upon sending a group of Sea Org Survey Missionaires to Black Mountain in order to take a survey of people in the community which would determine whether a Scientology Mission would have the impact to flourish and prosper there.

In their Knowledge Report, the Missionaires reported that "An initiative can be better launched in an area less dominated by "Christ-Think" and other Potential Trouble Source influences. We advise not to proceed further with expansion projects in this sector due to present hostile and antagonistic viewpoints toward the Church. Org resources are to be more expediently applied elsewhere."

I don't know why the hell the Survey Missionaires didn't do their job before Bonny and I went to all of that trouble to secure the place, but obviously there was a lesson to be learned from our mistakes.

In the interim, no one ever countermanded my orders to drive Sunsurei insane, so I continued the campaign just as vigorously as before. Waging a thetan war against this pathetic, confused woman all but consumed me.

Sunsurei wanted to talk to her five "guides" by telephone, but everyone knows that "cosmic masters" are too far removed from the ordinary walks of life to have a listed number.

Two years later, I casually mentioned to Bonny that Sunsurei was about to "spin", which is a slang term in Scientology meaning "to go insane."83 She was shocked to find out that I was still operating on her.

"Bonny, you never countermanded my orders!", I insisted. "You specifically told me that my stat was to drive her crazy, and I wasn't about to admit to a failure. We are so close now!"

"It's not important anymore!", she said. "Just drop the whole thing, and that's an order. We have nothing to gain by keeping it up any longer. If you need a new project to work on, I can find you plenty of things to do with a real purpose!"

Interestingly enough, after I ceased all communication with Sunsurei through the remailing services, dear old Carolyn Kirby went stark raving mad. Apparently she had grown so dependant upon her communication lines with her five "friends" that when I took them away from her, she dwindled down into the catatonic state of a dysfunctional pitiful vegetable. Her daughter Claire had her committed to a mental institution in Texas, and that was the last time that either Bonny or I ever heard about her.

That was by far my longest upstat and indeed was brought in way after-the-fact, but as I found out, it is never too late in Scientology to Make Things Go Right.

When I returned from North Carolina on the 1st of May, 1986, I found the Mission of Fort Lauderdale in a turmoil. Peter had lost his credit card franchise with Master Card and Visa because of the transaction with my sixty-three sales slips. The wog bank had the audacity to accuse Peter of trying to bypass the floor limit, and in a move to slash their own throats, they pulled the rug out from under us and told poor Peter that he no longer could accept any credit cards!

That wasn't his only problem, however. Michael Hambrick and Chuck Weiss had gotten together and found cash shortages of over one hundred and eighty thousand dollars over the last six years in Peter's account books, and immediately sent the data all the way uplines to the Flag Banking Officer of Scientology Missions International. Ray Jourdain, the Body Registrar of Miami, was also enraged with Peter because he was holding preclears back from doing major auditing services at the Org by keeping them hung up on frivolous Ethics actions in order to maintain a high level of income for the Mission.

In his Knowledge Report on Peter, Ray accused him of suppressing raw meat public from going up the Bridge and committing the identical High Crime which had caused the old Mission Owners World Wide Network to crash and fail. Peter had very few friends left, and everyone saw the handwriting on the wall. His days as an Executive Director of the Mission of Fort Lauderdale were numbered.

Accordingly, I began to distance myself from Peter completely. When the Ethics Officer or Miami Frank Thompson asked me for a Knowledge Report on the incident involving the sixty-three credit cards, I made Peter look as blameworthy as possible, although I secretly respected him for pushing that book sale through for me on my over-the-limit credit card.

After seven years as a staff member, and having lived through seeing the Guardian's Office crash, I knew enough about Scientology politics to avoid getting pulled down with a sinking ship. Peter was about to get buried in the undertow of his drowning unpopularity. I was not ready to get dragged through the mud of lower Ethics Conditions with him, since had I taken sides with Peter, it would have meant the kiss of death for my Bridge forever.

A Scientologist can easily survive through hard work, austerity, financial deprivation, long hours, impossible statistics, and insurmountable odds, but without the Route to Total Freedom, we are nothing. In the final analysis, the Bridge is the only thing truly worth safeguarding, and there is absolutely nothing that I wouldn't have done to protect it.

Yet, I myself was not immune from attack. Because the loss of the Mission's credit card franchise had to do with my purchase, I was ordered by Frank Thompson to take a Security Check also.

Although I passed with flying colors and was not personally blamed for crashing the Master Card and Visa stats, I admitted to a far more ominous withhold. In my confessional, I pleaded guilty to the criminal act of seeing Dr. Geertz as a patient. Only a real schizophrenic lunatic bastard would consult an auditor and a psychologist at the same time. The Ethics penalties for that crime were very severe indeed. Ordinarily, I would have been stripped of my auditing certificates, but once again my standing as a Kha-Khan saved my ass. Don't forget that a Kha-Khan could be forgiven ten times in the future in case he did anything wrong.63 I guess I was only on my fourth or fifth mistake, so I could still cut myself plenty of slack.

Nevertheless, even though I was forgiven, the Case Supervisor of Miami Lisa Witt wanted to find out why I did it, and ordered me to be audited on the Suppressed Persons Rundown, which turned out to be fifteen hundred dollars worth of auditing hours that I had to pay for in order to discover why I had allowed myself to be suppressed by the psychologist. Kha-Khans were the last unsung heroes of Scientology, but when we did the wrong thing, we had to pay through the nose too.

The Suppressed Persons Rundown turned out to be the best auditing action of my current lifetime, setting the record straight on my time track and shoving my face directly into the vagina of reality.

The E-Meter dove down like a bat out of hell, right into the source of the trouble.

"In which former lifetime have you been the most suppressed?", Nancy repeated several thousand times.

A sticky needle reaction was popping out of my grim recollection of living as the inimitable Mordecai Kusvitz.

It's a shame you didn't know me as good old Mordecai, since I was probably a much nicer guy back then. As an orthodox Jew, I wasn't worldly and intelligent enough to know the sleazier side of women, and consequently I didn't screw around with ladies of the night. I suppose you could call me a decent family man, as I was very devoted to my wife and children. As crazy as it sounds, I was truly happy.

I was the owner of the largest lumber mill in the Polish town of Cadavice when World War Two broke out on the 1st of September, 1939, which was also Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. It occurred to me at the time that Hitler enjoyed doing his bombing on Jewish holidays.

Not wanting to stick around while the Germans took over, I escaped with my wife Natalya, and my three sons Aron, David and Barna, fleeing from Poland to Hungary, where my wife had several cousins. Feeling relatively safe, I took a job at a paper processing plant in Budapest, since I had expertise in that industry. It was in Budapest during 1942 when my only daughter Rivkalleh was born.

In 1944 the Nazis invaded Hungary, and with no way to get away this time, our family was rounded up with all of the other Jews and sent back to Poland -- but this time to the infamous concentration camp of Auschwitz.

The five of us had to make the long journey in a closed-in cattle car, with no food at all and only a canteen of water. Auditing on this level was agonizing, and Nancy Witkowski was merciless. I went in and out of reverie, exteriorizing most of the time, only to find myself trapped back in the incident with my family riding like animals on the way to the death camp. The train smelled foul from the stench of human waste.

When we arrived at Auschwitz, our family was separated by Dr. Josef Mengele, the creator of the AIDS virus who everyone called the Angel of Death. My eldest son Aron and I were ordered to stand on the left line, which was bound for the work detail. My wife, two younger sons, and our baby daughter were sent to the line on the right, which later on I shockingly found out was destined for the gas chambers. Dr. Mengele decided our fate with a mere flick of his wrist.

In the panic of saying good-bye, my two-and-a-half year old daughter Rivkalleh dropped her doll "Ceci", which she had carried in her arms during the entire perilous journey from Budapest. When she ran back to the center of the open hall to pick up her doll, a brutal SS Medical Officer saw her bend down, and ordered his two vicious German Shepherd dogs to attack my precious daughter. The Medical Officer called the dogs by the names Rhinebourgen and Besieschtigen.

Right in front of me those savage beasts mauled and tore apart my little girl and killed her, while the SS Officer laughed out loud. Not since the Planet Ixolia had I ever experienced such cruelty. After the dogs were finished and left her for dead, he kicked Rivkalleh for a distance of six feet with his boots, covering the floor in a pool of blood. He then stepped on the doll and crushed it, much to the horror of my wife, my sons, and the rest of the traumatized onlookers.

I found out later that this particular SS Medical Officer who was studying under Dr. Mengele had conducted the most inhuman of psychological experiments, including freezing live babies in ice water and using a stop watch to see how long it would take them to die.

During my auditing, Nancy threw me deep into reverie, and in that light hypnotic state, coupled with my ease of exteriorizing out of my body, I identified the name of that arrogant Nazi bastard. It was my very own psychologist, Uwe Walter Geertz!

I was the only survivor of my entire family at Auschwitz. My fourteen year old son Aron died from typhus only three months after he came into the camp. When I was captured by the Germans, I weighed 240 pounds. When the camp was liberated by the Russians, I was less than 90. My excessive body weight and my existentialist philosophy had kept me alive during that unconfrontable period of my life.

After the war, I investigated Uwe Geertz, and I found that prior to coming to Auschwitz, he had worked as an intern at a German mental institution called Hadamar, and his duties had been to supervise the gassing of mental patients. In fact, there was an entry in the journal which showed he was present at a staff beer party when the Nazi psychiatrists and nurses celebrated the gassing of their ten thousandth victim.

It wasn't only Dr. Geertz, but his wife Dorli as well. Nancy directed me to exteriorize on the fourth dynamic, being three feet in back of society's head, so that I could raise my "level of confront" in the physical universe.

While watching these mental image pictures from beyond the confines of the body, I saw how Dr. Geertz met his wife, a wretched psychiatric nurse at the camp. I watched her sinister smile in the operating room of Dr. Mengele as she stood by stoically with her clipboard, monitoring the screams of Dr. Geertz's shrieking patients undergoing grotesque medical experiments without any anesthesia. One of her favorite pastimes was to pour scalding, boiling water onto the genitals of the men. When Dorli and Dr. Geertz became engaged, she made an oxtail stew containing the blood of Jewish children.

Many times after my auditing, I had to rush into the Org's bathroom and vomit.

"You have led a sheltered life too long", Nancy observed. "It is time that you learn to confront a solid dose of your own reality."

The mental image pictures were undeniable. Over and over, Nancy had me look at the saliva of Dr. Geertz's dogs as their mouths dripped with my daughter's blood, until my reaction to the horror was flattened on the E-Meter. I finally cognited that only in Scientology can a thetan have the opportunity to avenge the death of his loved one from a previous life. I vowed before Ron and everything else that is holy to make Dr. Geertz pay dearly in spades for what he had done to my beautiful, precious baby.

Nancy was quite satisfied with my tremendous progress achieved during the Suppressed Persons Rundown.

"Geertz is a typical example of the German criminal psych who later claimed to be a heroic anti- Nazi", Nancy elaborated.

"Yes! You are right!", I screamed. "He often brags about how some of his patients think he is a Jew!"

Infuriated with Dr. Geertz, I wrote a Knowledge Report saying that it was my duty as a former Agent of the Guardian's Office to take full responsibility for having him deported, in order that he would be forced to face his war crimes. I couldn't believe that I had been so gullible during the many years when he pretended to be my friend!

The memory of seeing my psychologist in his black SS uniform was a continuously recurring nightmare. I dreaded falling asleep, fearing that I would once again have to relive the sequence of seeing Dr. Geertz kill my daughter as I did day after day. Things became progressively worse. I began to Free Wheel uncontrollably, unable to back out of the dreams while I was asleep. During my auditing, Nancy had me look at pictures of my wife and three sons struggling to breathe inside the gas chambers, clinging to the floor in a final attempt to savor that last breath of oxygen, and I could not get these frightening images out of my mind. Each night I was suspended back in time, forced to re-experience months of torture and agony within a single dream, unable to wake up, even if my body had to go to the bathroom.

One thing was certain. I didn't ever want to be Dr. Geertz's patient again. That is why I was overwhelmed when I was told that I had to keep seeing him in order to gather incriminating evidence which would expose him for his evil deeds against my family.

Trish Baroski was an extremely pretty staff auditor at the Miami Org who also was the Liaison In Charge for the Citizen Commission of Human Rights, the Scientology organization which investigates psychiatric abuses. If you recall, it was Commanding Officer Dennis Clarke who had approved my idea for the Psychiatric Rehabilitation Estates Project Force with great acclaim back in 1984. As soon as Nancy's Knowledge Report on Dr. Geertz reached his desk, Dennis ordered Nancy to inform me that it was my duty to handle this Nazi monster by securing enough data that would permanently ruin him, deport him and convict him.

"Can't somebody else do it?", I begged. "I can't even stand to look at him!"

"Keep your TRs in, Steve", Trish advised. "Scientology is a matter of confronting life and being at cause over it, not running from life and becoming the effect of it. You pulled this Nazi Geertz into your universe. It is you and no one else who has to drive him out!"

To this end, I solicited the help of Fran Hardy, a former auditor at the Mission who was now doing her administrative internship at the Org and was also very active in Psychbusting and other valiant activities which served to effectively crush our enemies.

Fran suggested that since I had valuable training in the Guardian's Office in ruining the credit histories of suppressives, I should naturally start with that. She also commanded me to report Dr. Geertz to the Internal Revenue Service, ordering a "TCMP", which was a full fledged in-depth audit known as the Taxpayer's Compliance Maintenance Program. I sent in over a dozen anonymous reports which accused Dr. Geertz of under-reporting cash payments for psychological services, as well as for treating "known drug traffickers" and laundering their dirty money. Obviously, for purposes of completeness, we sent a copy of that file to the Drug Enforcement Agency as well.

To add gasoline to the fire, Fran recommended that I send a Knowledge Report on Dr. Geertz to Interpol, and also forward a copy of it to the United States Immigration and Naturalization Service, so that between the two suppressive agencies, a file would be created and deportation proceedings against him would begin when they "compared their notes."

I kept seeing Dr. Geertz as a patient as ordered, asking lots of questions about where he was during the war. Predictably, he made up some lies about being in the German Navy. Ha! He couldn't fool me for a minute! There was still the smell of my daughter's blood on his hands, and when the light was just right in his office I could even see it.

Although I was comfortable with the fact that Rivkalleh had since picked up a new body somewhere in the time warp of life, I regretted not being able to give her a father's love.

Leah Abady was a comfort and a joy to me.

"One day when you and Rivkalleh make it to the top of the Bridge you will both get together and have a good laugh over it", she predicted.

Funny, but her comment helped me no better than last winter's snow. What the hell do women know about sensitivity anyway?

[Contents] [Next chapter]