Lonesome Squirrel

by Steven Fishman

18: We Always Deliver What We Promise

(continued from previous section)

When I proofread my Success Story, I couldn't tell whether I loved it or hated it, and whether I believed what I had said or not. It was a good thing that I had more than my share of multiple personalities, because some of us were real pissed off over what I wrote. I suppose if we had to take a vote, the general consensus of my valences approved it. There was a coalition within me between those who felt my punishment was justified and the rest who merely wanted the nightmare to end. Personally I wouldn't give two cents for the whole lot of those lying bastards inside me, since none of them permitted me to be true to myself. The one thing that I demanded of my beingness was complete and total honesty. A house divided against itself cannot stand to look in the mirror.

"While confronting the darkness and foulness of my own reactive bank", I began, "I cognited that a thetan cannot operate very effectively alone. The body is not a center of refuge but rather a vicious prison trapping the thetan, magnifying the horrors of life within the physical universe. I am infinitely grateful to Fred Hare and the Mission staff for giving me this candid opportunity to raise my level of confront and awareness, since going into agreement with squirrels and suppressives only served to further push me into the mud, down the dwindling spiral of evil-purposed psychiatric insanity.

Consequently, I pledge before Ron and the Third Dynamic to bring the ones responsible for this outrage to their knees, especially myself. The sun never sets on Scientology, and I vow to ram a scepter into the heart and mind of every degraded being who dares to stand in the road of Total Freedom."

Well, at least that oratory got my Ethics Condition double-upgraded from Treason to Doubt. That was progress, don't you think?

This time I passed my Security Check. All my anger was focused on Keith Nassetta and Dr. Geertz, not against my Mission buddies. I finally became certain that the squirrels were responsible for my one night stand with garbage.

Fred was helpful too. He ordered me to contact a wog attorney so that I could bring a massive lawsuit against my psychologist, my attorney, and my father. It seemed like the most sensible suggestion which anyone had ever given me in my entire life. The legal grounds for the civil suit against the three suppressives were for threatening to have me committed to a mental institution and for interfering with my religious beliefs as a practicing Scientologist.

"Do you have any problem with suing your father?", Fred asked, stroking his belt buckle in the hope of getting a chance for round two on the wooden table.

"When he is arrested I won't even put up his bail money!", I promised cheerily.

"It's not that kind of case", Fred explained, "although there is a possibility that we can make some criminal charges stick against your old man. All three of them are obviously violent criminals, you know."

"It sounds like a good idea to me", I repeated in earnest.

"I hope we can salvage you before you turn into another Wollersheim", Dori wheezed from her chair.

"Yeah, another nice Jewish boy gone bad", I whimpered.

"What are you talking about?", Fred asked. "Wollersheim is Catholic."

"Oh, my God!", I yelled like a valley girl. "He converted, just like he did when he was Jesus! That's even worse!"

"Wollersheim isn't necessarily a Jewish name", Dori explained. "I think it's German."

"Look, all that crap doesn't matter right now", Fred balked. "You're in enough trouble. Until you get back into the Condition of Normal Operation, your Office of Special Affairs Staff Status is temporarily suspended as of this minute. I'm sending you down to the Org so that Lisa Witt can run another Security Check on you."

"What's that for?", I gasped in shock.

"Don't ask any stupid questions!", he advised. "Lisa requested it, not me. You're in Doubt, aren't you? Well, she's trying to resolve all that and move you up to Liability."

"It's sort of like a second opinion when you're dying of cancer", Dori chuckled festively."

Lisa Witt was even more pregnant than Shirley Hambrick, and you know how bitchy women like that can be. During the Security Check, I felt as if two people were auditing me instead of one. You never know what kind of cruel bastard her fetus used to be in its former lifetime. Lisa had an exciting habit of always trying to castrate me during her confessionals.

"Why do you suppose Fred made you walk like a dog and eat Jasper's dinner while in reverie?", Lisa asked before the interrogation began.

"I guess he was unleashing his hostilities", I hypothesized.

"Do you really think that the session had anything to do with Fred's prejudices?", she argued in disgust. "You've been around the psychs too long, which is essentially the problem."

"Well, Nancy said that everyone was making fun of me", I continued.

"You're lucky that they didn't kill you!", she consoled with the height of compassion. "I have read Fred's Knowledge Report, and I have very serious concerns about it."

"You should!", I acknowledged. "The man's a lunatic! He wants me to get certified sane by a psychiatrist!"

"It is you who I am disturbed about, not Fred", she corrected. "Do you realize that if the Mission Holder could throw you into a trance and make you believe you were a dog in a matter of minutes, then what do you think an evil, suppressive psychologist who has been destroying people with hypnosis all of his life could do to you after nineteen years of brainwashing?"

"Yeah, it's Dr. Geertz again, isn't it?", I nodded.

"I am afraid so!", Lisa riveted. "Who knows what kind of harmful Red Box Data and confidential information you have told him under hypnosis? You sure don't know what went on during your squirrel "therapy" if you can't even remember eating the damn dog food! So now you know why I ordered this supplementary Security Check. I want to find out exactly what you told that Nazi murderer."

The news wasn't good. I flunked the confessional because I had revealed everything about Scientology and the class action lawsuits to Dr. Geertz over the years under hypnosis. Doug Carr, the Keeper of Tech of Miami threw me back one notch into Enemy, and ordered me to make amends by cleaning the men's toilet of the Org for a minimum of sixteen hours, although he was diligent enough to allow me to complete my task in two separate eight hour shifts. At least I was able to work out my punishment sensibly without winding up in the shit house again.

Two days later, when the bathrooms were clean enough to eat off the floor, Doug still refused to raise my Ethics Condition from Enemy back up to Doubt.

"Didn't I do the best fucking job you've ever seen?", I bragged. "The urinals are sparkling better than that TV commercial for Lysol Basin Tub and Tile Cleaner! Hey, okay; I know! As a reward for my upstat, why don't you let me clean the ladies' toilet while the girls are still in there taking a leak?"

"Is everything a damn joke to you?", he groaned. "What you did in the bathroom was just fine, and you have gotten in some fair exchange, but what makes you think that janitorial work is going to change your ethics level?"

"So why the hell did you ask me to do it, then?", I asked in sheer exasperation. "What should I do for an encore?"

"Route yourself back to Dori Hare at the Mission and she will explain it to you", Doug ordered. "I'm not the Ethics Officer here!"

Dori had a disgusting habit of clicking a pen up her nose when she was nervous. Doing something with her fingers probably made her feel less like a cripple.

"So you want to get upgraded from Enemy to Doubt, do you?", she observed.

"Do birds fly?", I asked. "Do fish swim? Of course I want to get out of my lower Ethics Condition. Isn't it obvious to you?"

"You've got a cocky attitude for an Enemy", she stated suspiciously. "I have it in mind to package you up in mothballs and expel you from Scientology forever."

"You can't expel the father of Jesus Christ!", I argued. "I am too valuable! You ought to take out a key man insurance policy on me. I'm going to Clear half this planet before it explodes in 1997, or have you forgotten?"

"Steve, you can't Clear diddly-squat if you're nuts!", she sighed in anguish.

"With all due respect to Fred, your husband is squirreling very badly with his Potential Trouble Source connection to that psych comrade of his named Ziggy Stardust", I objected.

"Who?", she stared blankly.

"Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars", I answered. "That was the name of an old David Bowie album."

"You are stark, raving mad; and I am not interested in any of your wog nonsense", she concluded. "You're still not one of us!"

"Why, because I know something about music?", I asked. "Ziggy is Dr. Sheldon Zigelbaum."

"Is that name supposed to mean something to me?", she belched in annoyance.

"What the hell do you talk to your husband about in bed?", I stammered, immediately realizing that they probably never sleep together. "Hey, there's got to be a copy of my letter to Ziggy in the Ethics Folder."

Dori thumbed through my file and found it.

"This is odd", she admitted. "Well, Fred's the boss. I'll ask him about it when he comes back from the bank."

"He's in the reactive bank, that's where he is!", I declared.

"Don't be so damn fresh!", Dori yelled.

"He violated Scientology Policy, and that really pisses me off!", I cringed obnoxiously.

"Oh, that's fine and dandy!", she snarled. "An Enemy of the Church is instructing his Ethics Officer on Ron's Policy. Well, psycho-dog, Scientology Policy is not subject to interpretation. If it isn't written, it isn't so!"

"And where the hell is it written that a Scientologist has to follow a squirrel order to get certified sane by a psychiatrist?", I screamed.

"I will look into it!", she promised. "Meanwhile, I am sending you out on a priority mission. Barbara! Reggie! Get in here!"

"Is your truck fixed, Koster?", Dori asked Barbara.

"Oh, yeah, sure", she responded affirmatively.

Our major target was to recover all of Dr. Geertz's notes on my bizarre psychological history. The operating target was Dr. Geertz's office. We had to break in, locate my therapy folders and happily retrieve them. The purpose was to protect the Church from any confidential data I might have told Dr. Geertz about the class action lawsuits, and to expose the Nazi quack to the wog world for his use of illegal methods of hypnosis and brainwashing.

To accomplish this, I had to construct both a diagram and a clay demo of the building's interior, including all entrances, exits, and windows. There was no alarm system, so that made life quite easy. The office was an old single-story house, with plenty of crawl space between the ceiling and the roof line. Our most direct point of entry was from the attic and down through a storage closet located adjacent to the house's small bathroom. A low fence in the back had to be scaled if it were locked, and access to the roof was a breeze since there was plenty of clearance to tap dance on the rear window ledges.

"Most of the old houses built in the thirties were pretty well equipped to assist burglars", Reggie commented.

"How can you avoid being conspicuous?", Dori Hare pondered.

"I still have a white uniform from when I worked part-time doing roof cleaning", he smiled.

"That's an ideal shore story if anyone questions you", Barbara deduced. "And with the proper shoes you won't fall off the roof."

"I used the same uniform when I worked as a dishwasher", he laughed. "Wogs have a great deal of reverence for occupational clothing they can recognize and identify."

With the Battle Plan in place and the briefing and drilling over, we were all ready to be dispatched out. The time was set for the following morning before sun-up. The only point of contention was Dori's insistence that I go with Reggie inside the office to recover the files.

"I can't do it!", I cried. "I would feel like a criminal!"

Dori threw her clipboard at me.

"A criminal?", she repeated. "Do you think what that Nazi shrink did to your daughter at Auschwitz wasn't criminal?"

"No, that's not it", I pleaded. "It's stealing the files that bothers me. I've never been trained in document rescue technology."

"You're a damned liar!", she honked judiciously. "You got Ron's documents back from Lavenda's sister. Fred actually did tell me about that incident!"

"That was completely different!", I evaluated. "Lavenda stole those files from Flag and all I did was help to get them back. Here you are asking me to steal papers that do not belong to me!"

"Why, you stupid ass!", Dori jumped. "You're not stealing anything! You have a constitutional right to your own files! It is Geertz who is the thief, stealing information from your mind while you were drugged out during hypnosis. At least in Scientology, we respect everyone's right to privacy. Preclear Folders are protected by the priest-penitent and parish-parishioner relationships and are never examined by anyone! That fascist has been copying all your sessions and forwarding them to Interpol in order to destroy us! The next thing you know, the Rockerfeller Foundation will be copying us by sending in class action lawsuits on their own out-ethics corporations!"

"Don't get me wrong, Dori", I said in self defense. "I think the break-in is a great idea. But I've got a bad case of the flu from exposure to the cold in your dumpster."

"You brought that on yourself", she cackled.

"Yeah, but I'm too sick to go", I stated apathetically. "My nose is totally stuffed up and my throat is as raspy as a boatload of seventy-year-old lesbians."

"I'd rather give you a bullet through the head than any sympathy", Reggie interrupted. "Just listen to his bullshit!"

"What is it about the mission you aren't able to confront?", Barbara asked with good ARC.

"I just can't stomach going in through the roof", I trembled. "I'm afraid of heights."

"They should have dropped you on your head when you were born!", Reggie mumbled reassuringly.

"Well, how about if Reggie goes in through the roof and opens the front door for you?", Dori compromised.

"Okay, but only as a last resort if he can't find my files on his own", I negotiated. "We've been through it a hundred times. There is a big wooden secretary-type desk in Geertz's therapy room, and that is where my folders are stored. There is also a large storage closet in the adjoining office that belongs to the other shrink, Dr. Baksh. You'll find everything in those two places, I guarantee it."

"Steve, I want you to go in with Reggie", Dori commanded. "The only way I can upgrade you from Enemy to Doubt is if you start taking responsibility for your overt acts against the Church. Don't be such a faggot. Reggie has an extra pair of gloves so you won't leave any fingerprints."

Meanwhile, Fred had walked in and overheard the conversation.

"I don't want this sick son of a bitch going anywhere near his psych files until I see how badly he betrayed us!", he commanded, pointing malevolently toward me. "Have you lost your mind, Dori? He's in the Condition of Enemy! The first thing he would do is hide those documents if he had another chance to hurt us any further! Damn it, he has to wait in the truck with Barbara. I leave the premises for twenty lousy minutes and the whole lot of you have been busy building yourselves a squirrel cage!"

"Thank God for small favors!", I thought to myself. "This is the first time that being an Enemy got me out of doing something traumatic!"

The break-in was easier than raping sheep. Barbara and I waited in the truck across the street from Geertz's office at Broward Boulevard and Northeast 14th Avenue. Decked out as our wild warrior in white, Reggie Monce was truly a professional. I could never understand why Denise ever divorced him and ran off to Flag to marry that Czechoslovakian scatterbrain, Ladi Macha. Reggie was cooler than a popsicle suppository. The entire mission took all of eleven minutes from start to finish. Six-thirty in the morning was by far the best time to break into a psych's office, in case you are ever called upon to do it. Reggie came out with two thick manila envelopes of information, and I was bubbling over with so much joy that I kissed Barbara Koster on the cheek, which was probably the lowest I have ever stooped in any of my relationships with women. She always smelled like horse manure, even though she only worked for the horseback riding academy part time now. Still, her black Toyota truck was our getaway vehicle, and in true macho form, she steered it as well as any man could.

"Why didn't you rob that good for nothing bastard?", Barbara asked Reggie compassionately. "You should have brought back a present for Fred."

I started to laugh.

"He has nothing there worth taking", I disclosed.

"Nonsense!", she argued. "Psychs always have lots of stuff."

"All I saw were some disgusting prehistoric artifacts, a couple of cannibalistic pictures, some rusty wire sculptures and a bunch of dying plants whose leaves I couldn't even use to wipe my ass with", he reported.

"No shrunken heads?", Barbara giggled.

"Only our idiot mascot Steve here!", Reggie winked as he put his hand on my knee.

Upon returning to the Mission of Fort Lauderdale, Dori had good news for me. I was finally back in Doubt where I belonged!

In order to punish Keith Nassetta for proposing the civil suit against the Third Dynamic, Fran Hardy called Keith's wife Mary no less than a hundred times in the next several weeks, pretending to be Keith's girlfriend and discussing personal secrets that I had told her about Keith's private life. Finally, Mary Nassetta became convinced that Keith was cheating on her and she filed for divorce. In the interim, I wrote dozens of false reports, tying Keith to the laundering of drug money, which we proudly circulated to various governmental agencies. It was wonderful working with the Office of Special Affairs again. Ruining his credit was no problem either. Sending derogatory financial information to TRW and CBI made me feel like my old self again. These agencies, of course, were the largest two credit bureaus covering the South Florida area. Bingoing his home and office with junk mail was a barrel full of laughs too. I even had an evaluation sample of embalming fluid sent to him as a peace offering.

"He's going to think twice next time before he fucks with the Church!", I proudly told Dori Hare as she signed the Ethics Order raising my Ethics Condition one degree from Doubt to Liability for handling Keith Nassetta effectively.

Lisa Lawson and Dusty Hipps had been living at Dusty's mother's house, but she finally threw them out for buying crack cocaine rocks with the money from her welfare check. However, Dusty's mother Rita was no angel either. She made a living supplementing her paralyzed husband's disability income by selling his Valiums to all of her friends for full price. But she nevertheless felt that she had to draw the line between harmless sedatives and addicting narcotics.

We Scientologists, on the other hand, were steadfastly opposed to drugs of any kind, including all forms of aspirin, ibuprofen, monosodium glutamate, artificial sugar substitutes, caffeine and nicotine; even though Ron himself was a chain smoker of tar-laden, non-filtered Kools. I suppose when you are at the top of the Bridge, you are allowed to bend the rules a little.

We also prohibited the use of the birth control pill as a dangerous drug, which is undoubtedly the most obvious reason why the Church frowned upon sexual promiscuity. Hell, Flag didn't want to hire extra nannies to take care of a bunch of leaky-assed thetan Sea Org babies!

I had to admit that I vehemently objected to our Policy on birth control. So what if the pills made women sick and turned on old mental image pictures on their back tracks? What were guys like me supposed to do who were too scared to wear condoms? I always felt that it was the responsibility of women to protect themselves, because after all, men weren't the ones getting pregnant! No stinking female could ever accuse me of being chauvinistic when I was only being logical and realistic. I never even asked either of my two sluts about whether they were on the pill or not. It was their problem, not mine.

Anyway, I now had Dusty and Lisa in the palm of my hands, or so I thought. I moved them in to Room 18 of the Seascape Motel in Lauderdale-By-The-Sea, less than ten blocks from my apartment. The rent was three hundred and seventy-five dollars per month, and the girls both agreed to have sex with me twice a week if I continued paying their rent on a monthly basis. This seemed like a great idea, since it was equivalent to getting a quantity discount for their favors on a long term lease. I had decided a long time ago that I wanted to marry Dusty eventually, and just keep Lisa around as a substitute destitute prostitute since Dusty didn't mind.

It actually wound up costing me a lot more than the rent money. Since the girls slept all day and juggled johns all night, they would phone at any hour they chose for me to bring over MacDonald's hamburgers and Subway submarine sandwiches to their place, together with AIDS-causing caffeinated drinks like Coca-Cola and Pepsi. It was simply horrible watching them gobble down all of that fast food yuck, but many times I was rewarded with some "quickie sex" afterwards, so I was quite willing to be at their beck and call. The motel room worked out perfectly for the girls, because they were able to bring wealthy tricks to their room, get them drunk, and rip them off without an afterthought. There were other hookers in the building at the time, although that fact was not highly publicized because everyone there was paranoid about the police. If I live to be a hundred and twenty years old in this lifetime, I will never understand wog morality. I would have been proud to be a prostitute, not sneaking around hiding it from anybody!

There was one incident which occurred that made me very disgusted, however.

I want you to know from the beginning that I never had a double standard. Even though I loved Dusty almost as much as L. Ron Hubbard, I realized that she had to make a living, and I didn't mind sharing her with the real men of the world. Her eighty pound body was more than I ever dreamed of. Her microscopic nipples were the focal points of all my fantasies. I told Dusty that I planned to marry her as soon as I became an OT Eight.

"At the moment I reach the top of the Bridge", I told her, "I will jump off right into your arms."

I was such a hopeless romantic.

Keep in mind that I was never a jealous person. Ron defined jealousy as the "Inability to confront the unknown." Do you think for an instant that I was unable to confront the unknown? Well, if you said "yes", then you are absolutely nuts! I had more intelligent conversations with unknown Body Thetans than most Presidents of the United States ever have, and I never heard stories about them being called jealous!

Nevertheless, when I walked in unexpectedly on Dusty at her motel room and saw her tiny torso sprawled out all over her six-foot-four, three hundred pound black crack dealer, I became slightly curious. Lincoln was a nice enough guy, I suppose. He carried a gun, and he vowed always to protect the girls, but I didn't feel it was fair for him to get laid for the price of a ten dollar cocaine rock when I had to pay the full price, being her fiancee and having such great plans for our future. Not only that, Dusty made me wait a half hour until she finished smoking her dope before having sex with me, and she didn't even bother to take a shower after being with that big fat thing. Do you honestly think it was right for Dusty to treat me with such little respect when I was so deeply in love with her?

It was all Christ's fault. He got people addicted to drugs on other planets, many trillions of years before he packaged us up and shipped us to Earth in clusters. Dianetics Centers and Scientology Churches were all working their asses off, trying to stop the drug epidemic in this country. President Reagan was unable to put an end to the problem, even though he honestly tried like hell. Every time he had a decent idea, he got attacked by an onslaught of Body Thetans and rapidly developed some new kind of cancer. We, on the other hand, had established Narconon Orgs to treat drug addiction, and Ron developed the Purification Rundown, or sauna sweat program as it was once called, which was the only proven way to get drug toxins out of human bodies. Dianetics techniques were used very successfully in natural childbirth centers, even for mothers who were addicted to drugs during their pregnancy. Ron's technology was flourishing, prospering, and benefitting mankind all over the planet. Yet, we were being attacked on all sides by psychiatrists and their drug pushers. Most of the Columbian drug cartel leaders were devout Catholics, and so were operating incognito as Christ's ministers of death. It was time for me to start getting a little more militaristic about Jesus, and a little less reasonable. Nobody was going to take my Dusty away from me!

I started writing my epic religious work, The Holy Book Of Life, which was a history of the thetan over the last seventy-six trillion years. Written entirely on my own determinism while I was hooked up to the E-Meter, the book was an exploration of my time track, and included a chapter on how Christ was really born, as well as another section dealing with events after death in the Between Lives Area. It was a project that occupied the next year and a half of my life. The book had a noble purpose. I wanted the data to be available to the world so that I could Clear Earth before it was destroyed in the forthcoming nuclear holocaust in 1997.

I also began doing a daily half-hour radio talk show on CB Channel 19, which was mostly used by truck drivers to get weather and traffic conditions on the highway. Despite the fact that I did not have to find commercial sponsors for my air time since it was free, most of my listening audience was an assortment of hillbilly rednecks who did not like to hear me disseminate the truth about the Psych Jesus. I urged them all to start sending junk mail to their pastors and psychiatrists as a non-violent protest against Christ's suppression. Unfortunately, the wogs who heard me were too brainwashed by the bowels of Christianity to go into good ARC with my unselfish spiritual messages. I never witnessed such horrible foul language directed against me in my entire life! My "CB handle" was Malchoot the Antichrist, and some of those lost souls even had the nerve to doubt my authenticity and call me crazy! How stupid could they have been? Scientologists were the only ones left in the world who were actually one hundred percent sane! Didn't the truckers know that?

Despite the insults and the cat calls on the radio, I kept my ethics and integrity in, and remained perfectly sincere at all times. I gave out my telephone number so that anyone who was interested in further information could call me up at home.

One such person who heard my "Freedom From Christ" broadcast was a fourteen year old girl named Samantha with a voice that made my heart melt with lust. To this day I have never met her so I cannot describe her to you, but I admittedly looked forward to her daily telephone calls with salivating intensity.

Samantha was a high school student from Boca Raton, which is the city at the southern tip of Palm Beach County. I invited her to go "blanketing" with me, which occurs when two thetans have sex while out of their bodies. Ron's technical definition of blanketing is "An incident consisting of throwing oneself as a thetan over another thetan or over a MEST (Matter, Energy, Space, and Time) body. Blanketing is done to obtain an emotional impact or even to kill. It is strongest in sexual incidents where the thetan throws two MEST bodies together in the sexual act in order to experience their emotions."97 You thought that you were kinky! Nobody knew more about the facts of afterlife than Ron!

I never knew that sex could be so satisfying with someone you can't see. Blanketing Samantha made me want to run out and rape a blind girl in order to impart the joy and mirth of sensation to someone who needed it worse than I did. After all, Ron said "Blindness is an extreme unawareness."98 Of course, people that were afflicted with blindness generally were responsible for blinding others in their former lifetimes, and like all other physical disabilities, blindness was the effect or result of some earlier evil or overt act. Similarly, that is why the Church refuses to audit the mentally ill. Ron clearly wrote, "No person who is insane or who has an institutional background, nor any person who is chronically ill may be accepted for processing by the Hubbard Guidance Center."99 This has nothing to do with wog law. Ron adds, "It is not illegal to give spiritual guidance to the insane: it is against our board policy. It is forbidden."100

At first blush, the wog world might consider our Policy to be discriminatory or prejudicial. It isn't. People who are insane became that way by driving other people insane in their previous lifetimes as well. The constituents of crazy houses and the inhabitants of insane asylums are nothing more than psychiatrists and psychologists on the time track who got trapped by their own misdeeds toward others. A mental case is a psychiatrist in sheep's clothing. A crazy person is just the flip side valence of a suppressive who makes others crazy. Both are evil and degraded beings, and that is why we in Scientology didn't want to have anything to do with auditing the victims any more than we chose to process the perpetrators. So it wasn't such a good idea to rape a blind girl after all. Why should I reward someone with the pleasure of enforced sexual submission when she undoubtedly caused so much pain to others during the life that she lived before? In Scientology, we never reward downstats.

I continued my spiritual relationship with Samantha, giving her good subjective reality on why Scientology works. I told her all about when the world was going to end in 1997, and how I conceived Jesus Christ by masturbating in the Virgin Mary's love canal. Since she quickly became my best friend, I warned her about the perils of contracting AIDS from soda, chocolate and coffee, and I promised her that if Dusty and I ever stop seeing each other professionally, I would ask her to be my steady girlfriend. Samantha called me every evening between eleven o'clock and midnight, right after her parents went to sleep. I spent many wonderful hours explaining to her why all of the psychiatrists of the world had to be rounded up and put to death. I tried my very best to make a positive impact upon her life.

Soon, all of her friends started to call me. It was fabulous to be so popular again. There was a young kid named Joe McCann, who used to be a rocket jockey in another galaxy known as the Melchorian Cadelpo. I was truly happy that these kids loved me and enjoyed learning about life, and I therefore wanted them to find out more about Scientology. I gave them the telephone number of the Fort Lauderdale Mission, and I told everyone who called there to mention my name, so that I would get the full Field Staff Member commission credit for any money that they spent.

But do you know what happened? None of these kids had actually taken me seriously. They thought that everything I said was a big joke! What an evil purpose they had! They started phoning the Mission at all hours of the day and night, sacrilegiously making fun of the Between Lives Area and all of our precious technology!

To make matters worse, I was thrown back into Doubt by Shirley Hambrick for "Improper Dissemination." I had to write the sentence "I Will Not Disseminate Scientology Improperly" five thousand times, and I was forced to demonstrate it fifty different ways in clay before I was allowed to make amends to the Mission by stuffing envelopes and cleaning the rest rooms for six hours per night during the entire month of March. After all that was done, I was finally restored from Doubt to Liability without any pomp, circumstance or fanfare. I felt so damn unappreciated!

My whole world began to cave in on me. Dusty raised her prices because Lincoln was charging her more for crack. Samantha stopped calling me altogether. As long as I was in a lower Ethics Condition than Normal Operation, I was not allowed to do my next step on the Bridge, which was the Clear Certainty Rundown. Worst of all, it was April 1987 already, and I had not received even one tape for my eighty-five thousand dollars! Janell Allbach never delivered what she promised. The only good news I heard was that Mary Sue Hubbard crawled out of the woodwork and made a sizeable donation to the International Association of Scientologists, becoming a Patron of the Association. Hell, she probably needed a tax deduction for the April 15th deadline. Nevertheless, it was great to hear that she was still alive.

I was really pissed off about the undelivered tapes, but I didn't want to wind up in the trash can again, so this time I wrote a very nasty letter to Rae Muller, the Sea Org Number One Secretary to Guillaume Lesevre, who was our Executive Director International.

"I am going on strike and I refuse to send in any new class action lawsuits until either the tapes are delivered or I can use the eighty-four thousand five hundred and eighty-one dollars for auditing instead!", I stated like a defiant, spoiled brat. "But no matter what happens, I am never going to sue the Church, desert my post, or abandon my promises to Ron. Much Love, Steve Fishman, Fields Financial Planner of Miami", I continued.

I also sent an ultimatum to the Watchdog Committee of Golden Era Productions, saying "I either want my tapes, or a re-credit towards auditing. If I can't have either of those, I want a refund."

Asking for a refund was the worst thing that I could have ever done! I was immediately declared a Potential Trouble Source Type A, which accused me of "Being intimately connected with persons such as marital or familial ties of known antagonism to mental or spiritual treatment of Scientology."101

If that were not bad enough, I soon afterward was declared a Potential Trouble Source Type C. This label characterized me as "A person who has threatened to sue or embarrass or attack Scientology or who has publicly attacked Scientology or has been a party to an attack of Scientology."102

It was further ordered that I should "never be accepted for processing by a Central Organization or an auditor."103

Why the hell would life be worth living if I could never get audited again? This suffering was just too much for me to bear.

Being an outcast in Scientology was a fate worse than death. My fellow staff members looked at me like I had a cross between AIDS, leprosy, and herpes simplex duplex complex. I felt I was a pariah dragging my evil chains through the gutters of the wog world, searching endlessly for a glimpse of Source Data that would rescue me from the persecution of arbitrary madness.

My only "terminal", or person who I was allowed to communicate with at the Org was Beverly Flahan, the Director of Special Affairs. As a Potential Trouble Source, I was labeled an "Illegal Preclear", and I had no rights whatsoever, no matter what the National Civil Rights Act said. If the Org had a separate drinking fountain or toilet for Potential Trouble Sources and Suppressives, I would have been forced to use it. Apparently all the good that I had done in my eight years in Scientology was snuffed out by a mere stroke of the pen. Fred Hare finally had his revenge.

"Why did this ever happen to me?", I cried in agony to Bev Flahan.

"You should have never asked for a refund!", she shrugged complacently. "When you did that, a warning light came on. Only traitors and the insane would be evil enough to demand their money back from the only group who can set man free!"

"I didn't want my money back, Bev!", I screamed. "All I wanted were the tapes that I was promised. Can't you see that?"

"You would have gotten them eventually", she mimicked. "But you can't expect the entire dissemination lines of Scientology to drop what they were doing just to satisfy you!"

"How many years would I have to wait?", I asked with disdain.

"Don't be sarcastic with me, you son of a bitch!", she warned. "You ought to be lucky that I'm even talking to you at all! Anyone who expected the Battle Plan of Clearing Planet Earth to come to a screeching halt just because you wanted your damn tapes is a psychotic suppressive and deserves to be shot on sight!"

"You are becoming emotional!", I pointed out.

"Oh, fuck you!", she reasoned impartially.

"Let's get down to basics", I urged. "Why did Janell Allbach sell me the tapes when she had no intention of delivering them?"

"We don't sell Source Data to troublemakers who kiss the asses of Gestapo bastards and their Mafia lawyers!", she growled. "Janell had no idea what kind of Enemy you were at the time she offered you the products."

"Fine, so if I couldn't get the tapes, why didn't they re-credit the money I paid so I could continue up the Bridge?", I queried in dismay.

"You can no longer be audited!", she argued. "Are you stupid or something? Don't you see how much of a Potential Trouble Source you are even right now?"

"Well, what the hell is going to happen to my money, then?", I asked.

"It's not going anywhere", she revealed in amazement. "It couldn't be any safer than with us."

"Look, if I can't get the tapes or the auditing, I want to hold the money in my Bridge Fund at the bank until this all gets straightened out!", I demanded.

"Or, what? You'll sue?", she hissed.

"Did I say that?", I snapped adamantly.

"Your eyes say it!", Bev remarked.

"Oh, now my eyes are talking to you!", I laughed. "Who do you think sounds crazy now? Look, this battling back and forth is not getting us anywhere. What is the solution to all this?"

"Don't ask me?", she fumbled with her hands fluttering all over the place. "You're the squirrel who told the Executive Director International that you were going on strike! You're the suppressive who asked the Watchdog Committee for a refund on the tapes! Why don't you figure out a solution? In fact, why don't you just kill yourself?"

"What do I have to do?", I begged. "Can't I join a Rehabilitation Project Force somewhere so I could get my Ethics in?"

"They wouldn't want you either", she bullied. "That squirrel attorney, Nazi butcher and cheap Jew father of yours are all going to put you into a rubber room any day now. We had no choice but to wash our hands of you."

"They can't do that!", I replied in horror. "When have I ever acted insane?"

"Fred thinks you are a raving lunatic", she growled. "I think even he would sign the commitment papers if someone asked him to."

"You are changing the subject!", I sizzled. "I came here to talk to you about getting the tapes delivered or using the money for auditing, not to discuss my mental state."

"But that's just the point!", she yelled. "Once your father signs you into the nut house, he can seize all of your assets and use every penny that you have in the bank to keep you locked up in a padded cell for the rest of your life! We can't give you a refund in good conscience if our money is going to wind up in the hands of psychiatrists!"

"Well, how do we prevent that?", I asked in bewilderment.

"Okay, that's what I wanted to talk to you about", she said in a deep grunt of relief. It was so hard being in the same room with Beverly because there is nothing worse than the body odor of fat people when they become emotional. Her sweaty underarms stank worse than Fred Hare's dumpster.

"What's your suggestion?", I continued as if I were pulling teeth.

Beverly pulled out a piece of legal-size paper from her drawer.

"This is a Power of Attorney permitting the Org full access to your bank accounts, real estate and personal property. Just sign this right now and we can protect you", she smiled.

"This document gives you the Power of Attorney, Beverly", I complained. "It has nothing to do with the Org!"

"You idiot!", she perceived. "As a Potential Trouble Source, I'm the only terminal in Scientology that you have left, and there is no way in hell that I would rip you off! I have to keep my Ethics in too, you know!"

And so I joyously signed her Power of Attorney in the hope that this was the first step back from out of the mud. Just like eating Quaker Oats, it was the right thing to do. At least no one in my family could throw me into a mental institution without Bev and all my loyal friends in Scientology putting up a big fight to save my ass!

"Now that everything you own is secure, I can see about arranging your refund", Bev promised.

Within a few weeks, I received a huge shipment of fifteen hundred empty plastic tape boxes from the Frankfurt Org in West Germany.

"I knew Scientology would keep its word!", I cheered.

There was only one problem.

What the fuck was I going to do with fifteen hundred empty boxes when I had no tapes to put them in?

I guess Murphy's Law even applied to the Third Dynamic.

Anyway, it reduced the amount which Golden Era Productions owed me to only eighty thousand dollars.

Little by little, the staff members of both the Miami Org and the Mission of Fort Lauderdale started talking to me again, although Fred was still very angry because I never hired an attorney and sued my father, or went to his quack Ziggy.

I actually handled my father's antagonism toward the Church by threatening never to see him again. I told my dad that unless he signed a letter stating that he was one hundred percent happy that I was a Scientologist and that he had no objection to my being audited or trained, I would have to disconnect from him forever. He knew that I meant business, because he signed the letter without hesitation. Emotional blackmail always is a good technique to use on people who love you, whenever they interfere with your progress up the Bridge.

Frank Thompson, the Ethics Officer of Miami, dropped his demand that I initiate the lawsuit against my dad once he was in possession of my father's letter, my Success Story demonstrating how I forced my father to write it, and my exam results from a final Security Check on the E-Meter. Fred told Frank that if I really had any guts, I would have sued my father anyway, even after he gave me the letter.

It was next to impossible going through life day after day without the help of an auditor. Between my nightmares haunting me and my Body Thetans attacking me, I felt like I was plugged into a wall socket most of the time, rock slamming into a stuck needle full of caffeine. If it weren't for the fact that I was floating around in an exteriorized trance, three feet in back of my body's shadow, I would have dropped dead, just to be able to move up on the Tone Scale. Of course, just to prove Fred Hare a liar, I forced myself to remain completely sane at all times, despite the fact that I was out of Affinity, Reality and Communication with everything and everybody.

Neither Nancy Witkowski nor Leah Abady would have anything to do with processing me until the Potential Trouble Source Types A and C were reversed by either Frank Thompson or Dori Hare, my two Ethics Officers. Therefore, I did a lot of Solo auditing on the E-Meter at home, directing my numerous valences or artificial personalities to check me out, in order to make sure that I was running all of the processes correctly. The last thing I wanted to do was to start squirreling by not following Ron's precise path of Standard Tech.

Harry Sebakovitch was probably the best Case Supervisor living inside my body that I had, although Mylo Canderian, Ph.D., was not too shabby either. I spent a lot of time outside the body with those fabulous guys, and my favorite part occurred when we bounced out and hit the ceiling while the body was having sex with Dusty. Every one of us enjoyed being a Peeping Tom Voyeur looking down on her, and we could even split the twenty-five dollar cost of sex with our favorite tramp three ways. I think Harry still owes me about ten bucks.

Repeating the incident seemed to throw us all into hot and heavy restimulation, although we each took turns monitoring the pressure and duration of the ejaculations.

Even when the boys weren't around, I could handle things pretty well. When you exteriorize during sex you can accomplish all sorts of tricks. For example, while making love to Dusty, I could be underneath my body sandwiched in between the two of us, or I could be inside of her body sharing Dusty's exciting thoughts about how she was going to spend the money, although quite frankly, thinking about crack cocaine was pretty boring and downright disgusting. When I wanted some front row action, I often hid within Dusty's vagina, or "cooter" as she called it. The only drawback of staying in there was having to be banged in the head with my own penis for a quarter of an hour until the flood came and washed my engrams away.

During a particular intercourse with Dusty, I held the E-Meter cans in my hands while Lisa Lawson read my reactions on the needle and wrote them carefully on one of my worksheets. I had a "blowdown", which contrary to your dirty mind, has nothing to do with oral sex. Ron describes a blowdown as "The meter reaction of having found the correct by-passed charge."104 Of course, when I made love to Dusty and Lisa at the same time, I paid only forty, so the by-passed charge was a ten dollar quantity discount.

Despite all of these wild escapades, I tried to maintain my sanity and decorum by continuing to work fiercely on the Psychbusts. There was a major psychiatric convention at the Fontainebleau Hilton Hotel on Miami Beach from the first to the fifth of June. I got my Ethics in at their Hawaiian Luau party by spilling two vials of my urine into their champagne punch bowl after crashing their event by sneaking in through the entrance from the beach. Having earned yet another "Very Highly Commended" award for bravery against the Psych Enemy, Dennis Clarke also assigned me the valiant task of copying down their names from the identification tags that they were wearing so we could wake them up by telephone in the middle of the night. My favorite pastime was pretending to be the long distance operator and letting them know that either their parents or their children had just been killed, and then quickly hanging up. I felt like a G. O. Agent again, doing freeloader retrieval and familial disconnections. Those were the good old days when thetans were thetans and not a bunch of lazy, limp-wristed pussies! I don't know how I could have ever been labeled a Potential Trouble Source when I was such a devoted team player, do you?

After the Psychbust, my Ethics Condition was raised from Liability to Non-Existence, but neither Dori Hare nor Frank Thompson were willing to reverse the Potential Trouble Source declarations. Fred Hare cited his standing order to have me certified sane by Dr. Zigelbaum as the reason why not, and until I complied with that directive, he wasn't about to give an inch.

"I also want you to do a Status Verification Check in order to determine your eligibility to be processed", Fred commanded.

"I've always been eligible for auditing!", I objected. "How is that different from an ordinary Security Check?"

"Security Checks concern your past overt acts", he explained. "A Status Verification Check evaluates the nature of your evil purposes."

"But I don't have any evil purposes, Fred!", I agonized. "You have known me all of these years. Have I ever betrayed you in the Guardian's Office, even once?"

"You are very dangerous now because you are insane!", he maintained. "In fact you are too crazy to know that you are insane. You are on some rampant harmonic of unknowingness!"

"That's a lot of crappy doubletalk and you know it!", I rioted. "You just have a proverbial bug up your ass because I once innocently tried to take your picture and I didn't donate fifteen thousand dollars for the Peter Letterese Memorial Celebrity Center. Don't think you are fooling me for a minute with your witch hunt!"

As Fred took thirty seconds to light up his pipe, I knew he was burning up inside and that there would be trouble brewing.

"The Status Verification Check requires two intensives, so let's get out the checkbook, shall we?", he demanded sleazily.

"Two intensives?", I complained. "That costs sixty-five hundred dollars! I would rather use that money to attest to the State of Clear, not to prove some obscure point of yours!"

"Don't put the cart before the horse", he warned. "You'll never get audited again on Clear or any other level until you do the Status Verification Check."

"But it's a waste of time! I haven't done anything!", I pleaded.

"Keep up your damn nattering and I'll throw you back into Doubt faster than you can shit in your pants!', he cautioned. "You will do the Status Verification Check, and that's an order!"

"Okay, if I go along with you this time, will you reverse the Potential Trouble Source declarations and drop your ridiculous demand to have me certified sane?", I compromised.

"Damn you!", he erupted. "We're not playing "Let's Make a Deal" here! Do I look like Monty Hall? You'll do everything I say or I'll expel you from Scientology altogether! You are a squirrel's breath away from being permanently declared a Suppressive Person!"

I felt like telling Fred to shove his Ethics Orders up his grubby, lard-filled ass, but he was too powerful a force to be easily reckoned with.

Horse-faced Barbara Koster was the only friend that I had left at the Mission. As the Bookstore Officer, we had worked very closely together on my L. Ron Hubbard Library Battle Plan, and she knew that I would never have betrayed the Church by conspiring to start a lawsuit, no matter what Fred and Dori said. I took her out to dinner at my favorite Thai restaurant, the Chiang Mai of Siam, so we could talk about my predicament. My friend the owner, Sak Pankam, made us up a special dish of boiled wontons and curried duck linguini which was not on the menu. Even if Fred stripped me of my status, my title and my dignity, I could still eat like a Kha-Khan.

"Fred is being overzealous", she admitted. "He sees the legal threat as being potentially harmful because of the sensitive post you held in the Guardian's Office."

"What should I do?", I cried. "I'm not a Potential Trouble Source. If Ron were still alive, he would never allow this outrage to continue. Still, how do I make things go right?" "My advice is for you to go to Flag and do something for Scientology instead of worrying about your own case", she suggested. "That's the only way you are going to prove to everyone that your ethics and integrity are in solid and you are above reproach."

"What about you, Barbara?", I asked. "Are you going to stay a Bookstore Officer all of your life? You need to become a professional auditor. I see that you really want to help people."

Our talk was beneficial for both of us.

Going to Flag was indeed the answer, although we went on our separate ways. Barbara took a leave of absence from the Mission and began her auditor training at the Hubbard Guidance Center under the direction of Case Supervisor Ann Glushakow, one of the Sea Org's most respected auditors.

I, on the other hand, went to the Fort Harrison to attend the Office of Special Affairs Power Lines Conference, an event designed to bring celebrities and political figures into Scientology as a dissemination tool. I saw an opportunity to clear my name once and for all.

Back in 1983 before I met Bonny Mott, I had a housekeeper named Julie Lombard. She was a chain- smoking Indian Rights Activist who was very obsessed with overthrowing the United States Government and replacing the office of President with that of Chieftain of the American Territories. The person whom she had in mind for the job was Russell Means, the leader of the American Indian Movement, which was an affirmative action Native American group with a worthwhile cause as far as wog organizations go.

Long after I fired Julie for making thirteen hundred dollars worth of long distance telephone calls to distinguished Indians all around the country, Russell Means and I became good friends. He never held it against me that I dismissed Julie, because he regarded her as a pseudo-psychotic flake. She had a fatal attraction towards him because she had a braids fetish, but Russell was happily married with five or six children and wanted Julie to refrain from pestering him.

Russell was a brilliant man, and I respected him. Every time he came to South Florida, he was my honored guest, and I spent long hours talking about how the white man had enslaved his people through Christianity and psychiatry, which were always points upon which we could agree. Along with Bhuddism, the ancient tribal religions of the Indian people were much closer spiritually to Scientology than any Biblical propaganda or Mohammadan muck.

"The Bible is only good to wrap fish in, if you don't give a damn whether your fish will stink or not", I told him over a lobster dinner in 1985, shortly after I found out that I was Malchoot the Antichrist.

Russell had grand plans of opening up a Native American gambling casino on protected Indian Reservation properties in Alaska, with a hotel utilizing an arctic Indian motif and theme park. He also wanted all Indian communities to return to the gold standard, instead of using the paper money of the corrupt U. S. Government backed by nothing but broken promises. Russell would truly have made a perfect leader during the transitional period before Scientology took over the world. As I told you once before, I would have certainly voted for him.

Many Scientologists were members of the Libertarian Party just as I was, as we considered the Democrats and Republicans very psych-oriented and suppressive. I always felt that the Libertarians were much more closely aligned with the goals and purposes of Scientology, although I want to make it perfectly clear that the Third Dynamic has never endorsed any group other than ourselves. In all fairness, I strongly disagreed with the Libertarian platform on the abortion issue, since Libertarians were pro-choice and Scientology has eternally defended the rights of the unborn child, since our religious technology has proven than life begins at the moment of conception when we pick up our next body after returning from the Between Lives Area. Had the Libertarians not taken their brutal and sacrilegious position on abortion, they might have succeeded in being universally accepted by Scientologists the world over, since their overall platform was that of political freedom and ours in Scientology was that of total freedom. There was, in fact, a small splinter group of the Libertarian Party known as "Libertarians for Life" which comprised an overwhelming number of Scientologists who made their stand against abortion well known.

In 1984, I introduced Russell Means to the Libertarian Party, and by 1987, he was a nominee for the Vice Presidency of the United States, running on the same ticket with Larry Flynt, the paralyzed publisher of Hustler magazine who was running for President. Russell and Larry lost in the primary and never got the nomination, but in my book they were still the most qualified to do the job. They would have run circles around Bush and Quayle, that's for damn sure. Also, Larry Flynt could have beaten Dori Hare in a wheelchair race any day. I would have put money on him, even though he was a wog.

At the Office of Special Affairs Power Lines Conference, I proved my loyalty and dedication to Scientology by vowing to bring Russell Means and the entire American Indian Movement into Scientology, and I established an agenda for a major Native American Cultural Event to be held at Flag, in order that I could accomplish my goal. Russell Means knew that I had been active in Scientology for eight years and he trusted me. Shortly thereafter he took up my invitation and came to Flag, which quickly resulted in a tremendous dissemination campaign which brought Scientology Tech into the lives of thousands of Native American people. For that, David Miscavige referred to me as a Third Dynamic hero and instantaneously restored my status as a Kha-Khan. Through the grapevine, I learned that Diana Hubbard had ordered Frank Thompson to reverse my Potential Trouble Source Type A and Type C declarations, and personally directed Golden Era Productions to return the entire amount of eighty thousand dollars to me immediately. In return, I signed a covenant never to sue the Church, and pledged to keep all of the refunded money in my Bridge Fund until I had accumulated a half million dollars for my Flag auditing as originally mandated in my Battle Plan of November the 9th, 1985.

It was fabulous to be resurrected to my former glory as a revered Scientologist.

Ellie Bolger and I toasted some freshly squeezed pear nectar to my newly renewed success at Flag's Lemon Tree Dining Room, which had just begun a massive renovation project, hoping to become the finest culinary phenomenon on the planet.

"Make sure that the sawdust doesn't fall in your juice!", I warned her considerately. There was still the matter of Fred Hare to contend with. He was absolutely livid that I had used my influence with International Management executives and had consequently bypassed his orders completely.

The last straw came on the 22nd of October, 1987. I had sent in the Datapoint and Diasonics class action lawsuits which Dusty Hipps had signed under the name of Agnes Holzbach, as well the Kaypro claim under the valence of Virgil Venatta, which was slated to be sent to our remailing service in Bakersfield, California. Fred Hare refused to allow me entry into the Mission, despite the fact that I told him that I had to record the three claims into the log book which was in the Hubbard Communications Office. "I don't give a good goddamn what you have to do!", Fred roared. "You can't set foot into this Mission until you have been certified sane by Dr. Zigelbaum!"

"Are you out of your fucking mind?", I screamed. "This has nothing to do with my sanity. It's Fields Financial Planning business! I have to enter these three cases in the log book. Now, step out of my way, you loggerheaded moron!"

"You can go straight to hell!", he shrieked feverishly. "You have side-stepped me because of that bullshit with the Indian, and you have wormed your way out of my Ethics Orders! You are no more a Kha-Khan then Adolf Hitler was!"

I was fuming at the gills.

"Fred, I am warning you for the last time!", I recited emotionlessly. "Either you move your fucking pipe out of my face and let me wear my hat and occupy my post, or you are going to wind up in the same soup as your predecessor, Peter Letterese! You are pulling the exact shit with me that he did. If you get your stupid ass out of the way, I am prepared to overlook this incident. If not, it will be your cross-eyed hide!"

Fred hit me with an umbrella that was leaning innocently against the Mission's front entrance.

"You go straight to hell!", he suggested.

"What a damn fool you are!", I scoffed. "You have no idea what is about to happen to you, asshole!"

I spent the next two days writing Knowledge Reports to Diana Hubbard, David Miscavige and Ellie Bolger. I accused Fred of everything from countermanding the reversal of my Ethics Orders to causing me a major case of diarrhea. Ellie Bolger was as rabid as a buffalo in heat when she found out that Fred had refused permission for me to enter our class action cases into the log book.

"That crazy bastard suppressed my income stats!", I reported with wild abandon. "And he still insists on having me certified sane by that quack shrink psych in Boston. I wouldn't be surprised if Ziggy gives shocks and drugs to Lavenda's lawyer, Michael Flynn! Boston is where he's from, you know."

"I give you my word as a Scientologist that I'll take care of it", Ellie vowed.

"I want a final declaratory decree on whether Fred Hare ever had any right to demand that I get certified sane by a psychiatrist", I insisted. "Ellie, I've got to know once and for all whether that kind of bullshit is Scientology Policy or not. I think Fred is a squirrel and a liar!"

Two weeks later, Ellie received an answer from her friend Robyn Mathieson, the Scientology Missions International Justice Chief.

My heart was pounding as Ellie read me the Ethics Report.

"The accusation by Fields Financial Planner of Miami Fishman as to the violation of LRH Policy by Fred Hare does in fact fall under the purview of this office, since the Scientology Missions International Justice Chief is the post of final authority for Missions", Robyn wrote.

"Whereas many Scientologists respect Dr. Thomas Szasz and his colleague, Dr. Sheldon Zigelbaum, for their courageous stand against electro-shock therapy and psychotropic medication, as well as for advocating Dianetic techniques used in natural childbirth and auditing assists, it is nevertheless a Suppressive Act of the highest magnitude for any Scientologist to order another Scientologist to consult such persons to evaluate a condition of sanity or insanity. Only a Tech terminal within the Church can make such determinations, as we have the only workable technology on the planet to do this. The granting of beingness to psychiatry, albeit those not inimical to our goals and purposes, is a slap in the face to every one of us who are hard at work and dedicated to removing the influence of alternative squirrel therapies and practices from the current mental health scene. It is therefore ordered that Fred Hare be immediately removed from post as Mission Holder, HCO Executive Secretary and Executive Director of Fort Lauderdale, and swiftly brought before the appropriate Committee of Evidence for an on-Source Ethics Handling."

Within ten days, Fred Hare was sent to a Rehabilitation Project Force for incorrigibles in California, euphemistically known as "Happy Valley." Other infamous and notorious squirrels like ex- President Vicki Aznaran of the Religious Technology Center were sent there to make amends for their degraded behavior of betraying us.

Ellie Bolger gave me a big hug at the New Years Event at Flag.

"I wonder how much Fred Hare will enjoy running around a flagpole for sixteen hours a day", Ellie laughed.

"Is that what will happen to him?", I asked in surprise.

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn", she dramatized as she clinked her glass of watermelon punch against mine. "Fred crashed his post for the second and last time. He screwed up first in the Guardian's Office, and now at your Mission. Fred will never ever be given an executive post again, and he certainly won't be allowed to return to Fort Lauderdale and rear his ugly head."

If I had a big sister, I couldn't have loved her more than Ellie Bolger. Next to Ron, Mary Sue, and of course my fiancee Dusty, she had my greatest admiration and respect.

"I told you we always deliver what we promise!", she grinned, as the raw carrot she was chewing on got stuck between her teeth and gums as it had done nostalgically so many times before.

"Ron loves you", I blessed with the sanctimonious drawl of a syphilitic Pope, as a tear came to Ellie's eye for the very first time since I knew her.

She really was sentimental after all, with runny mascara and everything.

"He loves you too", she smiled sweetly as she tried to prevent some snot from falling into a wrinkle.

Together we brought in the new year, dreaming of New OT Eight, the War Chest, and a Cleared planet of dead psychiatrists.

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