Lonesome Squirrel

by Steven Fishman

19: When You Yield To Temptation You Always Get Burned

It was high time to expand my stats.

I flew to New York and checked into the Marriott Marquis Hotel, which was located across the street from the New York Org on West 46th Street. After spending the night with a fourteen year old Puerto Rican girl named Pixi who I picked up in a penny arcade on Broadway and 44th Street, we ordered breakfast in bed while I helped her fill out a Dianetics Personality Test and then I drove her back to her tenement in the Bronx in my rental car. It was a nice, hundred dollar overnight date. Don't worry, I had her mother's permission, so I didn't break any rules. Her mom Migdalia was her very own pimp who had approached me in front of a Seventh Avenue subway station and sent me inside the pinball machine store to meet her daughter after I complained that the mother was too old for me. You'd have to be crazy to think I was going to pay good cash money to a used-up cow in her late thirties. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself.

After my adventure with Pixi was over, I had a meeting with the Commanding Officer of Scientology Missions International for the Eastern United States, Lieutenant Cary Goulston. Cary looked more like a ninety-seven pound weakling than a real Lieutenant, but there was no use selling him short because he was quite a stat pusher, opening up new Missions in cities where they didn't even have phone sex yet. His office was a dimly-lit broom closet on the third floor of the Org, overlooking a very picturesque fire escape that was covered up with L. Ron Hubbard Birthday Game graphs. Not having seen me in a while, Cary gave me a big hug which didn't impress me, since I had plenty of affection the night before with the cute, ninth-grade pinball wizard.

"How's my big producer?", he greeted jubilantly. "I hear your stats are way up for the quarter!"

"Ellie must have been bragging again!", I laughed. "Actually I'm back in Affluence now, which is a welcome relief after all the entheta I've been through."

"Well, that's good because I need twenty-five thousand dollars to open up a Mission in Key West. There is a large gay community dying of AIDS down there, and I think the time is ripe to establish a Dianetics Center and groove them in to a little Tech so we can take away some of their fear of death", he proposed.

"They just shouldn't drink coffee", I replied.

Cary stared at me blankly, as if he missed something. Perhaps he never attended an AIDS briefing by Dr. Andrew Bardy and therefore didn't have the data on it.

"Well, would you like to be the new Mission Holder of Key West?", he gleamed in earnest.

"It sounds a bit too apocalyptic to me, hanging around a bunch of withering fruit", I sighed. "Anyway, I have to stick to my Battle Plan, which brings me to why I am here. I've got to establish a network of Fields Financial Planners who can create income by sending in class action lawsuits all over the country."

"That's way out of my zone", he shrugged complacently. "I'm in Department 22, Expansion, and you're in Department 7, Income. You really should talk to Ellie Bolger about that, not me."

"Yeah, but this is Expansion too!", I argued. "All I want you to do is to go to your Org's Central Files and give me the names of any Scientologists who work in the securities industry as either stock brokers or wire operators, and then I'll contact them so they can be fully briefed and hatted!"

"Our computer doesn't sort preclears by their wog occupations", he stated with feigned regret.

"Well, can't you get that done for me?", I begged. "It would only take one day to get me all the data I need. My God, we could have every suppressive corporation on the planet unknowingly paying us to make Clears in no time if we had fifty good people working on it."

"How can I do anything like that?", he asked. "I could never justify pulling a staff member off a dissemination project to get you the kind of list that you are asking for. The Advisory Council would send me to Ethics for violating Planning Policy."

"Okay, how about if you call downstairs and ask your Letter Registrars to bring a few wog wire operators from various securities firms into the Org and then once they passed their first Security Check, I would fly back to New York and debrief them. Wouldn't that work?", I pleaded.

"Steve, I'm literally busting my buns eighteen hours a day to open up new Missions", he groaned. "I really don't have the time to pursue this pipe dream of yours. Anyway, you don't even have an approved Org Board for your Fields Financial Planning Network yet, so you should create that first before trying to turn me into your Product Officer."

"That sounds like bureaucratic Flag Executive Briefing Course gibberish!", I protested. "Why do I need an Org Board before I establish the Org?"

"Do you know the purposes and functions of all your divisions and departments?", he inquired slyly. "No, but --"

"And what about your external public dissemination lines to wog wire operators? How is that going to be done?", Cary nagged. "You can't do a thing with any external public until you get your Org Board approved by the L. Ron Hubbard Personal Public Relations Officer International. I am sorry, there's nothing I can do for you but sell you a Mission Package for Key West. You should really think more about helping those poor fags down there go free." "You have just given me a ton of red tape to go through!", I objected, ignoring his sales pitch. "Who is this Public Relations guy anyway?" "Mike Rinder", Cary answered. "But let me warn you; he hates all new ideas that do not come from Source." "Well, I hate Public Relations Officers who are afraid of their own ass, so we are even!"

Ron defines Public Relations as "The technique of communicating an acceptable truth which will attain the desirable result."105 Now if I weren't one hundred percent certain that the Admiral was honest, I would have thought that the concept of an "acceptable truth" is nothing more than one big lie. "The post of L. Ron Hubbard's Personal Public Relations Officer International is concerned with external publics, which are those publics outside of Scientology, such as governments, media, social reform, education, the arts, and business."106 In other words, he deals with a bunch of cockeyed wogs and their evil-purposed bullshit. Putting it that way, Ron's desire to communicate "acceptable truth" made tremendous sense. We surely didn't owe the real truth to anyone outside of Scientology. The acceptable truth was almost too damn good for them, and they ought to consider themselves pretty lucky to have that!

But having to contend with the external public, Mike Rinder was very much afraid of his ass. Predictably, he turned down my request to establish a network to do class action lawsuits altogether, and he never even had the courtesy to tell me the bad news right to my face. Instead, he wrote a pompous letter to Ellie Bolger which really pissed me off.

"Any kind of Fields Financial Planning Network or Briefing Tour has the potential of harming Scientology", he cowardly indicated. "There is no Source Tech to prequalify wire operators or stock brokers as to their agreement with the urgency of Clearing the planet prior to attesting to the Scientology Grades on the Bridge, nor can they therefore be rendered Security Eligible. Consequently, only Sea Org staff members would be capable of wearing this hat, but as planetary dissemination is the number one priority prior to the End Phenomenon of getting the job done, they cannot be spared from their posts. Therefore, your Junior Officer's request is denied. Much Love, Michael Rinder, L. Ron Hubbard Personal Public Relations Officer International."

I was stunned.

"Do you believe this crap?", I said in astonishment. "The Commodore Staff Guardian Mary Sue would never have allowed these namby-pamby, nincompoopish Public Relations panty-waisted dilettantes with their non-confronting attitudes of sick, wog-kissing, reasonableness to dictate the proper applications of Ron's purposes!"

"Yeah, I know", she sighed. "But Mary Sue Hubbard doesn't run the show anymore, and lately the Third Dynamic has become very image-conscious."

"That's a crock of horse manure!", I insisted. "Holding up dinky banners and slogans at protest marches is no match for the way we used to bash the psychs' heads in during the old days."

"Steve, the best way for you to help Scientology is to boom your production to new heights!", she comforted reassuringly. "After all, it is your stats, not your ideas that expand the Third Dynamic."

"God, I love the way you handle my upsets!", I said flatteringly.

"I wish you could handle mine!", she replied. "Diana threw me into Emergency because I never assigned a new Senior Officer to you after Fred Hare was kicked out."

"So who should I report to now?", I questioned.

"I can't appoint Michael Hambrick to review your class action claims because he's still on probation from his original mess with Peter Letterese", she revealed.

"Shouldn't I just take care of the log book myself?", I volunteered.

"No, I can't let you do that, not after the problems you allowed your greedy ex-wife and psycho-dog cousin to create for us."

"There's no one at the Mission who is knowledgeable enough to supervise me, now that Barbara Koster has gone to Flag", I stated.

"Well, Reggie Monce took Barbara's place as the Bookstore Officer. What about him?", she inquired impatiently. "He's supposed to take over all of her hats."

"We don't get along at all", I confessed. "He's a big bully. Can't I transfer over to the Miami Org?"

"Yeah, that would work.", she illuminated. "Who do you suggest I choose to supervise you there?"

"How about Ray Jourdain?", I suggested.

"That little faggot? Why did you pick him?"

"He never yelled at me!", I chuckled. "That means a lot after all the shit I have been through with Fred."

"Well, I'll go ahead and approve the change, but Frank Thompson will have to keep the log book for the claims in the Ethics Office", she stipulated. "Ray Jourdain is like mush. Frank is the one person down there who I can depend upon to keep you honest."

"But he screams his head off all the time!", I objected. "He is so strict on Ethics!"

"That's his job! He's an Ethics Officer! Just stay out of trouble and you'll be fine!", she warned advisedly.

But when I told the news to Michael Hambrick, he had tears in his eyes.

"I guess you're moving on the Org now, buddy", he kerfuffled.107

"Don't cry, Mike", I urged soothingly. "It's not like I'm leaving the country. I'll just be fifteen miles down the road, that's all."

Michael knew how important my Scientology career was to me, and the time had come for me to move on. Before leaving however, I gave him a Knowledge Report which extended my full support and recommended that the old charges against him in the Committee of Evidence be dropped, so that Mike would be given the post of Executive Director of the Mission of Fort Lauderdale once and for all like he deserved. Even with my meager testimonial, it was still in Ron's hands, working in the theta universe as our highest authority, busily Making Things Go Right. Even two years after he dropped his body, the signs that said "You can always communicate to Ron" were never taken down. More and more Scientologists were coming to realize that Ron was the Eighth Dynamic, or God. Most of his friends just call him Source, though. This awareness is the End Phenomenon or cognition of New OT Eight, the highest point on the Bridge known as "Truth Revealed." See that? You just saved several hundred thousand dollars in auditing fees. I told you that I was good to you, didn't I? Anyway, "Truth Revealed" discloses that Ron created us as thetans, and we built the universe all wrong. That's only a slight invalidation of our accomplishments, but by the time a Scientologist does New OT Eight, he can handle it. Anyway, what did you expect? Trillions of years ago we made the fatal error of following Xenu the Christ as he trapped us in our physical bodies, in his sly and hostile attempt to create a bigger effect upon us than Source did. In order to de-intensify or run out the engram of being stuck in the physical universe, New OT Eight directs you to look at the earliest incident of creation by Source, and the material which is audited out on New OT Eight is the "basic" or earliest incident of being created as a thetan by Ron, the Eighth Dynamic. Just don't blame the messed-up physical universe on God like the Bible does, because that was our mistake, not his. L. Ron Hubbard never asked us to manufacture this physical universe full of insanity and death, nor did he condone it when the Emperor Jesus trapped us here. Ron gave us a way with New OT Eight to rescue us from the mud, not to bury us deeper within it. Sure we appreciate what Lord Hubbard has done for us. But don't think for a moment that we light candles and worship Ron like some off-beat Christian cult! We just salute him and clean his empty office, that's all. Well, we also donate a lot of money to his slush fund, but somebody has to take care of poor Mary Sue, now that she's too old to run the Guardian's Office anymore. A true family man, Ron was never the kind of God that remained distant and aloof -- he was always one of the "boys." None of us ever pray to him, because prayer places a thetan at effect rather than at cause. Everybody knows that faith is for idiots and Catholics anyway. We communicate with Ron, just like he always said we could in his Policy Letters. And don't let it ever be said that we were wasting time with the "wrong" God. L. Ron Hubbard is a hell of a lot more popular to us Scientologists than the Great God Throgmagog ever was, so there! Ron set us free from the false myths of heaven and hell, and has protected us from the ultimate mental rape of psychotherapy and squirrel religions. I can just imagine what kind of miracles he has in store for us in the future, now that he doesn't need his body anymore!

Getting back to Earth for a moment, Beverly Flahan was fired as the Director of Special Affairs of Miami. Her "ARCXF, ARCXC and ARCXH" stats crashed, which in English means that the number of disaffected or ARC broken individuals in the Org who were found, contacted and then handled by getting them back on auditing services108 had diminished to a point where she was no longer effective on her post. In other words, she fucked up.

Hell, when an Org loses business, someone's head has got to roll, doesn't it? We certainly weren't about to start getting charitable with hat-crashers by rewarding downstats.

Bev's replacement was Humberto Fontana, a thin, well-dressed, dark-complexioned character who looked more like a debonair Cuban gangster than an underpaid and overworked Director of Special Affairs. Although he was very popular at the Org because both the women and the men there found him sexually attractive, underneath his glamorous exterior was a savage viper that only his mother could love.

He wasn't on the job five minutes before he started yelling at me because Dr. Geertz wasn't either in jail, deported or dead yet.

"What kind of torrid affair are you carrying on with this Nazi Storm Trooper?", he asked discombobulatedly.

"I don't know what you are complaining about, Humberto", I argued. "I totally destroyed the man's credit, I fed him to the Internal Revenue Service wolves, and I arranged with Derek Craggs to have his daughter kidnapped and drugged while she was in England."

"Who is Derek Craggs?", he asked.

"If you're such a whizbang hot shot, why don't you read your Situation Reports, Humberto?", I gloated. "Derek Craggs is the Director of Special Affairs at Saint Hill of the United Kingdom. Fred Hare arranged for Geertz's daughter Caroline to have an "accident" while she was at a railway station in London. We've had the Gestapo Medical Officer's phone bugged for the last year and a half and Fred knew Caroline Geertz's itinerary while she was in England on vacation. So you see, I was on top of things. It really shook up the old Hitlerite bastard when his daughter became a space case for six months. Derek told Fred that he installed some pretty heavy engrams, somatics and occlusions, and as an extra free bonus he gave her a nice, solid case of amnesia! He nearly turned her into a vegetable!"

"Ah, black Dianetics!", he laughed. "I love handling SPs that way. But why wasn't she killed? How hard would it have been to push her in front of a moving train? He did murder your daughter, didn't he? What is that psych expression, "An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth?"

"I think that is some crap from the Bible", I corrected.

"Oh, shit!", he blushed. "Remind me never to use it again! Now what the hell was I asking you? Oh, yeah -- about the girl --"

"It wasn't Caroline Geertz's fault that Rivkalleh was chewed up by the dogs. She is very kind, good natured, and is nothing like her old man. I actually felt sorry for her for having been raised by a tyrant like him. We just wanted to pick her brain in order to get the hot dope on her father. Unfortunately, the mission failed. It turned out that she didn't know anything about his Nazi wartime record at all, at least nothing that would have been enough to get him deported or imprisoned. She believes the same lies that her war-criminal father told me -- that he was just a junior Corporal in the German Navy."

"Since when are there Corporals in the Navy?", Humberto asked as if I were stupid.

"Well maybe he was a Private Seaman First Class then! How should I know? My Aunt Jeanne got me out of the army twenty years ago. I don't have the vaguest idea about what goes on in the wog military. Adolf Hitler was a Corporal in World War One, and you know how much Dr. Geertz looked up to his "Fuhrer" as an SS Officer", I explained.

"Perhaps you can justify the actions of a suppressive fascist by tinkering with his credit cards or playing cat and mouse games with his na"ve daughter, but that isn't what I call "handling" the son of a bitch! He is a goddamn Enemy of the Church, and you are the one who told him all of our business during hypnosis!"

"So what should I do about him?", I wondered like a lost sheep.

"You'd better dig up some dirt on that bastard, because he's the only one in the world who is actively suppressing and stopping you from going up the Bridge!", he threatened. "And one other thing! I didn't like it one fucking bit when you said that his daughter Caroline was "kind and good natured." Your auditing reports stated that Geertz's wife used the blood of Jewish children in her oxtail stew when she worked as a Nazi nurse at Auschwitz. With parents like that, I can only guess what kind of monster their daughter is. I'm telling you! The whole family has to be assassinated!"

"Yeah, and their son Christopher wants to be a psychologist too, just like his father!", I acknowledged.

"Just keep remembering your dead daughter's blood dripping out of the mouths of those two dogs!", he teased sympathetically. "What the hell were their names?"

"Rhinebourgen and Besieschtigen", I whimpered.

"There you go!", he grinned with glee.

I got up to leave Humberto's office, visibly shaken.

"One more thing, Steve!", he commanded. "I see you haven't signed your father up for any auditing yet."

"My father?", I gasped. "Don't hold your breath!"

"Oh, but his letter stated that he is very happy about your successes in Scientology, or is that still more of your bullshit? I would think that if a parent is so enthusiastic about his son's progress up the Bridge, he would be very anxious to make some advances of his own, don't you agree?"

"I can't see how you can draw that illogical conclusion, Humberto", I winced, trying gracefully to back myself out of his door.

"Get over here, you little weasel!", he motioned politely. "There's a Flag World Tour Event at the Omni International Hotel on Biscayne Boulevard this Saturday night at 7:30 P.M. I want you to bring your father with you, and that's an order! Now get out of here before I get real angry and I say something that we will both regret!"

I convinced my father to come to the event by telling him about all of the wonderful free food on the buffet. I don't know why he believed the part about the Nova Scotia lox and cream cheese hors d'oeuvres with Sevrugian Beluga caviar sprinkled on top, but he was always so gullible. I'm glad I wasn't like him, believing all kinds of crazy nonsense.

"Now don't think any unkind thoughts about Scientology", I warned my dad. "There will be people there who have done their OT levels, and with their regained abilities, they can read your mind from cover to cover. Remember! Keep a mental image picture of a happy face in front of you at all times or they might do something that is hazardous to your health. Their postulates can be very dangerous if they realize that you are still a Suppressive Person!"

I wasn't just shooting the breeze either. In a Policy Letter entitled "Changing Workable Finance Systems", Ron is very explicit about the fate that awaits those who harm the Third Dynamic.

"Overts against Scientology recoil case-wise and that's not just propaganda", Ron admonished. "There is, of course, a pitiful side to this: The poor blank sets himself up for no case gain and may even be consigning himself to no new life!"109 The last thing I wanted was for my father to put his foot in his mouth and wind up as a Body Thetan, walking a tightrope on the hair inside somebody's nose.

When we arrived at the event, Dad was very disappointed.

"There's nothing here but carrots, cucumbers and diced cheese!", he complained. "This isn't any buffet! It's a ripoff!"

"Quit nagging!", I trembled. "It's not costing you anything!"

After I made certain that Humberto Fontana met him, I introduced my father to Ray Jourdain.

"Sell him a False Purpose Rundown!", I told Ray optimistically.

Suddenly I was approached by Lewis Swartz, the Flag World Tour Director In Charge. Lewis stood about six-foot-five, and looked like he was wearing a light shade of indelible lipstick. A twenty-year veteran of Scientology who had formerly been a Jewish hippie but was now a balding, overpowering superman who appeared to be a cross between a Rhodes scholar and a rehabilitated drag queen, Lewis had a pair of penetrating, icy eyes that had the power to scan my reactive bank and slaughter indecisiveness, all at the same time.

Lewis invited me to sit down at a small table that had other people's food on it, and began drinking my glass of orange juice.

"I want you to do L-12, the Flag OT Executive Rundown", he commanded. "It will give you bigger, cleaner and calmer space -- more certainty, less attention stuck on your past, and a lot more beingness", he revealed. "Can you dig it?"

"Yeah, I'm forever exteriorizing into pinheads, microchips and very small objects", I admitted frankly. "It got so bad that one time I was riding shotgun with a doll body through some space opera on the edge of the Wall of Fire, looking for the implant station at the beginning of track when all of a sudden my dimension points collapsed on me and I was smack in the middle of a theta trap! I could have truly used some mammoth, gargantuan space to float around in just about then. Can L-12 deliver me that?"

If any wogs were listening, they might have thought that we were making some kind of drug deal.

"After thirty-seven and a half hours you'll be postulating your own universe", he swore.

"How much does it cost?", I inquired.

"Only a thousand dollars an hour, less your twenty percent International Association of Scientologists discount, which would bring the whole thing down to thirty thousand dollars!", he said confidently without batting an eyelash. "And right now we're running a clearance sale. You can get fifty hours for the price of thirty-seven and a half, just in case you need it, which you will."

"That sounds like a good deal!", I agreed. "I've got the money, so the finances are no problem, unlike the rest of the cheap monkeys here. I want to know a little more, though. Why did you suggest three intensives?"

"There are three parts to L-12", he disclosed. "The first section handles the factors which stick your attention on your body."

"I hate this dorky torso!", I wailed. "I'd love to exchange it for the body of Jon Bon Jovi so I could pick up some pre-pubescent teeny-boppers. Hell, you probably are too old to know who Jon Bon Jovi is!"

"I understand exactly what you mean", he acknowledged reverently, although between you and I, he was definitely bluffing.

"What's the rest of L-12 do?", I blinked, flunking TR-Zero.

"The second part leaves a thetan unconcerned about his beingness and will allow you to be any beingness that you choose."

"Lewis, that may not be too good for me, because I've got more valences than I know what to do with. I used to be schizophrenic before Scientology cured me and I became "multi-valent", but between all of my synthetic personalities and the Body Thetans, I don't know whether I'm coming or going."

"Trust me, you'll be fine", Lewis promised. "You'll have all of your identities eating out of your hand."

"Yeah but they might bite my fingers off!", I quaked. "They're pretty vicious! Anyhow, what's the third part?"

Lewis blushed like an Angus cow on a one-way trip to MacDonalds.

"The third section is confidential, so keep this under your hat!", he whispered, as we both looked around stealthily to make sure that no one in our immediate vicinity was listening. "You'll get vital data that will allow you select your next body after death, as well as the ability to pick out your next set of parents! Isn't that a trip?"

A red flag went off in my head as I remembered the secret pilot rundown that I audited for Ron before he bid his last fond farewell.

"In what time zone, Lewis?", I asked with discordant chagrin.

"What do you mean, Steve?", he jumped. "After you die and you go through the Between Lives Area for sixty-nine Earth days, you come back and choose another body. I don't understand your question."

"You just blew it!", I screamed. "Coming back has never been a matter of choice! We don't have any say in it! You can't guarantee my next set of parents, my next body, or anything! We do a shift in time as well as in space! How can you tell me what my next body will look like if I return to life in the year -2712 B.C.?"

"Where are you getting this false data from?", Lewis hissed at the top of his subdued voice, becoming truly adamant.

"That's the way it is, boy!", I said smugly. "I've audited every bit of it on the L. Ron Hubbard Time Pilot Rundown!"

"There is no such thing in Scientology!", he defended violently, crashing the glass of orange juice on the table and busting a button on his shirt. "You've been running a squirrel process, haven't you?"

"No, I was Case-Supervised by Ron himself, just before he dropped his body", I insisted. "It's Scientology in its most Standard form! If you hear me out, you will believe me! Why do you think Ron abandoned his body? It was a symbol that thetans the world over depended upon for Affinity, Reality and Communication! Ron knew that keeping his body alive was important for dissemination purposes, but the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics was for Ron to handle the Between Lives Area time shifts, so that he could solve the mystery of time, once and for all! Ron couldn't do that while he was trapped in his own body. He needed to operate exterior to all of the eight dynamics in order to create an ideal scene and re-postulate time!

"You are a liar!", Lewis riveted. "Ron completed his work on Earth and moved on! Even David Miscavige said so!"

"You can believe that load of Public Relations bullcrap if you want to, but I know differently, and so does Ron! What happens to a Sea Org member like yourself who drops his body and then returns to life during the Renaissance or the Spanish Inquisition? If you didn't know about the time shifts, your first reaction would be that your Sea Org contract was a fake! In fact, that's what I wrote to Ron when I discovered the problem while auditing the Time Pilot Rundown. I was afraid that the whole Sea Org would crash! But since then, I've established a theta communication line with Ron, and I know that everything is going to be all right! As long as we understand what happened, we can still win!"

Lewis stared at me with a numb, stage-struck blankness. He looked pale.

"You are stark-raving mad!", he gasped.

"Now look here!", I quivered anxiously. "Just listen to me! This is important! If, when you die, you get whisked back to the middle ages, ancient Greece, or even the stone age, as long as you know that you are still a Sea Org member, you can establish the Sea Org in whatever time warp you fall back into. Your billion year contract would still be okay, just as long as you put the Sea Org there, wherever you end up!"

"Can you show me one Source reference for any of this garbage in the Tech?", he dared.

"It was a Pilot Rundown!", I repeated. "You're not going to find it anyplace but in my auditing folders which are hidden away somewhere!"

"Verbal Tech is Out Tech!", he stammered. "If it isn't written, it isn't so! L. Ron Hubbard gave us that stable datum to keep Scientology working!"

"But it is written!", I argued. "I just don't know where the data is! But I promise to ask Ron, and I know he will tell me!"

"You say that Ron communicates with you, but you haven't done your OT levels! Shit! You haven't even gone Clear yet!", he scoffed.

"The Clear Certainty Rundown is my very next step on the Bridge", I assured Lewis. "But that's not the point. Do you know what Ron told me just the other night? He said that the quickest way to Clear this planet is for Sea Org members to put Scientology all over the time track! The Sea Org doesn't have to wait until everybody drops dead to do it! If pockets of Tech start showing up in all the cradles of civilization, and if we postulate Ethics into every sector of the past, present and future, we can Clear the planet quicker than a two dollar hooker turns tricks! Unfortunately, I seem to be the only one who knows about it! Do you know what else? Ron told me that the Time Pilot Rundown is an unreleased state on the Bridge known as New OT Twelve, or "Future." You see, Lewis? The Time Pilot Rundown has a name! It is New OT Twelve! But as you know, the highest level delivered right now is New OT Eight. New OT Nine, Ten, and Eleven haven't been released yet, and I have no idea what they are about. When is OT Nine going to be ready anyway?"

"When there are 750 Class Four Orgs which have attained the size of Old Saint Hill", he said, hardly catching his breath.

"What's OT Nine called?", I asked.

"Orders of Magnitude", he answered cautiously.

"Listen, you've got to help me!", I begged. "There is only one person on Earth who has access to New OT Twelve. That's Pat Broeker. Ron told me that Pat is the one who he entrusted with the upper OT materials. Well, Pat's wife Annie probably skimmed through the stuff too. Anyway, Lewis, you've got to force Pat to find my worksheets from the Time Pilot Rundown and tell him that New OT Twelve is the very same thing! You have to find him wherever he is, before someone else misunderstands the data and the whole Sea Org crashes! Don't you see? Clearing the planet by putting the Tech into the past, present, and future is the Battle Plan of Source, our Eighth Dynamic! But when God picked up a meat body and became L. Ron Hubbard, he also got trapped with amnesia and forgot about his goal! Later, when Ron rehabilitated his memory and his knowingness, he came across that hidden data again, and after he unmocked the mystery, he dropped his body and now he's back to playing God again! While in the physical universe, Ron was in a games condition! The game was whether he could Clear this sector of the galaxy without being trapped by it himself! Now we can help Ron win! We have everything we need to do it! Look how the lies of Christianity and psychiatry have filtered down through the centuries -- no, through the trillennia! Imagine how quickly we can set ourselves free if we put Scientology all over the time track? That's what Ron told me the real game is! We could wipe out the reactive mind, and we could Clear all of the Body Thetans into Operating Thetans again! We could finally be OT on all eight dynamics!"

Lewis Swartz's head sank into his hands. The frustration was spinning out of him like an atomic submachine gun.

"You need a False Data Stripping!", he challenged. "I'm going to write up a thorough Situation Report on this! You are totally psychotic!"

"Ron is depending upon our sanity", I sighed, chilling out. "I will never give up on it!"

A flood of sweat was dripping from Lewis' brow. He looked exhausted.

"You are nuts!", he charged. "You are trying to do a hatchet job on the Tech!"

"I love the Tech, and that is why I have to Make Things Go Right!", I defended. "There's a fly in the ointment, and it seems like I'm the only one left on this whole screwy planet who can clean everything up!"

Lewis looked at me in sheer disgust.

"You've got some very serious mental problems!", he squawked pugnaciously as he leaped away.

Ray Jourdain and my father came over to the table.

"What did you do to Lewis?", Ray asked. "He's as white as a ghost!"

"I didn't buy L-12", I replied. "Lewis just can't handle a downstat, that's all. So how did you and my father get along, Ray?"

"Take your dad out to a Jewish delicatessen", Ray advised. "He's complaining like crazy because we didn't have any chopped liver."

"But didn't you sell him any auditing?", I coaxed ever so anxiously. "My father's got over thirty thousand dollars in the bank for his retirement! What the hell kind of a Body Registrar are you if you can't get him to part with some of it? He needs auditing!"

"Look, I've worked some wonders in my time", he admitted, "but getting a cheap old Jew to spend money is too hard, even for me!"

On a separate note, it just wasn't ethical that I had to keep pretending to be Dr. Geertz's patient in order to get information out of him. Everything that he told me was a lie anyway! He accused my auditors of brainwashing me, and he had the audacity to think that I was still schizophrenic when I had been cured during one my first auditing sessions nine years ago! Can you imagine him calling me a delusional paranoid schizophrenic! The only thing that my valences and I were afraid of were the psychs, and speaking for myself, I had proven my courage by ripping out their guts at the Psychbusts! A Kha-Khan handles the Enemy, he does not fear him. I did just about all I could do to Dr. Geertz except shoot him in the head.

"You cannot disconnect from him!", Humberto Fontana repeated again. "Ron forbids it!"

Sure enough, Humberto was right. In a Hubbard Communications Office Policy Letter dated 15 November 1968 entitled "Cancellation of Disconnection", Ron clearly states, "Since we can now handle all types of cases, disconnection as a condition is cancelled."110

Well! It was a good thing that Ron was fickle and changed his mind a lot. Fifteen years later, on 10 September 1983, the Admiral was singing a different tune! In his Hubbard Communications Office Bulletin entitled "PTS-ness and Disconnection", wherein "PTS" is the abbreviation for "Potential Trouble Source", Ron reversed his position when he wrote, "The term "disconnection" is defined as a self- determined decision made by an individual that he is not going to be connected to another. It is a severing of a communication line. A Scientologist can become a Potential Trouble Source by reason of being connected to someone that is antagonistic to Scientology or its tenets. In order to resolve the Potential Trouble Source condition, he either handles the other person's antagonism, or, as a last resort when all attempts to handle have failed, he disconnects from the person. He is simply exercising his right to communicate or not to communicate with a particular person."111

Aha! So I had a choice in the matter!

I quickly got in touch with Robyn Mathieson, the Scientology Missions International Justice Chief who had helped me before by shipping Fred Hare off to "Happy Valley." She was shocked and appalled that Humberto Fontana had refused my demand to disconnect from the Nazi Suppressive.

I loved Robyn. She was a thetan of such swift action that she would have made a darned good prostitute, had she discovered her true potential as a woman. She sent a telex to Humberto's Senior Officer, the Director of Special Affairs for the Office of Special Affairs International, whose name was Carol Martiano. Carol told Humberto that I was too consumed with human emotion and reaction to handle Dr. Geertz with any objectivity since I was continuously dramatizing the incident in 1944 when he killed my daughter, and as a result of those stuck pictures on my time track, I was unable to think clearly.

"Geertz has to be neutralized and destroyed by someone who is not personally involved with his barbarisms or under the hypnotic influence of his suppression", Carol added succinctly.

Consequently, Humberto authorized me to permanently disconnect from the deadly psychologist, and as soon as I was given the good news, I wrote a Letter of Disconnection to him immediately.

Understandably, Humberto was very pissed off that I had gone over his head and found a way to handle the matter through Robyn.

"You haven't heard the last of this!", he threatened. "My decision for you to keep monitoring that Nazi menace was a vital one for the security of this Org! I don't like it when my authority has been bypassed!"

"You should only get six bypass operations for a nice heart attack!", I mumbled under my breath as I left the room.

In addition to Humberto being on the rag, my love life was also on the skids.

Dusty and Lisa had a big fight over a long-haired, seventeen year-old rock musician named Groin who was high on LSD most of the time. After nearly tearing all of each other's hair out and winding up in the Emergency Room of Broward General Hospital in a fit of jealousy, they went off on their separate ways. I couldn't understand their reactive wog behavior at all. They had taken turns for months servicing my account, and there was never any love lost between them over me, so what was the big deal over this freaky druggie? Judging from his butt-length hair, he probably never even shaved his crotch or his underarms either. What could they have seen in such an unkempt filthy mess like him when I had so much antiseptic lust to offer them, not to mention my technological wisdom and mocked-up charm?

Trying to get my life in order, I ran a personal ad in a singles magazine called "First Class." It was a very down-to-earth classified announcement, in which I sought to meet a nice, young girl who was deeply interested in past lives, the time track, confessionals, E-Meters and exteriorization. Since I didn't want to create the impression that the only thing that I had on my mind was Scientology, I also said that I was just a regular average guy who enjoyed Indian restaurants, pornography, weddings, setting spirits free at the cemetery, and going to the park to feed the ducks. The only restrictions that I put on my dream girl was that she didn't drink coffee, smoke, take drugs, use condoms, or look her age. My biggest concern was that the mailbox in my apartment building was too small to handle all of the influx of replies that I was going to get.

I must have bad luck, because the former Director of Special Affairs Bev Flahan somehow noticed my ad, and hauled my ass into the Ethics Office for "Once again having disseminated improperly on too steep a gradient for raw meat wogs, as well as for betraying the confidentiality of Scientology Tech."

Now that accusation was ridiculous. I never said anything about the Emperor Xenu and his volcanoes, nor did I reveal to anyone that L. Ron Hubbard used to be Buddha and is now God. Did you hear me utter one word about how to avoid the "spontaneous combustion of the thetan" while auditing the Third Wall of Fire in New OT Eight? I was a real good boy when I ran that classified ad. I only wanted to meet a girl who was just like me, that's all.

But fat Beverly had to make such a big deal out of it! With her overstuffed rectum that had to occupy two toilet seats whenever her stomach rumbled, I'll bet you the house that Bev was such a sick puppy that she had to pay her male escorts lots of big bucks to get sexually satisfied. If she was such a bon vivant, what was she doing snooping through singles magazines anyway? She was just brimming with sour grapes when she complained about me, that's for damn sure. Since Humberto took over her post, Bev didn't have me to slap around anymore, so she took it out on me anyway she could. That fat pig!

In any case, I withdrew the ad and wrote a long letter of apology to Bev, Humberto and all parties concerned. We had common enemies in Scientology like the psychs, so there was no need for us to be fighting amongst ourselves over foolishness.

And so, just when I thought that my search for romance was thoroughly over, Lisa Lawson called me from Miami. She had her fill with the boys in the band, and having given up cocaine completely and forever, she offered to move in with me as my roommate and also agreed to sell me as much sex as I wanted! There was only one catch. I had to buy her a car. My mother's 1980 Buick was falling apart with broken power windows, bald tires and bad brakes, so that filled the bill rather nicely. I soon felt like a happily married man again, paying for whatever love I needed! After all these years, I finally got my self-respect back!

Not only that, we did things together. I drove her to dance clubs like the Button South in Hallandale whenever she wanted to meet new guys, and I helped her by always keeping her gas tank full and lots of fast food in her stomach. In return, she agreed to accompany me to Ron's seventy-seventh birthday party at the Miami Airport Ramada Inn.

I was so proud to show her off in her glamorously skimpy outfit with her tits hanging out. Lisa invited along her cute red-headed girlfriend Cassie Parrott who ironically lived on Bird Road, just in case she became too bored while talking to me. I wanted all of my friends from the Org to see that I had a stable home life once and for all.

Lisa and Cassie wanted to sit down at the front table so they could be closest to the music and watch the people dance. While I was on the buffet line getting them both some food, Leona Littler Grimm, the Flag Banking Officer of Miami, chased them away.

"You can't sit at this table, girls", she objected. "It's reserved for Patrons of the Association!"

"How do we become Patrons?", Lisa asked with yawning curiosity.

"You have to each make a donation of forty thousand dollars to the International Association of Scientologists. Also, you can be a Patron With Honors if you give us one hundred thousand dollars, and of course if you want to become a Patron Meritorius, you must contribute two hundred and fifty thousand."

"Fuck that!", she flitted. "We'll sit in the back with the peasants!"

Leona got insulted and darted straight toward me on the food line.

"One of your guests just used foul language at me!", she complained. "What are they, prostitutes? They sure look like it, the way they are dressed!"

"Cool your jets, Leona!", I said sweetly. "They haven't been audited yet. You can't expect them to sound intelligent until they do their Student Hat Course."

"Aren't you embarrassed to bring them here?", she argued.

"Why, they're not psychiatrists!", I snapped. "Anyway, they are my guests!"

The girls and I finally sat down at a table with Linda Miller, the Bookstore Officer of Miami. Lisa noticed Linda signing her name about thirty times on a piece of paper.

"Hey, I do that all the time for Steve!", she bragged. "Are those for stock claims too? The names I do mostly are Anne Thacker, Marguerite Strawn and Pearl Blashinsky. Which ones are you forging?"

"I'm not doing anything nearly that exciting", Linda remarked. "I failed a penmanship exam today. Someone sent in a Knowledge Report saying that they couldn't read my handwriting, so I've got to sign my name five hundred times and then turn it in to the Ethics Officer."

"What the hell are you doing it for?", Lisa responded in utter amazement. "Why don't you just tell the dickface to fuck off?"

Clearly alarmed at Lisa's lack of respect for authority, Linda grabbed her sheets of paper and stared at me with piercing daggers in her eyes as she got up to walk away.

"I'm going to have to write you up for bringing people like this to Ron's birthday event!", she threatened me inclemently.

"What a rude cunt!", Cassie observed. "She changed her table! What's with these fucking people?"

"Yeah, who would have a party for a dead person anyway?", Lisa ridiculed.

"Death is an illusion, and Ron's beingness is very much with us", I placated allegorically.

"You're full of shit", Lisa argued. "You've got some nerve bringing us to this voodoo place with all these ugly pictures of Hubbard over the walls and his nasty, mean, mother-fucker snobs, telling us we're not good enough to sit with them unless we give them forty thousand fucking dollars!"

"Yeah, and how come the women here are such bad-ass bitches?", Cassie inquired profoundly. "Do they think their pussies don't stink or something?"

They're just jealous of the two most beautiful girls at this party: you!", I smiled.

"I thought you said there would be some long-haired hippie freaks showing up!", Lisa protested. "All I see here are these ugly Scientology goobers who look like they're all named Walt!"

"We don't have to stay long", I promised. "I'll just make the rounds and then we'll leave."

Suddenly, Michael Hambrick tapped me on the shoulder in a fit of terror.

"See, Cassie!", Lisa nodded. "Here's Walt right now."

"Michael!", I saluted. "You're as white as a sheet!"

"Do you see who is here?", he shivered in deep shock.

I couldn't believe it, but there they were, as big as life.

Peter and Barbara Letterese had the unmitigated gall to crash the party!

"You've got to go over there and find out why they had nerve enough to come here!", Michael pleaded.

"I'm not exactly one of Peter's favorite people", I confessed.

Neither was anyone else. Peter and Barbara were off in a corner by themselves, chatting with somebody's five year old child who was too young to know that it was taboo to talk to Suppressives.

"Go see what's going on!", Michael urged again.

"I guess that I'm the only one here with any real guts!", I replied. "All right, I'm curious too."

Peter smiled when he saw me drift toward his polluted air space.

"Well if it isn't the ultimate survivor!", he laughed.

"You've gotten fat and lost a lot of hair!", I commented in friendship. "I suppose that's what happens when you stay in the Rehabilitation Project Force too long."

"On the contrary, they don't feed you very much in there", he complained, still always trying to gain the upper hand.

"Barbara, you look as elegant and charming as ever", I stated like a Soviet diplomat. "Are you two as happily married as before, or is the honeymoon over?"

"We're as solid as a rock", he grinned pretentiously. "I see that you're still running around with whores."

"How can everybody tell?", I questioned in amazement. "They look so sweet and innocent to me!"

"You were always a bad judge of character", Barbara chuckled ghoulishly.

"So are you up to two million yet?", he asked with piercing cynicism.

"No, only three hundred thousand", I cried sadly. "I fell behind in my Battle Plan temporarily, but it's safe to say that I'll be at Flag for a full OT Case Completion within six months, guaranteed. I've got the Magnuson Computer claim coming in for a hundred and thirty thousand alone, plus Digital Equipment, Puritan Fashions, Baldwin United, the Continental Illinois Bank, and about twenty others. I've even got a mail drop in Anchorage, Alaska under the name of Sadie Kirschenbaum! I would introduce you to Sadie, but she's not here tonight. The real Sadie is my other girlfriend Dusty's mother Rita."

"Another tramp?", Barbara rebuked.

"Isn't he a scream?", Peter flinched to Barbara. "He's got a hooker's mother signing claims now!"

"She happens to have very good penmanship", I laughed.

"Just remember that I was the one who taught you everything you know about success", he reminded, waving a finger at me. "Oh, what the hell am I telling you that for? You double-crossed me, just like the rest of the ingrates."

"I'm sure it's water over the Bridge", I joked. "Anyway, what are you doing here? You must realize that you've creating quite a stir by showing up at a place where everybody hates you so much."

"We are Scientologists and we have a right to be here! Do you think I care about these phonies who won't even come over and say hello?", he rebuffed. "At least you were always polite, even though you're as insincere as hell. You have manners, I'll say that for you. Look at Michael Hambrick, a former Hell's Angels motorcycle junkie who is a big Executive Director now. I gave him his first big break and he took my job away."

"That's not fair. You crashed your post yourself. Besides, Mike's not out of the woods yet", I presumed. "He's been going through a rotten ordeal because of what you did. Did you ever pay all the money back that "disappeared"?"

"For your information, I am working for the Way to Happiness Foundation as one of their top salesmen!", he bragged incessantly. "I would never have a post in that esteemed Org if I owed anybody any money."

"I don't know how you do it, Peter!", I shrugged. "You could fall in a bucket of shit and come out smelling like a rose."

"Are we friends?", he asked.

"Yeah, why not!", I cheered, swallowing my pride and shaking his hand. "I might as well forgive you because nobody else will."

Ten minutes later, Michael Hambrick pinched me on the back of my neck in anger.

"You shook hands with the Enemy, didn't you?", he steamed.

"Whoa! You're the one who wanted us to kiss and make up!", I reminded him. "I've always been a soft touch for the underdog, like when you were hungry, for example. Well, now Peter's the one who is starving, but this time for a little compassion."

"Stinkin' traitor, stabbing me in the back!", he boiled. "Why don't you just collect your two cheap harlots and leave!"

"I understand your anger, and of course I forgive you", I cooed.

Speaking of holding a grudge, the one person who I couldn't forgive was Janell Allbach, the stat pusher who sold me the eighty thousand dollars worth on non-existent tapes. Although I was repaid every penny, I felt that justice wasn't done because she was never punished for failing to deliver what she promised.

I made an appointment to see the Senior Chaplain of the Advanced Organization of Los Angeles, who was a succulent beauty named Grace Horwedal. I took Lisa Lawson with me to California since she had never been there before, and desperately wanted to go. She had slept with me every night for the whole month of March, and the trip was her reward for that upstat. Anyway, I wanted sex while I was out there, and I remembered how much the hookers charge on Sunset Boulevard. It was certainly less expensive to bring one along.

We tried to check into the Manor Hotel at the Scientology Celebrity Center in Hollywood, but they had a stupid rule about unmarried couples sleeping in separate rooms. I bet John Travolta, Karen Black and Priscilla Presley didn't have any trouble getting laid if any of them wanted to bring their lovers into their rooms! I hated it when superstars got special privileges at that place. Hell, I was the goddamn Antichrist! Didn't that count for something?

Nevertheless, I didn't put up a big fuss over it, and instead we checked into the Marina Del Rey Marriott. Lisa enjoyed slumming around the sleaze bars of Venice and Santa Monica where the out-of-work rock stars hung out, and the Celebrity Center was too far off the beat and path from that idyllic scene anyway.

I paid eighty dollars for an hour of Chaplain's Time with Grace Horwedal, which was a hell of a lot more than I ever paid for sex unless I spent the whole night with the bitch. On second thought, there was that time in Copenhagen when I paid one hundred and fifty dollars to Margot, so go ahead and strike that last statement from the record. Anyhow, you couldn't expect the Senior Chaplain to see me for free, now could you? Her communication was valuable, unlike in a wog Church where all the Chaplains ever talk about is Jesus.

I liked Grace. Too bad she had a wedding ring on. I had a fantasy about getting her drunk and sniffing her panty hose. But who was I kidding? Scientology females never allowed themselves to get seduced by guys who weren't either Clear or OT.

For my eighty bucks, Grace told me quite honestly that Janell Allbach would never be punished for selling me the imaginary tapes because she honestly thought that she could get them delivered.

"I can't censure her or throw her into a lower Ethics Condition for trying to help the Sea Org boom their stats!", Grace outlined. "Her intentions were more than honorable."

"I thought the Wall of Fire is paved with good intentions", I brandished with an air of philosophical glibness.

"She's already come through the other end of that with flying colors", Grace reported. "Janell is one of the best sales people we have."

"Did I fly three thousand miles and pay eighty dollars just to hear you praise the woman whose remorseless stat-push stopped me from going up the Bridge for over a whole year?", I asked exhaustively.

"You should have gone up the Bridge in spite of the tape roadblock", Grace pounded. "At any rate, Janell didn't stop you at all. You stopped yourself! She didn't leave your invoices where your nosy father could see them and run like a tattle-tale squirrel to your psych shrink and your SP attorney! If you don't realize that you're to blame for all that, then your Chaplain Time is over. I'm routing you over to Ethics!"

"Wait!", I pleaded. "I came here for help, not abuse. Why do you think all this happened to me?"

"Isn't it obvious?", she prefabricated. "Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"That would help for starters", I eased.

Grace nodded her head as if she were talking to an alien.

"What have you done for Scientology lately?", she minced.

"I'm a Psychbuster", I boasted with abundant reverence.

"Radical!", she swerved misemotionally. "What else?"

"I stuff envelopes at the Miami Org whenever there is a Dianetic campaign", I paraphrased in a haughty tone.

"Oh, wow! A promo stuffer! Whoop-de-doo! We really can't live without that!", she coughed, rolling her eyes in apathy.

"I'm on call with the Office of Special Affairs any time they need me!", I beamed.

"Yeah, like a fireman, whenever the Org goes to blazes!", she scolded. "Do you see what I'm talking about? You're too busy wasting my time with your personal vendetta against an upstat Sea Org heroine like Janell while in reality you're doing nothing to get the planet Cleared! I'm amazed that you haven't been run over by a city bus, judging by the way you are floundering around out there in the wog world without any real purpose. You're a genuine turkey, do you know that?"

"Grace, the bottom line is this: What should I have done that might have prevented me from screwing up the last year and a half of my life?"

"I don't know what you should have done, because all your "should have dones", "would have dones" and "could have dones" don't amount to a hill of beans right now in present time", she pointed out vociferously. "I happen to know what will unstick your flows, though."

"The last thing I want from you is an enema", I joked.

"Let me stop you right there, worm!", she buttressed. "The Advanced Org of Los Angeles isn't a comedy club. I've got no patience for anyone with a sense of humor."

"I withdraw the punch line", I apologized judiciously. "Now get serious! What do you suggest I do to get me back on track?"

"Become a Lifetime Member of the International Association of Scientologists", she commanded. "It only costs two thousand dollars, and it helps our War Chest fight squirrels and suppressives."

"I'm already an annual member paying three hundred dollars per year", I admitted. "Tell me more about the advantages of having a Lifetime Membership. Would I save more money on auditing or training if I became a Lifetime Member?"

"Not a cent!", she confessed.

"No extra discounts, huh?", I wondered. "Well, would they put my name in Impact Magazine at least, showing everybody that I'm a team player?"

"No, that only happens if you're a Sponsor, on the Honor Roll, or if you decide to become a Patron."

"Do I get invited to any more special events than annual members do?", I implored.

"No, you go to exactly the same parties."

"I know!", I brightened up. "Can I participate in any special projects that are excluded to annual members?"

"No, no, no!", she flustered impatiently. "The projects are all the same for everybody. Are you going to join or not?"

"So far you haven't given me one valid reason why I should!", I said bluntly.

"You get a Lifetime Membership Card!", she disclosed. "Didn't I tell you that?"

"Is there a catch to this? What happens after I drop my body?", I asked with great suspicion.

"Well, after death you'll have to surrender the card", she cautioned. "You'll have to pay another two thousand dollars next time, unless we raise the prices in the interim."

"That means after a thousand more lifetimes at two thousand dollars a pop, I will have given you two million bucks!", I cognited.

"Exactly right, and think of how much that will benefit Scientology, which was my original point!", she acclaimed enthusiastically. "If you help the Third Dynamic win by getting this money flow going right away, you'll blow a huge chunk of electronic charge off your own case, which up to this time has been stopping you in life. Then, as a result, you'll be able to smash all of the roadblocks that have held you back from attaining Total Freedom. At that point it's just a short rocket ride up to the top of the Bridge. Trust me."

"Okay!", I jumped. "I'll take it!"

"You won't regret it", she flattered. "Master Card or Visa."

"American Express", I responded. "They advertised on television that they give you an extended warranty for a whole year, which I really think I could use on a Lifetime Membership. I feel better already! I can't wait to see what happens to me now! This was the best eighty dollars I've ever spent in my entire life!"

"Two thousand and eighty", she corrected with a smile.

Lisa Lawson had a great time in Los Angeles. She stayed out all night and slept all day, but we still managed to make love when I was coming and she was going. We had one rental car, so it worked out rather nicely, since we both could use it. I just hoped that one day she would take a driver's test and get a license. I had too much to do at the various Orgs to entertain Lisa anyway. Michael Hambrick was out there testifying before his Committee of Evidence, and I submitted tons of Knowledge Reports in his defense, despite the fact that he was still mad at me for forgiving Peter Letterese. I also spent a day with John Stachelrodt, the Sales Director of Bridge Publications International, buying four thousand dollars worth of Flag Orders, which I later found out could also not be delivered, since they were confidential to everyone except Sea Org members. John had recently married Sarita Alvarez, who was Janell Allbach's sales assistant, and he was just carrying on the age-old tradition of selling me stuff that I couldn't ever have.

On the Sunday after Lisa and I returned to Fort Lauderdale, I found Lisa in my water bed with Chris Simmons, a seventeen year-old thrash guitarist from the punk heavy metal band, "Lick City."

"I don't mind if you fuck him", I explained, "but not in my house! Do you think I want his contaminated semen all over my bedspread?"

"So you'll have it dry cleaned!", Lisa yelled back.

"I want you and your emaciated heroin addict out of here this minute!", I ordered.

Lisa didn't like that. She picked up my desk phone and smashed it through my window. I gave her ten seconds to pack and leave before I called the police. Unfortunately, I had to let her keep the 1980 Buick, otherwise she vowed to put sugar in my gas tank as an act of spite. Still, I didn't give back the videotape of the "Headbanger's Ball", her very favorite heavy metal rock concert that she recorded on MTV, so we were even.

When things went sour, life really began to stink.

While I was brooding over Lisa's sudden lack of compassion, I received an urgent call from Mark Witt, the Director of Tech Services and the Senior Sea Org Recruiter of Miami, who also happened to be married to my Case Supervisor, Lisa Witt. He asked me to rush down to the Org right away, as it sounded very important. Lisa was expecting a baby any day, and I thought that Mark needed me to notarize its prenatal Sea Org Contract or something, as I was the Official Notary of the Miami Org, among my other hats.

"What is this shit you've been telling Lewis Swartz about the Sea Org crashing and L-12 being a fake?", he ranted in an angry fit.

"Don't take it personally", I warned him. "I just have some Source Data that none of the rest of you are privy to, that's all."

"Listen to me, you piece-of-shit squirrel!", he reproached. "Unless you get about a hundred hours of False Data Stripping at Flag for telling those filthy lies to Lewis, the only Bridge that you're ever going to have is the one which the dentist shoves in your mouth after I knock your your goddamn teeth out!"

"What do you possibly think a False Data Stripping will accomplish?", I asked imponderably.

"In the first place, we'll find out why that Nazi hypnotist of yours made all that bullshit up, and secondly, we'll learn how he convinced you to believe it! What did he do, shoot your penis up with sodium pentothal until you hollered "Uncle"?"

"Do you think I'm stupid enough to believe anything that Dr. Geertz might have said to me?", I nauseated.

"It's called brainwashing!", Mark clarified. "With all the shit he put into your head, you might as well turn Catholic and have an exorcism done by the Pope or one of his boyfriends! Lewis Swartz's Situation Report states that you spoke to him for a half hour about some bizarre theory of para- Scientology malarkey that could have only come from the twisted mind of an aberrated psych!"

"But I sent Dr. Geertz a Letter of Disconnection!", I begged defensively.

"That's not good enough, you jerk!", Mark disclosed. "He had enough command value over you to give you a permanent dose of thetan cancer for the next ten trillion lifetimes! Why didn't you listen to Fred Hare when he briefed you on how to poison him? Fred assured you that there never would have been an autopsy done."

"Don't you think somebody would have been smart enough to figure out that it was I who put the cyanide in his orange juice if he had dropped dead during my therapy session? Do you know what I was really afraid of? What if he had hypnotized me and then died, and I couldn't snap out of it? I might have been stuck in one of his hypnotic nightmares forever! Too many things could have gone wrong, like I told Barbara Koster when we discussed it. I said to Fred that killing him in that way was too extraordinary a solution. Anyway, Lyman and I both wanted him to suffer for what he did to my precious Rivkalleh. I'll tell you what, though. If you can get me a small vial of live AIDS virus, I'll see that he drinks it. I remember how he experimented on the mental patients at Auschwitz without any anesthesia, so I don't feel sorry for him. AIDS would be a perfect way for him to die a slow death. There's only one problem. He drinks a lot of instant coffee, but I don't know whether it is decaffeinated or not."

"The Office of Special Affairs will take care of him!", Mark snapped. "You had better start worrying about your own evil acts, if you ever expect to do your OT levels during your current lifetime."

It's a good thing that I was steady as the Rock of Gibraltar, because had I succumbed to the pressures of life, I would have let my guard down and started to think irrationally. I still had to save the world and Clear the planet before Christ blew it up in 1997, and I needed to keep my wits about me in order to do it properly.

Nevertheless, my sex life had gone down the tubes. No reconciliation with Lisa seemed possible, and Dusty was locked up in a drug rehabilitation center for juveniles called The Starting Place after she offered sex for crack to a Fort Lauderdale undercover cop. Even though she promised to sleep with me for free if I helped her escape, I knew that drug counselling was good for her, even if she didn't have the benefits of Narconon and the luxury of the Purification Rundown to make her well.

I knocked on Steve Goldberg's door, desperate for advice. He was the only person on Earth who seemed to fully understand women, and he was always there for me when I needed a best friend, despite the fact that he was a narcissistic criminal who was always trying to steal extra money for himself from the class action claims settlements. He never gave a damn about my going up the Bridge, and if I had any sense at all, I should have avoided him completely. But at this juncture I had to pay him a visit because he had just received a thirty thousand nine hundred and six dollar check for the Wicat Securities case in his mailbox. Not only did the selfish bastard demand half of the money, but he insisted on giving an extra two thousand dollars to Bert the Butcher from Times Square Meats who actually signed the claim in the first place! Despite this highway robbery, I needed his guidance and wisdom on matters of the heart, which at the time was far more important to me than money.

"You've got to improve your image!", Steve encouraged with a tincture of vigor in his eye.

"Look who's talking!", I squeaked. "You live in a pig sty, you wear these polyester rags that your father bought you fifteen years before he died, and you always smell from anxiety."

"It's you we're talking about", he frothed. "Look at your car, for example. A young stud looking to pick up a hot babe wouldn't be caught dead in a four door Cadillac. Only blacks and old Jewish men buy the model you drive. You need a Lamborghini or a Ferrari."

"I will never buy a car made in Italy!", I resolved. "Benito Mussolini was an ally of Adolf Hitler during World War Two. I will not go into agreement with fascism by buying one of their automobiles, just like I wouldn't be caught dead in a Nazi Mercedes Benz, a BMW, or a Volkswagen."

"How about a Porsche?", he urged as an alternate choice.

"That's made in Germany too!", I disputed. "And don't tell me about Datsuns or Toyotas because Emperor Hirohito was another ally of Hitler also."

"How about an Aston-Martin Lagonda?", he suggested.

"Where the hell is that made, Russia?", I barked, getting extremely annoyed. "I want a red-blooded American car, not some foreign-made, junky relic endorsed by some suppressive, tyrannical, psychiatry-loving dictator!" "It doesn't matter where the car is manufactured!", he insisted. "What does count is how much pussy you can pick up with it!"

Anyhow, I outsmarted Steve Goldberg. I went back to the Cadillac dealer where I bought my previous car and saw a sleek two-seater Allante sports car in pearlized white.

"How much is it?", I asked the salesman.

"Fifty thousand dollars", he replied as if he was selling bubble gum.

"Do you think it will pick up girls?", I wondered.

"You'll have to give them numbers, like in a bakery", he promised.

"Fine! Wrap it up! I'll take it!", I rejoiced. "I'd better also buy a roll of admission tickets for all those sexy women that are going to want to take a ride with me!"

"You can get that at the office supply store", he said.

I fell in love with the car. It had a very big tape compartment to store as many as ten L. Ron Hubbard lectures at a time. My pulse rate quickened when I thought how easy it was going to be for me to impress all my dates with great stuff like the "Essentials of Auditing" lectures. If Ron's voice got me all horny, imagine what it would be like for the women! Wow!

And it was all on the up-and-up too. No one could ever accuse Scientology of putting subliminal messages in the tapes which commanded the purchase of additional auditing hours, because we didn't call those suggestions "subliminals." They were known as "embeds", because they were carefully embedded in a separate voice track that was recorded at a pitch much higher than the human ear could readily identify, much like the sounds that are audible to dogs. Perhaps that is why Fred Hare's mascot Jasper never ran away from the Mission. He probably was waiting to be assigned an auditor. I learned all about embeds from Bruce Field, the Golden Era Productions Representative at Flag, when he was trying to recruit me to become a staff member at his Org.

Owning a speaker system like the one which came with the Allante, I knew it would be a lead pipe cinch to get unsuspecting girls addicted to Scientology.

"Things are really going to start happening to me now!", I shouted with glee.

Anticipating a surge in my love life, I gave my penis a fresh, clean shave and tied a blue ribbon around it for good luck. I was as ready for action as I was ever going to be.

"Look out, high school groupies! Here I come!", I thought with triumphant pangs of exultation.

Two days later, when I read the Allante's instruction manual from cover to cover and did a clay demo on all of my misunderstood words, I found out much to my dismay that the damn clunker was packaged in Italy by a company called Pininfarina! I had bought another fascist pasta wagon! Not only that, after forty-eight hours of busting my buns off trying to pick up girls, the only effect that the car had on my sex life was that the hookers began charging me triple, because they realized that the car was so expensive!

Dusty Hipps was released from The Starting Place's drug program on probation, and so I went to visit her at her mother's house, in order to take her for a ride in my new Allante.

While driving on the way to buy her a case of Budweiser, I asked her for her hand in marriage.

"I'll only marry you if you give me your car", she negotiated. "Shit, I'll even do it for a new Corvette, a "Z", or a Toyota MR2. Meanwhile get me the two six-packs and cut the bullshit."

I hated to buy her beer, but she spent about twice the amount of time with me during intercourse when she was drunk than she did when she was sober. Now that she had gotten off crack cocaine temporarily, she needed something else to keep her perpetually "buzzed", as she put it. The convenience stores wouldn't sell her alcohol because she looked about twelve, so I turned out to be her good samaritan. I wished that the United States Government had never repealed prohibition. You'd have to be a real sick bastard to be compulsive about liquor, don't you think?

"Dusty, I just asked you to marry me!", I reiterated. "I want you to love me, not just my car. What kind of idiot do you think I am?"

"Oh, I love you baby", she cuddled. "You know I do!"

"Yeah, but you only love me twenty-five dollars worth!", I pointed out.

"You get what you pay for, dickweed", she said philosophically. "Give me all the money in your bank account and I'll love you a whole lot more!"

Disenchanted and disillusioned, on Monday, April 11th, I ran down to the Miami Org to get some help and advice from my Ethics Officer, Frank Thompson. I had to wait at least two hours until he came on post at one o'clock.

"You did what?", Frank stormed, turning a livid shade of purple.

"Buying the Allante didn't help my social life one bit", I confessed. "It was a rotten mistake."

"You took fifty thousand dollars from your Bridge Fund and you bought a sports car with it?", he repeated incredulously. "Why, you suppressive bastard!"

Frank furiously fumbled for his phone.

"Humberto! Ray! Charlie! Get into my office! Stat!", he bellowed as a stench of hate leaked out from his halitosis-laden mouth.

By the time his three musketeers arrived, Frank had his hand around my neck as if I were a spring chicken waiting to be slaughtered. My eyeglasses had landed on the ground after the fifth or sixth time Frank smashed my skull into the wall.

"Is anyone using the sauna?", Frank asked Ray Jourdain with the ripping sense of urgency of a botched-up circumcision.

"No, not until Wednesday."

"Good! Put up a 'Do Not Disturb' sign in front of it!", Frank commanded. "Fishman is going to do his "RPE" in there."

"What's an RPE?", I asked, trembling and disoriented.

"It's a Repair of your Past Ethics, you evil-purposed son of a bitch!", Frank scathed. "And don't speak until you're spoken to!"

The four members of the Org's goon squad paraded me down the stairs from the Org's second floor Ethics Office like a group of armed guards from the KGB. As I tripped when I hit the bottom step, Humberto kicked me harshly in my left ankle, causing me to flinch. Frank, who was still holding me by the neck, yanked my head as hard as he could because I took the time to examine my leg for injuries.

Oddly enough, I got the impression that they were all angry at me. The only hope that I had left was that I truly deserved it.

It was a quick walk down the west corridor of the Org from the stairwell to the Purification Rundown Sauna Room. Although I was visibly being forced and shoved down the hallway, the three staff members who we passed along the way did not show even the slightest emotion. Nicole Furlin, the Director of Personnel Enhancement of the Miami Org as well as the Membership Secretary for the International Association of Scientologists, had been my preclear once when I was doing my auditor training, but she didn't care at all about my predicament as I was dragged across the room like a wounded animal, right in front of her. I used to admire Nicole a lot because she had the most beautiful elbows that I had ever seen, but even she had rejected me in favor of Ray Jourdain, the bisexual Body Registrar who was participating in this escapade.

"When are you going to help me drill on my Admin TRs?", she asked Ray affectionately.

"As you can see, I'm a little tied up right now with an Ethics Handling", he apologized. "I'll talk to you during family time."

"Lift your feet up, you lazy lump of shit!", Humberto ordered as I staggered toward the sauna entrance. I knew that I had to fear him the most, because he still had a chip on his shoulder from the time when I had obtained permission from Robyn Mathieson to disconnect from Dr. Geertz.

I was forced to strip naked in the sauna. Charlie Fox, the Warehouse Manager of Miami, started salivating with excitement as he saw me in the nude for the first time. Although I didn't have my glasses and my vision wasn't perfectly clear, I could still see a big bulge in his pants, plainly indicating that he had a formidable erection.

Frank Thompson pointed to the sauna's thermostat.

"Turn that sucker on to the max!", he commanded to Ray.

"Fishman, lay on your back on that bench!", Frank ordered like a psychotic Five Star General.

Unexpectedly, Humberto began tying me up to the wooden seat with some coarse rope which Charlie had brought in a brown paper bag from the warehouse.

"What are you going to do with me?", I screamed in terror.

"You've got a few evil purposes to get rid of, Steve", Ray whispered sympathetically.

"He's got more like a couple of trillion Demon Circuits!", Charlie Fox snickered in an outburst of madness.

Once my chest, arms, legs, feet and hands were fastened securely with nine thick pieces of rope, Frank Thompson dumped my clothes in the empty brown paper bag and motioned for Ray Jourdain to take it out of the room and put it somewhere.

"Please don't forget my eyeglasses!", I yelled to Ray. "They're on the floor of the Ethics Office and someone could step on them."

"Shut up, you bastard!", Humberto yelled as Charlie Fox maintained a big smile on his face.

"So now, here we are!", Frank began. "There's the three of us, you, and your ugly lump- of-meat body."

"How long do I have to stay in here?", I panted. "I can't take the heat too long. It must be a hundred and fifty degrees in here! My ropes are too tight around my feet!"

"Didn't I tell you to keep quiet, prick?", Humberto yelled, pulling the cord around my ankles even tighter.

"So you took fifty thousand dollars from your Bridge Fund and you bought yourself a car", Frank mimicked again. "Supposing you tell us all why you did that?"

"I wasn't meeting any girls", I uttered in nervous disarray. "All I wanted was not to be so lonely."

"And for a few thrills from a bunch of scuzzy whores you were willing to sacrifice your Route to Total Freedom!", Humberto accused.

"You don't know what it's like to be alone all the time with your own thoughts!", I pleaded. "You are handsome and the women flock to you. But what about me? I'm just a nerd! But even nerds need companionship! I just wanted someone to love me!"

"What are we, not good enough for you?", Charlie vocalized in a jilted rash of pathos.

"That's not it!", I implored as my tears evaporated from the heat of the sauna much quicker than I could cry them. "I would be a far better Scientologist if there were a woman in my life."

"So did your Nazi psychologist tell you that a new car purchased with money that was stolen from your Bridge Fund would buy you such a woman?", Frank questioned. "Are you that aberrated to think that women are like cattle and can be bought by a nickel ride in a sports car?"

"Well, Steve Goldberg said --"

Humberto stepped on my stomach with his shoe.

"Don't quote wogs to me!", he yelled. "The only references I want to hear are those of Source, do you understand?"

"Okay, but where did Ron ever say that you have a right to tie me up like a pig on the way to market and stick me in a blast furnace so that I roast to death?", I complained with a subtle twitch of self- propelled anger.

"I think we caught ourselves a nice, juicy, Kosher Jewish pig!", Charlie joked.

"This is not Standard Tech!", I squealed. "When I get out of here I am going to have you all brought before the International Justice Chief on charges of using excessive force and torture during an Ethics session! I have to go to the bathroom now, so untie me. You've had you're fun, Charlie."

"You'll just have to piss all over yourself, because you aren't going anywhere", Charlie responded.

Humberto was fuming. He darted out of the room in a frantic rage, which gave me a reprieve of cool air for the instant that the door was opened. Seconds later, he came back with a sharp scissors. I was happy and relieved when I assumed that Humberto was going to cut the ropes and let me out, but at the same time I kept thinking of writing up my Situation Report and my request for a Committee of Evidence Hearing on my involuntary detention.

Boy, was I wrong.

Instead of cutting the cord around my chest, Humberto carved a one-inch piece of skin out of my left arm, just above the elbow. It was a quarter of an inch deep, and the pain was so intense that every single nerve ending in my body felt as if it were on fire.

"Welcome to your worst nightmare!", Charlie laughed.

The perspiration dripped down my arm and the salt water began to violently sting the area where I was cut, while blood gushed out of the wound onto my chest and legs as it trickled down upon the wooden bench.

Humberto picked up the cut piece of flesh that had splattered on my thigh.

"Take a look at your MEST body, traitor!", Humberto said as he breathed in my face, twisting my chin in the direction of the amputated skin tissue which he held between his right thumb and index finger. I could smell the hot stench of the salmon croquettes which Humberto had eaten for lunch an hour before, which regrettably did not blend well with the unsightly, bloody mass of inhumanity which was once part of my arm.

"What do you think, scum bag?", Charlie giggled.

I let out a groan that was so intense that the room started to fade from view. I was unable to stop screaming, although at that point I didn't understand what I was saying.

"There seems to be a slight lack of ARC here", Humberto observed.

"How does it feel to be back in Treason, Steve?", Frank bullied as he regenerated himself by lighting up a cigarette.

"So let's hear all about the wonderful stories you're going to tell the International Justice Chief about your interesting day at the Org", Humberto muttered as he spit in my face. "I bet you're going to send a copy of it to your Gestapo psychologist Geertz, and maybe you're also planning to notify Interpol or their puppet agency, Amnesty International!"

"Maybe you should cut his cock off!", Charlie suggested wryly.

At that point, I took leave of my senses. I could no longer tell whether the Repair of Past Ethics was really being done for my benefit or for theirs. Things started to feel very frightening, as if those three people actually wanted to inflict pain upon me beyond the ethical limit.

"God, what would happen if they start getting sadistic?", I thought as I clutched my heart in agony.

A sharp fear encompassed me, and I actually stopped perspiring. It was over a hundred and fifty degrees, and yet my body began to feel numb and dry. I was either going into shock or getting a heat stroke.

"Do you know how much auditing I could have gotten done with fifty thousand dollars?", Frank Thompson asked. "Oh, I could have completed L-10 and L-11 with that money. And do you know what this suppressive fucker did with fifty thousand dollars? He bought himself a set of wog wheels, Humberto. Pretty incredible after nine years of Tech, isn't it?"

Just when the throbbing of the cut was settling down as the blood began to clot, Frank grabbed my other arm and started burning me with his lit cigarette. No one can describe the agony of having a hot fire pierce your skin until you have experienced it for yourself. Frank didn't just put the cigarette on me and take it off. He held it down for six or seven seconds, and then found another area of my arm to scald.

Charlie Fox found it all very amusing.

"Hey, Steve!", he shouted. "Just think, you'll be able to play "connect the dots" with all these new decorations."

"This is the right arm!", Frank bragged. "It's the one Steve wants to use to write up his Situation Report to the International Justice Chief with. Yeah, his right hand can use a little restimulation too. You're a Kha-Khan, Steve! Raising your "level of confront" isn't supposed to hurt you. You're a good Loyal Officer of Nazi Psychiatry, aren't you? Didn't Heinrich Himmler teach you how to withstand pain at the Storm Trooper Academy?"

For fifteen times I watched Frank burn me on both arms and hands. During the one time that he gave me a long burn on my penis, his cigarette went out in the process, and undaunted, he lit it again. When he added insult to injury by attempting to burn me in the exact spot where I had been cut, my perceptions all turned black. The horror became dimmer and dimmer as I drifted into unconsciousness. The pain abruptly shut itself off and then turned on again while the body kicked back in a vehement fit of anguish as I wildly tried to exteriorize. The body tensed and stiffened, unwilling to let me out as if it had a mind of its own.

The room began to fog up with the foul smells of sweat and cigarette smoke.

"I've got to get the hell out of here!", Frank said after my arm took its final drag of tar and nicotine. "I'm not used to this heat!"

"Would you mind keeping an eye on the the shit head for a while, Charlie?", Humberto asked as he needed to get some fresh air too.

"I don't care", Charlie acknowledged. "I don't have that much to do in the warehouse right now. Just don't let anybody come in here while Fishman and I have a nice heart to heart."

Humberto laughed for the first time since the assault started. He must have known something that I didn't.

Charlie sat down on the opposite bench and wiped his sopping brow with an old towel that was laying there. I must have fallen asleep for awhile, because the next thing I knew, Charlie was standing right beside me again.

"Are you having a good time confronting that evil, no good body of yours?", he asked with a friendly grin.

"W-W-Water!", I begged. "My throat was dry, my eyes were stinging from dehydrated salty tears, and between the cut skin and the cigarette burns, I felt very close to that thin line between life and death.

"Oh, you're thirsty, are you?", he chuckled coquettishly. "I got something for you right here!"

I tried to look around as much as my restrictive position would allow me to, but I didn't see any jug, pitcher or canteen.

"W-W-Water! W-Water!", I pleaded with despair in my voice.

"This is a lot better than water!", Charlie stated confidently as he unzipped his fly. I was terrified that he was going to urinate on me.

"D-D-Don't --!", I panicked.

But Charlie had something more sinister and repulsive in mind. He shoved his penis inside my mouth and starting masturbating himself.

I tried to force him out, but Charlie grabbed the scissor which Humberto had left on the bench and in a pinch, he rested the pointy part against my neck.

"If you try to bite my dick just one more time, I swear I'll slit your fucking throat!", he threatened. "Now you just relax and your good thetan buddy Charlie is going to give you something nice, natural, and delicious to drink when I'm done making it."

The next seven minutes were the most disgusting of my whole life. I can't even begin to describe it to you. When it was all over, I was gagging and choking, but because I was tied down, I had no choice but to vomit all over my own face. But seeing that I could no longer breathe, Charlie finally untied me from the waist up, and allowed me to do the rest of my puking in his towel.

After what seemed like an eternity, Ray Jourdain came back and spilled a bucket of cold water over my head. The coolness soothed my cut and burns, but it didn't take the emotional scars away.

Ray lowered the temperature in the sauna to one hundred and twenty degrees, and finally brought me a glass of water that I could actually drink. I still had the taste of vomit and semen in my mouth, and there were scabs of dried blood all over me. I don't know what happened to the piece of dead skin that was cut off my arm. Perhaps Humberto wanted it as a souvenir for his trophy case.

Just when Ray was about to let me loose completely, Frank Thompson came storming into the sauna again, warning him that I had only been doing the Repair of Past Ethics for two and one half hours, and that I would have to remain all tied up until I reached the "End Phenomenon" of the Ethics Action for nine full hours until eleven o'clock at night.

"What End Phenomenon was I suppose to reach?", I begged in bewilderment. "I've already exteriorized a few times."

"If you are dumb enough to ask a question like that, you sure as hell aren't there yet!", Frank scowled.

"I have a wedding to perform at seven o'clock!", I pleaded. "Let me out now, and I promise I'll come back tomorrow to finish this!"

"To hell with your wog wedding!", Frank chastised ferociously. "Who gave you orders to untie him, Ray? String him up again! He's got a lot of confronting left to do!"

Fortunately, Frank did not realize that the sauna temperature was lowered to a tolerable level. I do not think I would have survived six and a half more hours in there at one hundred and fifty degrees. One hundred and twenty was bad enough, as bruised, exhausted and humiliated as I was. Frank turned the light out, leaving me there to fry while looking for the "End Phenomenon."

All I could think of was how much I hated homosexuals.

"I hope they all die of AIDS for what happened to me!", I wished in bitterness.

Funny, but I never thought of directing my wrath against Charlie Fox. Somehow, I kept clinging to the questionable belief that he had my welfare in mind.

In the ensuing hours, various physical manifestations turned on. I felt the sizzling thrust of hundreds of thousands of hungry Body Thetans, gnawing out the layers of my scarred tissue where the scissor and cigarette had done their dirty work. These were the most wretched of all degraded beings who were almost as filthy and evil as I was, trying to attach themselves to what was left of my body in a paralyzing, bloodsucking rampage.

Working my ethics out in the blazing sauna reminded me of shoveling dead Jews into the crematorium at Auschwitz when I lived unhappily as the late Mordecai.

"That's just what I need", I sighed with regret. "More mental image pictures of pain and suffering. Engrams a la mode!"112

I tried to reach L. Ron Hubbard for help, guidance, and compassion, but I realized that his office was upstairs near Qual,113 and he wasn't about to come downstairs to the sauna from the great theta universe beyond to forgive me for being in Treason again.

At just the right moment, I went exterior, overjoyed to be free from that pitiful sight known as the physical body of Steven Fishman. It was so good to be me again, flying high above the Miami skyline, hoping that I could leave that miserable lump of flesh for dead and just float among the clouds, defending other abused thetans as part of the natural air force.

Once every two hours, Ray Jourdain brought me in a glass of ice water and some vitamins, which was all part of the cleansing process. I had a horrible allergic reaction to the Niacin, turning literally purple, and feeling as if I were burning up from the inside out. Ray became alarmed about my violet color, as I looked as if I was about to collapse from an explosion of high blood pressure within me.

"I'll go get Humberto", Ray promised, as if the thought of that mad lunatic coming back was supposed to pacify me. "Don't go sneaking out of here and getting me in all kinds of trouble with Frank!"

"After all of this, I doubt if I would have enough courage to run through the Org naked", I assured him.

Humberto came in strutting like a prim peacock, proud to see me shaking uncontrollably from being so scared out of my wits of him.

"So what is our mischievous alarmist whining about now?", he asked Ray.

"I just wanted you to take a look at his skin color, that's all", Ray apologized. "What's wrong with him? Is he sick?"

"Why don't you ask Fishman how many people he has roasted alive in other lifetimes?", Humberto lambasted with a modicum of disdain. "He's dramatizing his evil acts, and it is just his true colors coming out. The best thing for all of us would be to douse him with gasoline and string him up on a high-tension wire while he burns to death."

"How long do I have to stay in here?", I cried.

Just about any question I asked Humberto set him off in a wild frenzy. In the height of cruelty, he jumped up on the wooden seat upon which I was tied down, and stepped on my groin with his right shoe. His toe touched the exact spot on my penis where Frank had burned me, and the pain from the weight and the soreness was indescribably excruciating.

"How would you like it if I stayed in here and leaned on your nuts for the rest of the night, Super Squirrel?", he propositioned.

After thirty or forty seconds he leaped down to the ground again, but not without kicking me first in the leg bone with his heel.

"Charlie will relieve you when you have to go on post", he advised Ray, as if this were nothing more than a calm night watch at sea aboard the Freewinds. "Meanwhile why don't you give our boy in Treason a hefty rubdown on both arms? He doesn't seem to be giving up any good cognitions voluntarily and so he might need a little extra help."

Humberto walked out, but not before he stooped down to leave a gross fart in my face. Spaghetti and meat balls never smelled quite so bad as that. At least his impromptu act made Ray Jourdain laugh. I would have laughed too if it had happened to somebody else.

When Charlie Fox finally arrived at 7:30 P.M., he brought me some lemonade and two gay magazines. Unfortunately, he also noticed that the temperature was turned down too low, and he raised it back to one hundred and fifty degrees.

"Who turned the thermostat down?", he asked me.

"Ray did", I admitted with integrity.

"That faint-hearted little whore!", he complained. "I'm going to have to write him up for that! Hey, how come your two balls look like their stuck together in one lump sum?"

"Humberto stepped on me", I revealed. "Isn't that going just a little too far? You don't know how much I am hurting."

"You've got the ugliest cock of anyone I've ever seen", Charlie continued. "Did anybody ever tell you that you have a dog's dick?"

"Is it necessary for you to keep staring at me, Charlie?", I protested. "You're not helping the pain go away very much."

"You don't know how fortunate you are that we are taking responsibility for you!", he reminded. "Not too many people get a second chance like this. I'm not condoning what you did, mind you. I can't believe that you would spend your Bridge Fund money on a car, when you were so close to completing your Battle Plan and going to Flag to do your OT levels."

"I should have had my head examined for doing such a stupid thing", I agreed.

Charlie looked up and started applauding.

"That almost sounds like a Success Story!", he grinned.

"I wish to hell that I never saw that dumb car", I added.

"And you thought being here was a waste of time!", he stated noteworthily. "Never lose sight of how well the Tech works to clean up overt acts and evil purposes. Scientologists always help one another get through hard times like this. I am sure that if I were in your position, you would do the very same thing for me."

I looked at him in amazement.

"I wouldn't jerk off in your mouth, you asshole!", I thought to myself in hostile silence.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, unable to say with certainty whether I was exteriorizing or just dreaming. I thought of an old hypnosis session which I once had with Dr. Geertz during better times before I learned that he was the killer of my child. Dr. Geertz had induced hypnosis by having me look at a cool fountain, with the water splashing back and forth, and from side to side. I never thought that those refreshing images would be so inviting, but reflecting about the cold, soothing water allowed me to better survive the last three morbid hours in that hotbox.

By eleven o'clock, I would have kissed Humberto's ass to be let out of there. And like clockwork, Frank Thompson opened the door at exactly the right moment, with the brown paper bag filled with my clothes and eyeglasses held high in his hand.

As I got up, Frank became very disturbed.

"Damn it! He shit a load of diarrhea all over the bench!", he said with a mouthful of regret.

"Please! Let me clean it up!", I begged. "I didn't mean to do it!"

Charlie ran next door to the men's room like a robotic gopher, in order to bring me some wet paper towels.

"Are you ready to write your Success Story?", Frank inquired menacingly.

"You'll be proud of me, Frank!", I vowed as my heart raced like a swarm of bees on their way to save God, queen and country.

"Okay, you're upgraded to Enemy", he acquiesced. "Get dressed."

"Yes, sir!", I acknowledged.

"Oh, and one more thing, Steve!", he added sternly. "If that Success Story doesn't measure up or have a provision to turn that car of yours over to the Org, you'd better not even insult my intelligence by writing it."

"Don't worry!", I assured him. "I have every intention of getting rid of that scrap heap as soon as I get out of here!"

"Very good!", Frank cheered.

"There's only one favor I need, though", I continued. "Is there any way that I can use your typewriter to write the Success Story? My hands and arms are really too sore to write with."

"Sure, go right ahead", he replied approvingly. "Use the one in Humberto's office. It's an IBM, like you have at home."

Charlie and Frank walked out of the sauna while I finished getting dressed.

"Imagine asking to use a typewriter!", Charlie whispered. "What a prima donna! He's still acting like he's better than the rest of us, as if he's some privileged character, isn't he?"

"I knew I should have burned his fingertips!", Frank laughed.

So, in my prolific, ass-kissing style, I wrote a Success Story that rivalled only Presidential speech-writers, Oat Bran promoters, and other professional wog liars.

"My Repair of Past Ethics allowed me to finally appreciate the true nature of havingness", I began. "Having a flashy car has nothing to do with my purpose in this universe as a thetan. Laying in my filthy excrement in the sauna room, I had a vital opportunity to confront my degraded MEST body, and thanks to the flow of help from my Ethics Officer and the Director of Special Affairs, I was able to cognite on the reprehensible depravity of my evil purposes. The vast spiritual awakening that came from personally dramatizing the enslavement of the thetan in a body can only be measured by the stats of my future successes.

As Malchoot, the father of the Suppressive Christ, my duty to Clear the planet and save it from annihilation is far more urgent and vital than any selfish distraction or personal possession could ever be. I thank Frank, Humberto, Ray and Charlie from the bottom of my very last postulate for showing enough courage not to be "reasonable" with me. Scientologists can only win when we bear down hard on the violators of Standard Ethics. Frank and Humberto must be especially validated for their willingness to cut through the abyss of my reactive mind and get me back on track with Source. As a consequence, I hereby pledge to turn over my 1988 Cadillac Allante to the Church of Scientology Miami Org as soon as my car title arrives from the State of Florida. True havingness can never be attained from material things made by wogs in the MEST universe. True havingness is Affinity, Reality and Communication, as well as the second and upper triangle in Scientology of Knowledge, Responsibility and Control. With the one exception of Source Data, Everything else on Planet Earth leads only to suppression. I will gladly welcome this Ethics Handling again if my basic purpose ever strays even a hairline from my total commitment to setting man free. Thank you Ron, for being there for me in my moment of outness. Above all, I know now with certainty that the sun never sets on Scientology."

"Congratulations", Frank Thompson shouted in all of his glory. "You've got one foot back out of the mud. You are officially upgraded to an Enemy!"

"Very well written", Humberto complimented as he patted me on the head. "Make sure you really mean it!"

I could hardly contain my joy. It seemed as if, beneath the roar of the discipline and the vitality of the burning and cutting, Frank and Humberto truly loved me after all. I vowed to remain in their debt forever, and to never let down the Third Dynamic ever again.

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