by Steven Fishman
21: If Mary Sue Could Do It, You Could Do It
There was so much to carry off the plane! I had bought two Flamenco dancing dolls for my daughters, a punk rock bracelet for Dusty from a flea market in Marbella, two quartz necklaces with gold chains for my auditors Nancy and Leah, castanets for Humberto to hit me over the head with, a hand-carved pipe for Frank Thompson's burning desires, and a pair of leather note pads for each of my parents. Iberia Airlines also gave me some fuzzy soft slippers to wear on both the westbound and eastbound flights, so I decided to economize on buying extra gifts and save those for Michael Hambrick and Ray Jourdain.
With both hands loaded, I was flattered when two sky marshals dressed in blue uniforms offered to help me carry my packages.
"Wow, this is real V.I.P. service!", I said in appreciation. "I should have had you with me when I went shopping!"
Suddenly, one of them slapped a set of handcuffs on me.
"What's going on?", I screamed. "I don't have any drugs! You can search my bags if you don't believe me! These are just presents for my family and friends!"
"Just follow us and everything will be explained to you very soon", the second one said.
"You must have the wrong person!", I echoed. "Do you know my name?"
"You're Steve Fishman, aren't you?", the one who had handcuffed me asked.
"Yes, but --"
"Just come with us", he ordered.
"How the hell did they find out about the TAIM Charity envelope?", I thought to myself in holy terror. "I'm going to be thrown back into Liability for this!"
The two guards led me into an unassuming, grayish office, where I was introduced to Special Agent Bill Kemp of the FBI, a squatty bulldog of a man wearing a dreadfully obvious wig and a face like a Southern Baptist that had the Devil Jesus written all over it.
We were often warned about the FBI in the Guardian's Office, but I had never paid much attention to our data on those terrorists before. They were the old Third Invader Force; the dramatizing psychotics of Marcab who helped the Emperor Xenu trap us in the volcanoes.
"What can I do for you?", I asked Special Agent Kemp.
"I've got a criminal complaint out of San Francisco on you", he replied.
"Now you see how ridiculous that is?", I squawked. "I've never even been to San Francisco in my entire life!"
"I think you'd better take a look at it", he suggested grimly.
He handed me a copy of the complaint with his clammy, puffy hands as he searched my pockets. Much to my dismay, he found my Robert Walker driver's license and master card in my wallet.
"Is this you?", he asked sarcastically as he held up the two pieces of identification.
"Of course it is!", I said. "Can't you see that's my picture on there?"
"Does any of this I.D. have your name on it?", he interrogated annoyingly.
"They're not supposed to!", I replied with full integrity. "I didn't want to get in trouble!"
"You're in trouble right now", he declared.
"Is Dr. Geertz behind all this?", I yelled accusatively.
"Why don't you read that criminal complaint", he encouraged.
I was charged with over twenty counts of class action securities fraud, including mail fraud, wire fraud and conspiracy! The penalty on the affidavit was five years in prison for each count! Somehow, I had to warn Ray Jourdain and Frank Thompson!
"I've got to make a telephone call!", I insisted.
"I'm afraid that you'll have to do that after you get to jail", he stated indifferently.
"Jail?", I shrieked. "There are criminals there!"
"That's exactly where they belong", he acknowledged without the slightest subtlety.
"No! This is crazy. My father was supposed to meet me when I came off the plane. I have to see him!"
"I've already told him that you're being arrested", he mumbled emotionlessly as he read me my rights.
"I need to talk to the Director of Special Affairs", I pleaded in horror.
"We don't have one of them. Would you like to give me a statement about this?", he continued, trying to trick me.
"No, I have to make a call to the Org", I replied. "I need to find out the name of our attorney."
"So are you saying that you're not willing to make a statement without an attorney?", he expanded.
"That's right!", I said in my own defense. "As soon as I found out who my attorney is, then we'll both sit down with you and straighten this whole thing out. In the meantime, how do I arrange for bail?"
"Well, on the complaint here, it says that bail is five hundred thousand dollars in cash", he revealed. "Can you put up that amount?"
"No, all I have is three hundred and thirty thousand dollars, and I don't know whether I'm allowed to use it for bail money until I make my telephone call", I trembled. "I've got my Ethics to worry about, you know."
"You should have thought about that before you got arrested", Kemp answered. "When those prison cell doors slam shut on you it's a little too late to start thinking about the difference between right and wrong."
"He doesn't even know what the word Ethics means!", I thought to myself. "This wog is crazy!"
Kemp disclosed that he and another FBI agent were taking me to the Metropolitan Correctional Center in South Dade County. I begged them to put my light blue jacket over my cuffed hands so that no one in the airport would know that a Scientologist had been arrested. As much as I hated our public relations policies for being too soft on the psychs, I didn't want to be an embarrassment for the Church.
The FBI car looked like the kind you usually see on television. It was plain brown, and had no center armrests in the back seat.
"How can you take me to prison without arresting all of the psychiatrists first?", I argued while we were driving along the highway to the jail. "I have devoted my whole life to salvaging this planet while they have done all they could to destroy it!"
"Well, they've got a couple of doctors over there at the jail you could talk to about it", he recommended.
"I wouldn't be caught dead talking to one of those suppressives!", I objected. "If I had been allowed to set up the Psychiatric Rehabilitation Estates Project Force like I wanted to, you would be rounding them up, not me! You should be out there solving real crimes by arresting drug dealers, shutting down mental hospitals, and destroying shipments of coffee. Can't you see that I am a false target?"
"Coffee?", he chuckled. "What do you have against coffee?"
"You mean you don't know?", I gasped. "You don't have to pretend with me! Your Government wouldn't keep their own agents in the dark on something that important, I know that for sure."
"I drink a lot of coffee so you'd better tell me", he warned.
"Caffeine is the catalyst for the AIDS virus!", I confessed. "You've got to tell the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta. If you write up a Knowledge Report they might believe you. There are still plenty of lives to be saved. It's hard to swallow that your Government never gave you that data."
"Why did you say "your government"?", Kemp asked. "Aren't you a United States citizen?"
"Scientologists do not recognize the legitimacy of any wog government, especially one that is controlled by world psychiatry", I admitted informatively.
"Do you really believe that?", he inquired with a trace of suspicion.
"Scientology is the only hope mankind has left", I said proudly.
"You sure have a lot of their books and tapes in your house", he shrugged. "Is it some kind of religion?"
"You were in my house?", I screeched.
"We had a search warrant", he said complacently.
"You didn't take any of my L. Ron Hubbard collection, did you?", I cringed in horror.
"I don't think that's what we were looking for", he sneered.
"How long are they going to keep me in jail?", I inquired frightfully.
"That's up to your lawyer and the courts", he assured me. "The complaint calls for a five year penalty and a fine of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on each charge if you're found guilty."
"But there's twenty counts!", I pleaded. "I can't stay in jail for a hundred years! The world is going to end on September the 9th, 1997! I can't prevent a nuclear holocaust from a jail cell! Even those who have completed the Purification Rundown might not survive the radiation!""
"You should have thought of that before all this happened", he scolded with a teaspoon-full of remorse.
"Don't you understand?", I cried. "You're going to blow up too!"
"Well, it's out of my hands then", he apologized. "I'll just have to take my chances along with everybody else."
"You are frightening me!", I quivered. "You've got to let me call the Org!"
"You can call whoever you want to once you get processed into the jail", he repeated impatiently.
"I need to be processed by my auditor!", I clarified.
"Your attorney can hire all the auditors and accountants you need to prepare your defense", he explained. "There will be plenty of time for that."
It was hopeless talking to that insane lunatic. He didn't understand a thing about life or reality that I was saying to him.
The weather was rainy and bleak. Just looking up at the sky, I knew that Ron was very displeased at what the Third Invaders had done to me. Of course, most of it was my own fault for buying that stupid Allante. I would have never been arrested if I hadn't allowed my Ethics to cave in.
Getting situated within the jail was a humiliating experience, especially for an Antichrist. I had to get dressed in front of strange men with their gawking eyes, and all of my fears from the rape scene in Greece started returning to me, especially since I hadn't shaved my groin since I had left Malaga, and my pubic hair was starting to grow some unsightly stubble. They took a sample of my body's fingerprints and a picture of its face, but they had no idea about my true identity as a thetan. I was given a green jumpsuit to put on that was too tight around the crotch, as well as some horrible short white socks that didn't even come up to my knees like the satin elastic ones I had at home.
I was taken to "E" Unit, directly in back of the prisoner receiving area. This was a separate section of the jail which was reserved for troublemakers, stool pigeons, and mental cases.
"But I don't fall into any of those three categories!", I protested to Officer Aranguez, a sadistic tyrant who ran the "E" Unit with absolute despotism. "I'm a Scientologist!"
My cell was a tiny cubicle on the second floor, overlooking a sculpture of barbed wire lacking any artistic flavor whatsoever. I couldn't believe the bare, stark horror of it all. A sink, a bed, and a toilet were all that greeted me. There wasn't even a television set.
I looked around the squalid cell and started communicating with Ron, holding all eight corners of the room by postulate while trying not to think. As soon as I reached my precious Eighth Dynamic, I told him all about Bill Kemp, the store-bought whore of the United States Wog Government controlled by the Nazi Rockerfeller Foundation, the American Psychiatric Association, and the World Federation of Mental Health.
As it always had been, the only one who was able to comfort and console me was the Admiral, my dearest Source, who reminded me that I had made him a promise to Clear Earth and stop Larry Wollersheim from destroying everything that Ron had created through his gift to us of the Tech.
"You get out of this mess and fight to salvage our planet!", Ron encouraged me valiantly with reverberating intention.
After several hours of exteriorizing, I was snapped back into my body by the noise of a clumsy guard who had opened my door loudly without even bothering to look and see whether I had returned into my head or not. The asshole did not realize that Ron hadn't finished talking to me yet. It was a complete violation of the Auditor's Code. Nevertheless, I was given some free time to walk outside my cell and explore the "E" Unit during the dinner period.
I couldn't imagine that the letter "E" in "E" Unit stood for anything except the word "Enemy", until I noticed the name "Everglades" amateurishly painted on the wall. The bleak and dreary room looked as much like the Everglades National Forest as the inside of my ass did. It was named that way as a mockery of the trapped and the suppressed, in much the same way that the Nazis played chamber music for the Jews as they were marched and herded into the gas chambers to their deaths.
"E" Unit looked like a high school gymnasium surrounded on three sides by tiny cells. There was an old, broken television in the center of the room with a picture so hard to see that nobody ever looked at it. There were some very pathetic creatures standing about and moaning to themselves, appearing as if they were waiting for the last train out to the Between Lives Area which never ever came. They were the mentally ill prisoners, stuck on the time track in their most recent electric shock. Infuriated, I walked over to Officer Aranguez's desk and demanded that I make my telephone call.
"There's a list to use the phone, and you've got to wait your damn turn!", he said coarsely.
"But that could take hours!", I argued. "I have to call the Org so they can get me a lawyer and let me out of here!"
"What the hell is an Org?", he laughed grotesquely, where every pockmark on his gristly face seemed to distend itself in all different directions.
"I need to call the Church of Scientology in Coral Gables", I explained. "If they knew that I was in here, they would get me released within an hour!"
"I don't care if you want to call your great-grandmother", he stated with impeccable rudeness. "You'll wait your fucking turn."
"Why don't you let me use your desk phone", I suggested, trying to make things go right. "I'll see to it that you receive a Letter of Commendation from Vicki Kirkland, the Director of Certificates and Awards, if you just help me resolve these issues. There has been an awful mistake. There is positively no reason for me to be in here."
"That's what they all say!", he burped unsympathetically. "All I want you to do is to get the fuck out of my office!", "The longer you wait before putting your name on the phone list, the longer it will be before you get to make your call."
I couldn't believe that there were seventeen names ahead of mine!
I paced back and forth for fifteen minutes, trying to comprehend the lunacy of my predicament.
There were still several other matters that I needed to straighten out with Officer Aranguez.
"What are you doing back in here?", he screamed.
"I would like to register a complaint", I began.
"You just got here!", he balked with a flushed glare of madness. "I'm tired of looking at your dumb face. What do you want now?"
"It's just that I have been denied the basic necessities", I objected. "In my room there was only a small quantity of soap, a comb, a plastic shaver and some strange thing called tooth powder."
"So, that's what everybody gets when they come in here", he answered stubbornly. "And you're in a cell, not a room. This ain't no fucking hotel!"
"No, there must be some mistake. You are not listening to me. I need to talk to your Supply Officer. I don't use tooth powder, I need a tube of Aquafresh. There is no shampoo for my hair, and I need to write up a requisition for a bottle of Pert for oily hair. There is no shaving cream either, so I would prefer some Colgate with aloe or lemon-lime, although if all you have is menthol, I suppose that would have to suffice temporarily. Furthermore, I only have one pillow on my bed, and my chiropractor warned me that I have to sleep with at least four. Not only that, they are made out of foam, and I'm allergic to synthetic fibers. I need genuine goose-feathered down, otherwise I know I will sneeze all night, which reminds me that I need a box of Kleenex Man-Sized Tissues. All I can wipe my nose with right now is toilet paper! Somebody must have overlooked all those things because I arrived late. Also, there is no hair dryer in the shower area, so you need to get one from another part of the prison. Who is your Supply Officer anyway?"
Aranguez looked at me in astonishment.
"Are you trying to jerk me off with all this bullshit?", he asked.
"Now, look!", I said. "I'm not a homosexual, and I have heard a lot about what goes on in these jails. I would appreciate it if you don't speak to me like that ever again, since I'm not that kind of person. Now will you please give me an Internal Requisition Form and show me where the Supply Officer's basket is?"
"Do you want me to put you in segregation?", he threatened.
"I see plenty of blacks walking around in here", I observed. "The National Civil Rights Act eliminated segregation!"
"We've got a special unit reserved for nut-case pain-in-the-asses like you who enjoy bugging the shit out of people and busting the guards' chops", he cautioned.
"I'm sorry that we seem to be going out of ARC with each other, Officer Aranguez, but you are flunking TR-2 quite miserably", I explained. "I just need an acknowledgement. You keep throwing these wild originations of randomity at me, and you aren't duplicating any of my intentions, which is the primary cause of the miscommunication. Can't you even see that?"
"What the fuck is wrong with you?", he yelled.
"Nothing!", I answered. "I seem to be the only one in this place who is sane! At the Church of Scientology Miami Org, I know who the Supply Officer is and where he keeps the Internal Requisition Forms. Unfortunately, here I do not. Since you are in charge, I have asked you to furnish me with that data. Is it such a complicated endeavor that I cannot get any cooperation from you in securing the minimum bare necessities for my comfort while I am a guest here?"
"You've never had to live on the streets, did you? Well, just give me a written list of what you want room service to bring you, and I'll give it to that guy you mentioned before whenever I see him", he said mockingly, desperately wanting to get rid of me.
"Don't make light of this. I really need some toiletries so that I can freshen up", I begged him. "Put yourself in my position. I just got off the plane from Madrid and I haven't had a chance to revitalize myself. Two FBI Agents from the Third Invader Force with very suppressive stuck flows brought me in here, and my Ethics Officer doesn't even know where I am yet! At least let me use your typewriter while I'm waiting for the phone so that I can prepare a Knowledge Report for Frank Thompson."
"Now you listen to me and listen up real good!", Aranguez warned. "My office and typewriter are strictly off limits to prisoners. I don't know what the hell kind of drugs you were on when they picked you up, but the psychiatrist doesn't come in until tomorrow. This is Sunday. The only ones here today are a Catholic Priest and a Protestant Minister. If you quiet yourself down, I can call over to the chapel and see if one of them can come over and talk to you."
"Don't you dare bring over any degraded beings to see me!", I howled. "It's bad enough that I have to be in this psychiatric prison, but I know my rights! I will not permit myself to be abused by enemy agents of the terrorist Jesus! You're going to find out about all this sooner or later when I Clear the planet, so you might as well wake up to the truth right now! I am the real father of the bastard Christ! Don't you think that is punishment enough for me? Being here in this wog hell-hole only adds insult to injury, so don't start sending the evil-purposed whores of the Bible over to humiliate me any further or I'll spit in their face!"
"Don't you talk about God that way, you son of a bitch!", he raved combatively. "Have some respect for the beliefs of other people. The whole world doesn't revolve around your fucking Scientology shit!"
"Not when it comes to Jesus Christ I won't!", I yelled back. "I have made plenty of compromises on a lot of things, but not when it threatens my basic principles!"
Unfortunately, the only thing that my basic principles did for me was getting me locked up in my cell again by Officer Aranguez. It wasn't until ten o'clock at night that I was permitted to finally use the phone. Aranguez had gone off duty, and another officer who was more compassionate gave me priority with the telephone, much to the chagrin of the other prisoners who had their name on the list.
My heart pounded as the prison operator tried to place a collect call to 445-7812, the number of the Miami Org. The jail phones did not accept coins because we were not allowed to keep any money in our cells. Therefore, all outgoing messages had to be placed by reversing the charges.
"Ray isn't going to let me stay in here for another minute!", I told myself.
Then all of my hopes were dashed. Ray Jourdain got on the line and refused to accept the call. He knew it was me, and he knew that I was in jail, and yet he wouldn't talk to me! I had been abandoned!
Later, when I was back in my cell for the night and the lights were turned out, I realized that Ray must have known that all of the calls made from the prison were monitored on a tape recorder.
"Of course!", I cognited. "Ray couldn't take a chance discussing confidential Red Box Data while our enemies were listening!"
Red Box Data, of course, was "proof that any Scientologist was involved in criminal activities, anything illegal that implicated L. Ron Hubbard, any evidence against any government group or persons, evidence of incriminating activities, or any details of confidential financial accounts."
I was certainly in good hands now that I fully understood that Ray was thinking clearly and protectively.
"Tomorrow is my bond hearing, and Ray will be there with a top notch criminal attorney to bail me out!", I surmised. "I don't have a thing to worry about!"
But on the following day at the Federal Court House in Miami, there was no lawyer to represent me, and no Ray Jourdain either.
"There must be some mistake!", I said to the bailiff. "I have one of the best criminal attorneys in the country assigned to my case, probably the same one who defended Mary Sue Hubbard!"
"I don't know who Mary Sue Hubbard is", the bailiff said, "but if you want to get your bond set, I suggest you talk to the Public Defender."
Consequently, my bail hearing was postponed for two days, until Wednesday.
After they took me back to the Metropolitan Correctional Center, I had another bitter fight with Aranguez.
"I know that there are books by L. Ron Hubbard in all of the prisons !", I screamed. "For years I donated money for the campaign to disseminate Scientology technology to the needy. Every jail and hospital is supposed to have a copy of Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health, and I want to know where the hell it is in this stinking place! I have a right to read other things besides your stupid wog law books or your disgusting, filthy Christian propaganda!"
Aranguez grabbed me by the throat and roared his skunk-breath into my face.
"I don't want you pestering me about your Scientology bullshit no more!", he growled. "This ain't the Hilton, and we don't have any bookmobile here! This is a jail, you got that? People here read up on their legal cases or they study the Bible. That's how it is whether you like it or not!"
"You can take your psychiatric Bible and flush it down the toilet!", I insisted.
"Fishman, I hate your fucking guts. I ain't never going to forgive you for what you said about Jesus. And when a guard in here don't like you, you'd better believe that your ass is grass!"
"So why don't you go ahead and shoot me?", I dared him. "Jesus was my good-for- nothing son, and I can say anything I want to about my little bastard. He wasn't a God. He was a faggot! Judas Iscariot betrayed him because they had a lover's quarrel over another man! Christ was the biggest queer that ever lived, and his crucifixion was too damn good for him! He should have been roasted alive at the stake!"
"Why, you little fucker --"
Suddenly, once of the prison Lieutenants in a blue uniform came in and pulled Aranguez off me as he was about to tighten his stranglehold.
"Easy! This guy is a mental patient!", the Lieutenant said, calming Aranguez down. "He is in "E" Unit for his own protection, not to be attacked by you!"
"You don't know what he's been saying about Jesus!", Aranguez argued, all out of breath.
"Fishman, get back to your cell!", the Lieutenant ordered.
An hour later, Aranguez opened up my door with a wicked smirk upon his face.
"I got in some serious trouble because of you", he complained. "I was told to get off your case. So that's exactly what I'm going to do, too. I just have got one thing to tell you, boy. There are some very religious prisoners here in "E" Unit who are doing double and triple life terms. Christ is all they've got left. Once they get the word from me about what you've been saying about our Lord, nobody is going to come to your rescue. Nobody! There are a lot of real cold-blooded killers in this part of the jail that would cut your heart out as soon as look at you. I promised the Lieutenant to stay out of your hair, so when somebody slits your throat in the exercise yard or stabs you in the back while you're taking a shower, I just want you to remember that I'm going to be looking the other way. You are going to regret the day that you fucked with Officer Aranguez."
He slammed the door in my face, leaving me in terror.
"I'm Malchoot the Antichrist!", I shouted. "I'm not afraid of anybody! You're going to come back as a Body Thetan on the Pope's cock!"
The truth be told, I was extremely upset.
Aranguez's threats were not so good for my diarrhea. The only thing I could keep in my system was my love for Ron.
The Public Defender was a very good natured man with a kind face named Henry Bugay. He arranged for my bail to be reduced from five hundred thousand to one hundred thousand, and my father put up ten percent of it as a guarantee against his credit cards.
I was out on bond the very next day.
Henry Bugay recommended a friend of his to represent me as my lawyer. I didn't know anything about Marc Nurik, since all wog attorneys seemed pretty much alike. Anyway, it was temporary until I found out the name of my real counsel from Ray Jourdain, so I reluctantly agreed to meet with him.
My parents drove me to Marc Nurik's office, which was located in a building on Southwest 27th Avenue in Miami where the parking spaces were made for bicycles, not cars. The law office was one long railroad flat with a broken grandfather clock in the reception area, and Marc's executive suite was furnished tastelessly with a load of oriental crap which resembled a cheap Chinese restaurant that I used to go to as a boy in Fresh Meadows, New York, where they cooked their chow mein with alley cats instead of chicken.
Marc also had a female partner who was a retired Federal Judge named Patty Kyle, although she hardly looked old enough to be retired. Patty's office looked like a wicker warehouse with tentacles that seemed to just take over the room as if there was some hidden meaning to it which nobody could ever see. Aghast at how these two strange people furnished their work spaces, I knew that I was in deep trouble from the beginning. If I had been insane enough to become an attorney in the way my mother once wanted me to be, I would have decorated my office in Twenty-First Century Jewish Renaissance, with lucite desks, chairs and tables abounding with overstuffed orange velvet seat cushions. There would have been beveled mirrors on the ceiling and recessed lighting along the baseboard of the floor. Of course, my walls would have been properly decorated with Sea Org posters, and I wouldn't think of entertaining clients without a large bronze bust of L. Ron Hubbard on my desk, appropriately adorned with three floodlights shining down upon it in the shape of an ARC triangle.
The first thing I would have done in the waiting room of the law offices of Nurik & Kyle, P.A., would be to replace their copies of People, Time, and Architectural Digest with the Scientology magazines of Source, Advance, Celebrity, Impact, Freedom, Ability, and last but not least, the Auditor. In this way the clients would have gotten a little diversity and variety in their reading matter, as those publications were from Orgs all over the world, and contained Success Stories from all different case levels in Scientology.
My first meeting with Marc Nurik was simply ridiculous. I just sat there while my parents started blaming everything that ever happened to me on Scientology! I tried to explain to Marc that Clearing the planet was a seriously deadly activity and that I was quite proud of my contributions which I had made over the years toward that goal, but he didn't quite seem to catch my drift. I told him all about the urgency of my 1997 deadline in stopping Wollersheim's nuclear war, and how psychiatrists have polluted the Earth with their control of corporate economics, the U. S. Government, and the media; but my explanations amounted to little more than silent thunder amidst my parents' echoes of antagonism against the Church and my beloved Ron.
Marc Nurik seemed very bright and alert for his thirty-seven years, but how much could I trust someone who didn't even know that he was a thetan? Plus, all of his clients were convicts! I was certain that he had no experience dealing with dedicated Third Dynamic Freedom Fighters like myself who demonstrated real Ethics and integrity. As a former prosecutor in New York, he was surrounded by degraded beings on all sides. I was probably the first Scientologist that he had ever met!
"How the hell can a person who has led such a cloistered life know anything about truth, intention, and purpose?", I asked myself.
Since the FBI had seized my three hundred and thirty thousand dollar Bridge Fund, I knew that I would have to start from scratch by bringing fresh raw meat into the Org, and a successful criminal lawyer like Marc seemed to be a hot prospect for a hefty Field Staff Member commission if I could only convince him to pay for his whole Bridge up front in advance. Still, my parents weren't making it very easy for me to get Marc interested in the Tech.
"If I hear the word brainwashing just one more time, I am going to jump out the window!", I screamed to my mother.
Somehow, I did not appreciate the direction toward which the initial interview with Marc Nurik was going. Marc said some things which implied that he intended to defend my case by implicating certain staff members of the Church, which totally criminal as far as I was concerned. Everything that he was saying sounded completely absurd.
Who was he kidding?
I would never allow my Ethics Condition to fall below Danger again! There was no way that I was going to risk my eligibility to go up the Bridge by causing any humiliation or embarrassment to the Church of Scientology under any circumstances.
"If Marc Nurik thinks that he is going to become the next Perry Mason at the expense of L. Ron Hubbard, he's got another thing coming!", I thought. "I wonder what kind of high crimes that squirrel attorney committed on the time track to have pulled a hornet's nest like my case into his universe?", I wondered. I knew that anyone who allied himself against Scientology had to either be an arch-criminal of the worst type, or a completely insane psychotic.
"Well, I guess he deserves it!", I concluded. "Life for any enemy of the Church of Scientology is not going to be much of a picnic."
When I finally busted loose from my mommy and daddy on the following day, I charged like a lightning bolt down to the Miami Org, hoping that I would now get some insight as to what was really going on in my life! It felt so good to be home again amongst wholesome people who really loved me.
The first person to greet me in the Org was Cat Fox, the harelipped, menopausal wife of Warehouse Manager Charlie. Cat, of course, happened to be our Lead Auditor and her husband's meal ticket toward his own Bridge. He certainly didn't marry her for her sex appeal when he was such a flaming fruit and she was as desirable as stewed sheep dung.
"Why have you been away so long?", Cat asked as if her curiosity was killing her.
"It's a strange world out there!", I sighed. "If I were you, I wouldn't even walk beyond those front doors!"
She gave me a slight hug which I neither wanted nor needed.
"Well, whatever it is, we can handle it", she smiled.
Naomi, the Receptionist, ushered me into Ray Jourdain's office, which was one of the more prestigious cubicles that actually had a window with a view of real life.
Ray's greeting was cold and limp. He buzzed Frank and Humberto on their extension phones and moments later they rushed in as if I were some prized frog that they were planning to dissect in thetan biology class. Frank Thompson announced his intention to debrief me using a tape recorder, as all debriefings involving danger to the Church had to be monitored for future reference. Frank wore the hat of Debrief Officer In Charge, although it seemed a bit too big for him.
I brought a copy of my Criminal Complaint with me, as well as my Admissions and Orientations booklet from the Metropolitan Correctional Center.
"We don't need this shit!", Frank replied, referring to the prison booklet which he threw on the floor. "We know all about what wog jails are like."
I was about to ask him whether he had ever been in one, but I felt it was best to keep my sarcastic mouth shut.
"So you've been arrested", Frank Thompson declared.
"How does that affect my Ethics Condition of Emergency?", I asked with baited breath.
"I'm not interested in you right now", Frank replied. "I don't think you realize what kind of squirrel cage you've gotten us into."
"Was your house searched?", Ray Jourdain continued.
"Oh, they were there", I acknowledged. "FBI agents and everything! But they didn't take any of my Source Data, so my collection is intact."
"Forget about your collection!", Humberto interrupted. "Did they steal any papers or memos that Ray or any other staff member had given you about the class action lawsuit claims?"
"You know, they took all my wog files, but they didn't touch any of my six Red Box Data Volumes from Scientology because it was mostly filled with advertising promo, and they must not have considered it very important", I revealed as I breathed a deep sigh of relief. "They took some typewriter ribbons and my Rolodex address wheel, but there was nothing vital there."
"I want you to go through your Red Box Data with a microscope and bring me everything that has the slightest hint of Church involvement in what they have charged you with", Frank ordered.
I gave Ray the FBI list of seized property, and the three of them seemed to be quite calmer when they realized that the FBI had overlooked the most critical information.
"What is going to happen to me now?", I asked.
"That's a stupid question!", Ray answered. "You are the cause of all this. You pulled this trouble into your universe the moment that you bought that damn car! You wanted to be a show off! Your lust for those greasy whores might have cost you your whole Bridge!"
"Your Repair of Past Ethics was never fully completed!", Frank added injuriously. "Did you think when the scars healed and the burns wore off you could forget the whole thing and keep committing more overt acts against us? During all of that time, the Government was plotting to destroy the Church because of your selfish greed and evil purposes!"
"Why did you bond yourself out of jail?", Ray asked shockingly. "When I didn't accept your call, you should have known that your foremost responsibility was to protect us from exposure."
"You couldn't expect me to stay in jail!", I screamed. "There were convicts, psychs and Priests in there, as well as a very mean guard who was going to let several of the prisoners kill me!"
Frank Thompson put the tape recorder on pause while he slapped me in the face.
"You keep thinking of yourself!", he scolded with a grunt of pomposity. "The moment a Scientologist is charged with a wog crime, he sets us all up for ridicule! This case is even worse, because they have attacked the very method that you were using to create your income! Do you realize what could happen if the Org or the Fort Lauderdale Mission were somehow inadvertently tied into all of this through your big mouth? The psychs would pounce on us with fly swatters, spreading bad news and black propaganda for the entire reactive world of raw meat wogs to see!"
Humberto was becoming very impatient with all of Frank's philosophizing.
"It's quite simple, psycho-dog!", he intervened. "You have crashed your post, Fishman. This is not merely a debriefing. We are convening a Committee of Evidence against you. You're on the administrative lines of the Office of Special Affairs now. Have you got that, you idiot? I am not going to let you crash the whole Org, or even worse, the whole Church. You have placed us all at risk by causing shock waves all the way up and down the command chart."
"You sound as if I got arrested on purpose!", I complained exhaustively. "Why are you dumping on me like this?"
Humberto walloped me in the stomach, trying to disabuse me of feeling sorry for myself. It deeply pained me to see him get so worked up over my failures since he was such a dedicated staff member, but it was good to know that he was fully able to confront getting me through the interrogation without human weakness or pity. I respected that quality in a man. If I were a woman, I would have been sexually attracted to Humberto for that.
"What is my Ethics Condition?", I asked while shivering beads of sweat as I tried to get my second wind back.
"It's not very good", Frank said superfluously.
"We need to know all of the data before we can tell you that", Ray explained with the savage sweetness of a Sunday School teacher.
"Within forty-eight hours I will know who your terminal at the Office of Special Affairs will be", Humberto continued. "We are not going to let you set off a time bomb here while all you are worried about is your damn Ethics Condition!"
"But I have a solution!", I pleaded.
"Oh, I can't wait to hear this!", Humberto steamed deliriously.
"Just put me on the Freewinds and I'll relocate anywhere in the world where they can't extradite me. All I have ever wanted to do was to work in Archives somewhere. I could organize Ron's tapes in chronological order and put the library books in size place. It will be beautiful, and you will finally be so proud of me. It is what I have always dreamed of doing all along. That would solve everything!"
"I don't think I'm getting through to you, nitwit!", Frank yelled as he pulled my hair backwards against the top of my chair. "You're not going to go sailing off into the sunset playing librarian while the Miami Org turns into a shooting gallery for FBI agents!"
"What makes you think that we even want you to work in Archives when you are such a troublemaker?", Ray asked snidely.
"It was never a problem for nine years when my stats were up!", I argued. "Out of the clear blue sky, handling corporate suppression is now a crime! Nobody ever warned me that I would be arrested for creating income! Did Peter ever say it? Did Fred Hare ever give me a hint? All of a sudden the U. S. Psych Government began calling what I have been doing for the last nine years an illegal act, and what is even worse is that now you are starting to agree with them! How could I have turned into a criminal in one day?"
"Has anybody here called you a criminal? Have we charged you with any crime?", Ray answered with a vengeance.
"You will only become a criminal if you betray the Church!", Frank elaborated as only he could. We are here to prevent you from turning into a criminal! The psychotic perceptions of the United States Government and their wog laws have nothing to do with why we are debriefing you. Your criminal act was to take your Bridge Fund and buy that Allante. When you committed that criminal act, it was nothing more than an anticipated expectancy that you would be treated as a criminal by the wogs. You know how the theta universe operates! Any crime against the Third Dynamic is a guaranteed way to cave in and crash all of your other dynamics, except that this time you are walking around with enough nitroglycerine and plastic explosives to take us all down with you! It's enough if you have a death wish, but I'll be damned if I'm going to allow you to drag us all down with you!"
"Why didn't you warn me that this would happen when I was in the sauna?", I cried.
"We had your pledge that you would turn over the car", Ray stated. "Instead you sat on it for three and a half months. Didn't you know that your failure to execute an Ethics Order would have some devastating impact on your life?"
"I don't give a damn about his life!", Frank crowed. "It's the life of the Third Dynamic that he is impinging upon now!"
"Well then let's just straighten everything out!", I begged. "Who is my attorney going to be?"
"What do you need an attorney for?", Humberto asked in total amazement.
"I can't go to court without an attorney!", I protested. "The guy who my father picked won't be any good at all. My parents have been telling him that it is all your fault and he is already biased against Scientology."
"Our fault?", Frank ranted. "Are you telling me that you permitted the subject of Scientology to come up in front of a wog attorney, and that you did not stop your parents from trying to blame your arrest on the Third Dynamic?"
"That is Treason!", Humberto reacted incisively as he slapped me in the face. "Who did you hire to destroy us, Keith Nassetta?"
"No, I hate Nassetta for what he did!", I quivered, hoping that I would get another beating, which at that point I felt I desperately deserved.
"What is your attorney's name?", Frank hissed.
"M-M-Marc Nurik", I stammered in a pool of guilt.
"Contact "Squirrel Watch" immediately, Ray!", Humberto commanded. "Get that bastard added to the list now! I can't believe what I am hearing! Did you also tell the FBI agent that we were to blame for all your troubles?"
"No, I would never do that!", I objected. "All I said to him was that he should be arresting psychiatrists and drug dealers instead of innocent Scientologists like me. I told him that we were all blameless!"
"Are you out of your fucking mind?", Humberto screeched. "How could you even admit to him that you were a Scientologist?"
"He was in my apartment while I was in Spain!", I sobbed. "He saw my collection of Source Data. He had a search warrant!"
"Shit!", Humberto exclaimed, slamming his fist on Ray's table. "Now they know what he spent the money on! We are fucked!"
Ray came running back into his office.
"I put Nurik's name on Squirrel Watch", he reported. "What did I miss?"
"Your prized nut case just admitted that both his attorney and the FBI agent know that he has links to the Org", Humberto shrieked.
"You've got to convert your Bridge Fund to cash right away", Frank ordered. "The Government could start seizing it at any time."
"They have already done it", I wept feverishly. "The FBI confiscated the entire three hundred and thirty thousand dollars!"
"Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!", Humberto cursed madly. "Bev Flahan was such a fucking idiot to set it up that way! Now we are stuck with this lunatic in Treason and no money! Wasn't there any warning? Couldn't you see this coming?"
"I was in Europe --"
"Sure! You were having a great time while every enemy on the planet was mobilizing against us!", Frank interrupted. "I bet your Nazi psychologist is laughing his ass off!" "Sending him to Flag is out of the question!", Ray admonished.
"Handling this flap has to be our top priority", Humberto agreed unequivocally.
"Steve, you're going to have to tell your lawyer that you started sending in the claims many years before you ever heard of Scientology", Ray began.
"That's good!", Humberto agreed. "That's a start! I like that!"
"Right, and you have to tell the squirrel that you have never been audited or trained, and you were only a book buyer", Frank added.
"Not a book buyer", Ray corrected. "He has to say that he was a Hubbard collector. He has to distance himself from Scientology completely."
"Shit!", Humberto stormed. "He's got a whole house full of Tech. This is going to throw the whole Miami Org into Liability, you know."
"What if the FBI gets hold of Peter Letterese?", Frank trembled.
"Shut up, Frank!", Humberto growled. "He's going to repeat everything we say to the squirrel attorney!"
"We have to deal with that issue, though", Frank replied.
"Not now!", Humberto jumped, covering his ears with his hands. "The Church is not a party to these criminal charges, Fishman. It is an act of Treason to involve the Church! Do you understand me? The only purpose that your attorney can serve is to get the Bridge Fund unfrozen and released. If you get that done, there might be a way to get you onto the Freewinds and shipped out of the country. You tell that asshole of yours that the FBI had no right to take your money out of the bank until you were convicted. Do they think this is Nazi Germany or something? My God, you haven't even been indicted yet! All they had is a criminal complaint! The Feds had no right to seize your Bridge Fund!"
"He's not supposed to refer to it as a "Bridge Fund", Humberto!", Frank argued.
"No, that's right!", Humberto concurred. "Just tell your lawyer to get your bank accounts released. If you don't get that money back, you'll never get out of Treason! I can promise you that!"
"That's the only thing you need the squirrel for!", Frank reiterated."
"And I don't want your fucking parents going with you to the lawyer when you meet with him!", Humberto echoed. "I don't care whether you have to give them an overdose of sleeping pills to keep them out of your hair. Just do it!"
Frank looked very perplexed and started scratching the dandruff out of his beard.
"How much did your father pay him in legal fees?", he asked.
"Two thousand dollars, I think."
"That is more than enough to get those accounts unfrozen", Ray acknowledged. "The Government is just trying to pull a fast one. How can they get away with seizing your life's savings before you are convicted? Your lawyer knows all that. He's just ripping you off, charging you two thousand dollars! What a crook! Ron always said that attorneys will one day be obsolete."
"I want a daily Knowledge Report from you on what this squirrel is planning to do on your case!", Humberto requested with great resolve. "In the meantime I want you to feed him Shore Stories and wild goose chase leads. I want you to run a complete "Dead Agent Caper" on him."
"And don't you dare mention our names!", Ray warned. "Above all don't talk about Peter Letterese, Fred Hare, Ellie Bolger or Bonny Mott!"
"And nothing about Diana Hubbard, or you'll be declared a Suppressive Person faster than I can make your head swim!", Frank advised adoringly.
"You're damn close to that right now, Fishman", Humberto pointed out. "I want you to spoon-feed that attorney a load of garbage. Tell him how Dr. Geertz brainwashed you, that's what you can tell him. And not a word about the Guardian's Office or Lavenda or Narconon, do you hear me?"
"What kind of a law firm does this bozo work for?", Frank inquired politely.
"Well, his partner is a retired Federal Magistrate named Patty Kyle", I volunteered.
"A Magistrate is no big deal. They handle parking tickets", Ray scoffed.
"That's not true!", Humberto disagreed. "Did you ever see a Federal parking ticket before? Don't be a fool, Ray. Federal Magistrates are all bought and paid for by the psychs for political reasons. They are just like Federal Judges, only worse because they earn less money and are all on the take. The American Psychiatric Association has them all in their back pocket."
"Can I say something?", I asked, raising my hand as if I were still in kindergarten. "An ex-Federal Magistrate might be helpful in getting my Bridge Fund unfrozen. All she has to do is call up some of her old cronies and grease their palms a little bit. After all, she's already got two thousand dollars. She probably could get the accounts unfrozen for no more than five hundred bucks."
"Well, tell her to do that, then!", Ray commanded me, seeing that I finally had a decent idea. "Don't waste time telling us about it. We don't know any unethical people like that."
"I have to go to the bathroom", I interjected. "My diarrhea is acting up again."
"I don't care if you shit in your britches!", Frank recoiled in empathy. "This debriefing isn't over until I say it's over!"
"Let him go!", Humberto ordered surprisingly. "I want to talk to you privately for a few minutes anyway."
As I ran out of the room, Frank shut the tape recorder off.
"What's all the yelling about?", Linda Miller asked as I was scampering to the bathroom.
"I have no idea, but it's all my fault", I confessed honestly.
"Is it true that you were arrested and thrown in jail?", she inquired.
"If I don't get into the toilet, I am going to need some bleach and a mop!", I answered, completely skirting the issue.
In Science of Survival, L. Ron Hubbard said that "Fear seems to be released with accompanying sweat, sometimes of a peculiar odor."120 Well, this time it came out as stinky, damp shit. I pitied the poor sap who had to clean the rim of the toilet seat of the Org's men's room after I got through with it.
After I was fully finished crapping my brains out in holy terror, I returned to the inquisition chamber for a second round of spartan amusement.
"We have an interim handling for you, Fishman", Humberto roared as if he were my judge, jury and executioner. "Now this is not final, because it has to be approved uplines by the Commanding Officer of the Office of Special Affairs International, Lynn Farny. However, I don't anticipate any changes after I write up my Completed Staff Work Report."
"I think I have to go to the bathroom again!", I whimpered as I started to get up.
"Sit the fuck down!", Humberto clamored as he slapped me on the head with a wooden ruler. "As far as your squirrel attorney is concerned, we don't know you and you don't know us. You tell him that you sent in the claims long before you ever heard of Scientology, you got that?"
"You said that before", I repeated.
"But it didn't seem to sink in the first time!", Humberto yelled in me ear. "You tell him that you were nothing more than a collector of L. Ron Hubbard's works, because you admired his science fiction. He is not to know you were ever a practicing Scientologist."
"That won't work because I've already told him --"
"Shut up, fuck face!", Humberto interrupted. "I'm not finished with you yet. You tell Mister Nurik that what you said before was a pack of lies. You were scapegoating and trying to blame the whole thing on Scientology. Is that clear? No Scientologist ever knew what you did, or where the money was coming from, you got that?"
"Yes, no one knew anything", I quaked in appeasement.
"That's right!", Humberto bellowed as he whacked me on my skull with the ruler once again for good measure.
"You never heard of the Guardian's Office, and you don't know who Heber Jentzsch is, and the name David Miscavige doesn't mean beans to you. You did the crime in that complaint with a bunch of wog whores, pimps and degenerates, and with the knowledge of your psychologist, Huey Geertz."
"Its Uwe, not Huey", I pointed out.
"I don't give a flying fuck if it was Huey, Dewey or Louie!", Humberto blared belligerently. "I don't want the lawyer allied with your Nazi shrink, or you will never come out of Treason in this lifetime or any other!"
Frank Thompson told Humberto not to explore that powder keg by refraining from saying anything more about it.
"Don't give him any bright ideas to hang us with!", he chastised.
"Just get your money unfrozen so we can help you unburden yourself from all this horse shit!", Frank mumbled in a docile grunt. "This case will never come to trial. If you have any thoughts of entertaining the notion of a defense, we will have to help the Government convict you."
"So does that mean that you'll assist me by finding me a post on the Freewinds?", I implored with exhilaration.
"We'll help you to the degree that you protect the Church, and we will betray and deny you to the extent that you cause black propaganda and bad public relations for us", Frank explained. "But we are making you no promises until we see the truth of your intentions."
"You are confusing the idiot!", Humberto remarked angrily.
"No, I am tracking with you one hundred percent!", I assured him as a peace offering.
"Fishman, you tell your squirrel attorney that you were just an obsessive collector with no interest whatsoever in Scientology", Humberto reiterated with an unpretentious fervor. "You got that?"
"What are you going to do about getting me to the ship?", I asked again.
"I would love to watch you drown at sea!", Humberto screamed, banging his right fist against the palm of his left hand most grandiloquently.
"You are coming very close to causing an ARC Break for Humberto", Frank warned, "and since he is now your terminal at the Office of Special Affairs, it is a dumb idea to make him mad. Within two days, we will have a final solution to your problem after all the Situation Reports and Completed Staff Worksheets are in. In the meantime, Leah Abady is going to give you a Security Check, and you have a fifty page Knowledge Report to write concerning all of this."
"What if it takes less than fifty pages?", I asked.
"You are in Treason now, Fishman", Frank responded. "If it takes you less than fifty pages, then you will write it all over again until it fills at least a hundred pages! Is that understood?"
"And every word that you scribble better be smitten with the truth!", Humberto harangued as he gave me a long, final whack of encouragement across the back of my neck with his yardstick. "I haven't forgotten that you were once a professional Shore Story writer for the Guardian's Office. If you think that you can pour honey all over my dick and lick it off with more of your bullshit, I swear I'll bash your fucking head in."
On the way out, Frank turned around to ask me one other thing.
"By the way, where is the title to your Allante?"
"My mother has it", I replied.
"I want the back of that document signed before that FBI agent of yours decides that he wants the car for one of his favorite cunts", Frank demanded. "It's unfinished business from your last debacle."
"Don't start lying during the Security Checks either!", Ray Jourdain cautioned me from out of nowhere. "You haven't got a prayer if Leah Abady catches you clinging to a withhold."
"Humberto already warned me against doing that", I promised.
"Don't answer me back!", Ray scowled. "And don't you ever try to compromise my Ethics by calling me collect from any of your wog prisons again! I could strangle you for that!"
"I'm never going back there, so don't worry about it!", I yelled.
"I said don't answer me back!", Ray shrieked in a manner than didn't become him.
"Fuck you, you bastard!", I screamed silently, clicking my heels as if I were doing Gestapo TRs with Dr. Geertz in Nazi Boot Camp.
After the nine hour Security Check during which I wanted to drop dead at least a hundred and fifty times from degradation, it was simply business as usual at the Org. The Flag Banking Officer Leona Grimm sold me some brand new tapes called the "History of Man" series. Despite the tension of the debriefing, seeing one of Ron's new products made me feel completely invigorated. There were no rules preventing people in Treason from buying more merchandise. After all, Source Data always helped beguiled thetans get out of trouble, no matter how much shit they were knee deep in.
That evening, I forgot about all my problems and went to see Dusty for a double back-to-back fifty dollar session of sex, as a whole week had gone by since I had been with that whore in Madrid who worked at the monkey bar.
Dusty had come up in the world. She had her very own pimp now, and unlike Lincoln, he was even her own color! Shane Johnson was an auto mechanic and part-time rock star, except the rock concerts he starred in all featured cocaine crystals. Although he got Dusty back on crack, they both guaranteed me that they could really handle it this time, and they were not going to get hooked on drugs, even if it killed them. Dusty also warned me that Shane could be very violent, so I wasn't allowed to keep her overtime without calling to give him a good excuse as well as bringing him some booze as fair compensation. Despite her self-serving admonitions, Shane seemed pretty decent, and in order to show my appreciation, Dusty and I went from liquor store to liquor store after my time was up, trying to find a nice classic wine that we thought he might like. Dusty explained that if I brought him a bottle of expensive burgundy or chablis, he would "chill out", since he otherwise truly enjoyed beating the hell out of her whenever she came home, even though he knew that she was merely out making money to buy their drugs with.
"Why do you stay with him?", I asked.
"He lets me give him oral sex as often as I want to", she revealed ecstatically.
"I guess that's as good a reason as any", I agreed.
"Yeah, I can't think of a better one either", she nodded. "By the way, congratulations!"
"What, for being arrested?", I asked, having told her all about it.
"No, although that's pretty cool", she acknowledged empathically.
"So what's the big deal?", I replied, trying to talk exactly like her. "It's not my birthday or anything."
"I guess it's going to be somebody's birthday", she laughed.
"What does that suppose to mean?", I inquired with an aesthetic ambivalence.
"Lisa Lawson is pregnant with your baby!", she cheered. "You're going to be a daddy as well as a sugar daddy!"
"Lisa is what?", I gasped.
"Yep, she's got your wad of come in her oven", she paraphrased obliquely. "And don't start thinking that it ain't yours because she lived with you for six weeks between the time she broke up with Lick City Chris in February until you threw her out on her butt in April. You're the only one she humped during that whole time, because she was depressed and had given up on all her long-haired hippie freaks. The doctor said she's going to hatch out the goober in December, okay, so whatever it is, baby, it's fuckin' yours!"
"Well, I want to marry her then!", I said with sacrosanct enthusiasm. "This is one kid that I'll be able to raise as a Scientologist! We can all be a real family now!"
"Are you lame?", she asked. "Lisa don't want to marry a Walt like you! She's going to sell the little piss brain and make herself twenty or thirty thousand dollars!"
"She can't do that!", I argued. "Fathers have rights too! I want to adopt him! I need someone to inherit my L. Ron Hubbard collection! Both my daughters want nothing to do with it, since they've been brainwashed by my ex-wife."
"You're never going to be able to raise that baby!", Dusty gawked. "They're going to put you in jail for a million years, unless you get yourself a Jew lawyer, and then maybe he'll get you sent to that country club jail in California where the prisoners eat lobster and get to fuck a bunch of colored girls once or twice a week. You and those Scientology freaks will all be in there together, so they'll probably let you take all your dumb Hubbard books with you. They call what you did "white collar crime". I'm ain't stupid just because I'm not smart. I read all about it on television. They don't put you together with factory workers, 'cause they wear blue collars. But I'm telling you that you still got to hire yourself a fuckin' Jew, or they'll throw you in the State Pen with Ted Bundy."
"Oh, now I'm going to get legal advice from someone who flunked out of the seventh grade", I mocked.
"This is stuff you learn while you're working the streets!", she explained. "I know how life is. You can't bullshit a bullshitter."
"I'll have to keep that in mind", I acquiesced. "Anyway, my lawyer is Jewish."
"So you don't have a fuckin' thing to worry about then", she comforted, patting me on the back. "But I ain't signing no more papers for you. I don't need to have my ass hauled into court with that big old rap sheet that I've got!"
"After nine years everybody is calling me a criminal!", I complained. "My whole career in Scientology is down the toilet!"
"At least you can still marry people", she said consolingly. "You're too ugly to turn tricks, unless you meet some of the drunk old men from the racetrack."
"Somehow I don't think that I'm well suited to being a male prostitute", I disdained apologetically.
"Hey, if you were strung out on rocks you would do just about anything!", she revealed. "Shane and I have always turned tricks together whenever we needed a quick buzz."
"Oh, that's just great!", I whooshed. "I'd better not catch you drinking any coffee! If you get AIDS, I'm going to have to cut you down to only once a week!"
"Don't worry, you'll be the first to know", she vowed.
On the following morning of Saturday, August 5th, my father insisted that I go to visit Dr. Geertz at his ranch in the southwest section of Fort Lauderdale. As usual, he was quite busy in the garden cultivating his body odor when we arrived. It never ceased to amaze me how an interest in horticulture always made the most uncivilized villains appeared to be more humane.
Dr. Geertz was shocked to find out how firmly I was committed to Scientology despite what had happened to me. My father begged him for his help, despite my unwillingness to discuss my dealings with the Org.
"I'm in Treason right now", I said. "It's hard for me to open up to you after I wrote that Letter of Disconnection. You must hate my guts!"
"No, you're one of my patients!", Dr. Geertz laughed. "I can't turn my back on you even if you're crazy!"
There was something warm and friendly about the man, which either meant that he was making a desperate attempt to deceive me by hiding all of his Nazi war crimes beneath the thin veil of social veneer, or else he lacked any conscience whatsoever and was rampantly insane.
I knew that he could not have forgotten Rivkalleh's precious sweet face, no matter how many Jewish children his dogs had clawed to bits.
It was a good thing that Leah Abady had taken me into session on the previous day after the Security Check was over, just to remind me what Rivkalleh's screams sounded like as the two German shepherd dogs, Rhinebourgen and Besieschtigen, chewed her to pieces. It was wonderful that Leah was able to anticipate Dr. Geertz's behavior, because otherwise I might have been fooled into believing that the perverse psychologist actually had felt sorry for me!
"Where was his pity forty-four years ago at Auschwitz, when I needed it most?", I asked myself.
Nevertheless, I tried to behave cordially, as if nothing had ever happened. The man was disturbed enough to think that I was actually schizophrenic, so I figured that I might as well appease him, since any juicy tidbits that I was able to furnish to Humberto and Frank in my Knowledge Report about such a flagrant suppressive might get me moved up to Enemy.
"Can you help Steve get out of that crooked organization?", my father asked him as if I were completely gullible and mindless so as to obey such a lunatic.
"I don't think he wants to leave Scientology", Dr. Geertz replied. "Some people like to have their arms cut with scissors and burned with cigarettes. Your son happens to be one of them!"
"I deserved that and more!", I cried. "I crashed my post and placed the whole Org at risk! All you both want to talk about is this irrelevant legal case!"
"Do you want to go back to jail?", the psychologist asked.
"The only thing that I want to do is to get out of this degraded body permanently and join Ron at the top of the Bridge!", I snapped.
"Ron is dead!", my father insisted. "The worms had him for dinner and crapped him out fifty times already!"
"It's the physical universe that is dead, not Ron!", I explained. "This is a prison planet of trapped thetans! Ron is very safe and very free, and the only help that I need is to find the quickest way to be with him!"
"Where is he, in hell?", my father orchestrated with flamboyant ridicule.
"The only hell that I know of is no longer having a post in life, no longer being a part of the greatest push in the last seventy-six trillion years, and no longer keeping my promise to Clear this planet! Hell is when I walk amongst the living dead of suppressives, psychs and squirrels who think they only live once! Ron once wrote, "If one has a penchant for being a soulless idiot and believes he has no future, then he is in for a dreadful surprise once he kicks the bucket. The worse off he is, the nastier the surprise."121
"You prove to me that there is life after death and I'll be your first convert to Scientology", Dr. Geertz propositioned. "You'll find me breaking down the doors of the Org to be audited."
"Believe me, I have tried to get you into the Fort Lauderdale Mission for at least eight years now, but you have always fought me tooth and nail!", I scorned with the stale advocacy of sour grapes.
"Well, let's try to work at it", he said with serenity as he offered me his paw. "Why don't we bury the past and start out fresh."
"The same way you buried my daughter?", I cringed with hate.
"He thinks that I killed his child in a past life", Dr. Geertz interpreted to my father. "He's highly delusional."
"I know that you're embarrassed to admit it in front of my father, but don't insult my intelligence by denying it to my face!", I warned.
"Let's just try to make a new start", he whimpered as he reached for my hand.
I honestly thought that I would give it a try, but when I felt the dried blood of Rivkalleh rotting away the scabby flesh of his infected skin, I knew that any reconciliation would be impossible.
"Didn't you see the scepter of death hiding behind his eyeballs?", I asked my father as we were driving home. "Why did you insist that I crawl back into bed with him? You have no idea what kind of a ferocious murderer he is."
"Meanwhile you are the one charged with a crime, and he's the only person I know who can stand up and tell the court what that sick cult of thieves did to you. Damn it, they convinced you to steal for them!"
"Dad, I never stole anything from anybody! I was returning to the planet what the psychiatric corporate suppressives had taken away, and I have no regrets about using the money to go up the Bridge and to buy Source Data! My downfall came when I allowed people like Jaime and Steve Goldberg to influence my clear thinking!"
"When are you going to wake up? You need Dr. Geertz to help Marc Nurik prepare a defense for your trial!", he submitted.
"There isn't going to be any trial", I assured him. "I am departing for the Freewinds in a couple of weeks, and when that happens, I'll always keep in touch, so don't worry about me."
"If you go on that ship, they will throw you overboard, and the only free wind that you'll ever see is a couple of bubbles in the water when the shark who eats you for dinner gives a good belch and leaves a nice fart."
"Don't make light of it! I am constantly surrounded by suppression!", I cried.
"And I am constantly surrounded by a fucking nut!", he yelled. "I don't think that even the Moonies or the Hare Krishnas would have had you commit mail fraud the way your people did. Why didn't you join them instead if you were so ashamed of being a Jew?"
"How the hell did I ever pick you as a father?", I wept.
"L. Ron Hubbard couldn't get it up, so I was your second choice!", he explained after all these years.
When Marc Nurik gave me the devastating news that the Government could not be forced into releasing my bank accounts, I pleaded with Frank Thompson to give me the name of a Church of Scientology attorney who would represent me instead.
"Impossible!", he roared. "Church attorneys only work for the Church. Besides, the Church hasn't been charged with criminal fraud; you have! How would it look if we stuck our necks out where it didn't belong? Anyway, if you believe for one minute that a Church attorney would ever represent anyone in Treason, you had better keep away from all of those electric shock machines in Dr. Geertz's basement because your I.Q. is dropping again."
"Dr. Geertz doesn't have a basement!", I assured him.
"I bet he still has a collection of pickled brains and penises from dead mental patients in jars filled with formaldehyde!", Frank guessed. "That's just his style!"
"I'm sure you are right", I condescended, "but that is not what is troubling me."
"You are not getting a Church attorney and that is final!", he decreed with an attitude engraved in stone.
"Well, what should I do to protect myself from going back to jail?", I inquired desperately.
"The first thing that has to be done is for you to fire Marc Nurik", he wheezed, bedeviled with artificial compassion on his face. "If your lawyer can't get your Bridge Fund unfrozen, then what the hell do you need him for?"
"I need to be defended against these criminal charges!", I cried. "After all, you are not helping me with my legal case!"
"You are getting stupider by the minute!", he noticed. "The only purpose of wog law is to suppress Scientology! Your lawyer is just like Adolf Hitler! Hitler attacked the Jews while Marc Nurik is hell-bent on destroying the Scientologists!"
"I honestly don't think he wants to destroy anyone", I deduced. "He seems very sincere about helping me to defend myself, that's all."
"Defend yourself?", he mocked. "What defense? You have no defense against the insane law of the wogs. None of us do! That is precisely why we are rushing to Clear this planet with such urgency! Now where is all of that information that I asked you to bring me?"
When I gave Frank my Red Box Data, he became stricken with wrath when certain documents were missing.
"Where is your copy of the Power of Attorney which you gave Bev Flahan? Where are all your receipts for the books and tapes?", he asked with twitching ire.
"I had to give Marc Nurik something!", I apologized.
"You terrorist bastard!", he declared as he went berserk, throwing his ash tray at my forehead. "What other little treasonous tidbits did you give your kike ambulance chaser so that he could whet his thirsty appetite for some fresh Scientology blood?"
"Nothing about any of the class action lawsuits!", I swore. "All that is right here in these files!"
"I bet you made him photocopies of everything!", he accused as he pulled my hair and then grabbed my throat.
"No, I would never do that", I choked with utmost regret.
"Liar!", Frank shrieked, as he called downstairs for Leah Abady to give me another Security Check.
Leah was a bit more reasonable, which over the years, had always been her greatest flaw.
"Any decent lawyer could create a defense that did not involve religious persecution", she pointed out succinctly. "I wish to hell I knew the nature of the crimes and overt acts that Marc Nurik had committed against Ron on the whole track, during the last seventy-six trillion years."
"It's obvious that he is a flagrant criminal for pulling my legal case into his universe", I confessed. "Only we will never know what he specifically did."
"If I could only get him into an auditing chair, I would cut his balls off!", she fantasized lustfully.
"Unfortunately that will never happen", I wept with sadness.
"I hope you know that we cannot allow your psychotic suppressive squirrel to represent you", she warmly whispered as she dug her nails into my arm. "He has already made his antagonistic position against us quite clear. You and I were both Jews before we became Scientologists. The Jewish people stood idly by while six million of us were slaughtered. As Scientologists, we are not about to permit the psych butchers and their wog laws to carve us up in court. There is nothing in the world that we won't do to guarantee our continued survival. Nothing!"
"You are digging into my skin!", I complained. "Your nails are sharp!"
"Yes, and maybe that's a good way to get through to you!", she explained with appropriate practicality.
The Security Check did not go very well.
"Your shit-brained lawyer is planning to use an insanity defense?", Leah gasped. "And what are you going to do, pretend that Clearing the planet was an insane goal? Are you thinking of standing up in court and saying you were brainwashed? No, Steven. I'll see you dead first before you do that to Ron!"
"I would never hurt Ron! The future of every man, woman and child on Earth depends on our helping the Admiral! I have never been insane, I have never been brainwashed, and I have never been unfaithful to Source! If Marc makes me testify, I will make a laughing stock out of him. He is an idiot for even considering such an obscene strategy!"
"No, he is not an idiot", she corrected. "Your lawyer is a very clever monster who is being backed by the World Bank, Interpol and every major psych organization on Earth. This is their obvious chance to drive a stake into the heart of Scientology. You are the fool for not seeing how you have been used by these degraded suppressives!"
I rock slammed all up and down the Security Check, and Leah pulled me by the scruff of my neck back upstairs to Frank Thompson in a fit of agitation.
The Ethics Office became a caldron of animosity when Frank Thompson noticed the look of futility on Leah's wretched face. Anticipating the other shoe to drop, I spoke first.
"Where is the Affinity, Reality and Communication which we are all supposed to have for each other?", I remarked.
"You expect ARC?", Frank questioned astoundingly. "You are a piece of scum! You are of no value to Ron, to the group, or to yourself! You have placed the entire Miami Org in Doubt! You have committed the most heinous high Crime imaginable! I am ordering you to fire that squirrel, or else face expulsion!"
"I didn't even hire him! My parents did!", I pleaded.
"Why haven't you disconnected from your parents, then?", he responded. "Don't you realize what is happening? They are threatening your survival! Are those two old withered meat bodies so important to you where you would throw your immortality away? Besides, they are not Nurik's clients, you are! Look at what you have put us through! We have to stand by on active alert for twenty-four hours a day because the FBI might raid the Org at any time, thanks to you! Of course, you enjoy seeing the Third Dynamic suffer, don't you?"
When Frank was angry, I felt like burying my head in the sand from shame. Needless to say, there was no reasoning with him when he was right. Facing myself in the mirror just about made me puke.
On the following day, August 10th, 1988, I had some good news. The Watchdog Committee of the Office of Special Affairs International finally had a workable solution to my dilemma which Humberto assured me would be equitable and amicable to all parties concerned. I rushed back down to the Org, thankful with relief that the upper strata of Scientology management were finally getting involved on my behalf and had offered to handle me effectively.
A panoramic wave of optimism swept over my head as I kneeled into a chair in Humberto's office while Frank Thompson and Ray Jourdain came rushing in. My Body Thetans were all aglow with great expectations of welcome relief, and I felt much more vibrant and hopeful than any of my other personalities had been in a long time.
"This is the first day in the past two weeks that I didn't think that I was better off dead!", I admitted to my best friend Ray as Frank and Humberto both nodded approvingly in unison.
All three of them were so full of smiling radiance that I assumed they were going to tell me to pack my bags and head out to the Freewinds.
"This handling is going to indeed benefit all of us, and before I read you the telex from Carol Martiano, the Director of Special Affairs for the Office of Special Affairs International, I want your word as a Scientologist that you will give us your full cooperation in preserving the integrity and the security of the Church", Humberto gloated joyously with wild glee.
"You will also automatically be upgraded to Enemy as an extra bonus for this upstat", Frank offered glibly, as if he were trying to sell me a different Bridge that could be found in Brooklyn.
"This is even more than I dreamed about!", I acclaimed. "I never expected to get out of Treason this quickly! Just tell me what you want me to do and you can consider it done!"
"That's more like the old Steven!", Ray Jourdain praised, tickling me affectionately under my chin to show everyone that despite what had happened, he still loved me.
"Okay!", Humberto cheered with enthusiasm. "The handling is really very simple. All you have to do is to plead guilty and negotiate the very least amount of jail time! You can deal directly with the United States Attorney in San Francisco. There is no need for a wog lawyer. We've eliminated the necessity for that. I've checked with Tim Bowles, our own Legal Officer at the Office of Special Affairs International, and he thoroughly agrees that this is the right thing to do. And of course, it needs to be done right away."
A cold sweat of fear came over me.
"I thought you said that this handling would benefit everybody. How does it benefit me?", I asked, slowly drifting deeper and deeper into my former state of apathy.
"It benefits you the most!", Frank barked as if I were a complete imbecile. "You will finally be able to demonstrate and prove that you are putting the needs of the group before your own! That has been your one outpoint in these last nine years which you have never been able to successfully overcome before! Oh, sure you have been valuable to the Guardian's Office and you have created lots of income. But you always placed the needs of Steve Fishman before the needs of Scientology. You finally have the chance to place the needs of Scientology before the needs of Steve Fishman!"
"I think it's wonderful!", Ray beamed in agreement. "I know you can do it!"
"But how can I Clear the planet from prison?", I asked. "We only have nine years left before Larry Wollersheim destroys the world! I promised Ron that I would salvage Earth and I have to keep my vow!"
"You've just been relieved of that post", Frank consoled. "Someone else who is in an Ethics Condition of Affluence will be doing that. There are times when we all have to get our priorities in order. You can understand that, I am sure, being a Saint Hill Graduate. Besides, I don't think they will keep you in prison for more than five years if you strike a plea bargain with those fascists. You'll still have four more years to keep your promises to Ron once you get out, so you see, there is nothing to worry about!"
"But how can I expose all the lies in the Bible from a jail cell?", I argued. "The world needs to know that I am Malchoot the Antichrist right now! Don't you see how much Counter-Intention is creeping into my universe? The planet can't wait five more years. The Clearing of Earth must come first before anything else. Now especially we can't delay another minute in getting my auditing data out to the raw meat wog world. They have to be told immediately that Jesus is the real criminal here. Can't you see that the forces of Christ and psychiatry are exploiting my misfortune? Nurik's wild actions are proof enough of that. No sane human being would ever think of interfering with the freedom of mankind unless he had been completely taken over by evil-purposed maniacs! Only the insane attack Scientology!"
"Never mind what the suppressives are doing to jump on the band wagon!", Frank interrupted. "You are the responsible party here. It's four months now, and you are still driving that Allante! Where is the title to that thing?"
"Tim Bowles analyzed the criminal complaint when I faxed it to him in California!", Humberto reported. "Do you know what triggered this mess? Back in 1983, Fishman stupidly used the correct Social Security Number of Julie Lombard on the National Student Marketing Claim! Can you believe that?"
"Who was Julie Lombard?", Ray asked with great surprise.
"She was Steven's Indian housekeeper!", Humberto disclosed. "He let Human Emotion and Reaction interfere with his responsibilities on post! You should read the old Knowledge Reports! They would make your hair stand on end! Steve was angry at her for making a lot of long distance telephone calls, so he used her real Social Security Number on a claim form to get even with her! It says right there in the criminal complaint that the FBI interviewed that Lombard wog! None of this would have happened if Fishman did not allow his warped hunger for revenge against his fucking Indian maid to interfere with his duties to the Church!"
"That sounds like the cheap Jew in him!", Frank shrugged in disgust. "With all of the commissions he was making, plus what he allowed his ex-wife to steal, he was too stingy to pay the damn telephone bill and forget about it! No, he had to make a vendetta out of the whole mess and cut our throats in the process!"
"So it had nothing to do with the Allante!", I reasoned happily.
"Wrong!", Frank yelled. "Don't you even think that way! Buying the car set you up as a sitting duck in the theta universe for your own downfall. The investigation of Julie Lombard would never have occurred if you didn't trigger it by stealing from your Bridge Fund!"
"So you see, pleading guilty is the right thing to do!", Ray added. "Let's face it. You are guilty. You are guilty of using Julie Lombard's real Social Security Number and crashing your post. You are guilty of buying the Allante. You are guilty of not completing your Repair of Past Ethics. You are guilty of conspiring with your Nazi shrink and your other crooked lawyer Nassetta of trying to sue the Church. You are guilty of squirreling the Tech by making up lies about your imaginary Time Pilot Rundown and overwhelming Lewis Swartz with all of that trash. You are guilty of not stopping Steve Goldberg from ripping us off. The list goes on and on, so how the hell could you not plead guilty?"
"I never tried to sue the Church, and I never have been a squirrel!", I said in my own defense. "I have always tried to Make Things Go Right, advancing and forwarding the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics!"
"Well now the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics is for you go to jail!", Humberto minimized with repetitive efficiency. "Consider it to be a simple Amends Project. If Mary Sue could do it, you can do it. She was a lot more important to Scientology than you ever were."
"Don't say that!", I protested. "I love Mary Sue, but I am the Antichrist! Ron knows how significant my role is! And anyway, Mary Sue never pleaded guilty to anything. She was found guilty by a brainwashed psychiatric jury and sentenced to five years by a mad whore Judge. I remember that entire trial. It was in 1983, and I was working in the Flag Guardian's Office at the time, crushing a squirrel group called "Erhard Seminars Training" which had been pirating our technology. Who do you think it was who infiltrated Werner Erhard's company and found out that they were marketing Scientology under their own name? I did, that's who! You can't just dismiss me as yesterday's news! I was out there on the front lines of defense against our enemies while you were still in diapers! L. Ron Hubbard would never allow one of his Kha-Khan heroes to be sent to jail, especially when I can Clear half the planet!"
"I don't know why we have to waste time listening to this nattering!", Ray cut in. "It's really quite simple. If you don't plead guilty, then you will be barred from going up the Bridge for the rest of your lifetime. Do you really want to wait until you come back next time to continue your auditing?"
"And in what century will I be picking up a new body, Ray?", I snapped.
"I don't want to hear any more of that squirrel shit!", Humberto reprimanded with a smidgen of insolence in his voice.
"Spending time in jail will not salvage the planet or set man free!", I objected. "I could serve the Third Dynamic far better if I were given a new post, working in the library or the bookstore on the Freewinds. Look how much easier it would be for me to de-Christianize the wog world if I were operating from the safe space of the Flag Ship."
"You would never be allowed on the Freewinds!", Frank shouted. "The first thing that you would do is to try to drive everyone crazy with your lunatic raving about non-consecutive time! You can no longer be trusted anywhere in Scientology until you have done a complete false data stripping! But that can't even be done, because there is no money for review sessions anymore! It is time for you to plead guilty and then ask the forgiveness of the Church once you get out of prison, so you can remain a Scientologist in good standing!"
"Forgiveness for what?", I screamed. "I haven't done anything wrong!"
"Just do what we say, you fucking bastard!", Humberto coaxed in a soothing manner. "You're wasting our goddamn time here!"
"Just let me go to the Freewinds!", I pleaded again. "I promise that I won't say another word about the Time Pilot Rundown."
"You paid your lawyer two thousand dollars", Ray reminded. "Maybe he can work out a deal with the Government where you only have to spend two or three years in jail. You'll be able to take your E-Meter with you and probably some of your books. You'll breeze through your sentence in no time flat."
"I won't do it!", I trembled. "No one is going to force me to break my vows to Ron!"
"Ron doesn't care about you anymore!", Humberto expounded with an outbreak of viciousness. "The Admiral would be better off if you were dead!"
"At least then I would be working with him and not against him, listening to the likes of you!", I shrieked, always wanting to get the last word in edgewise.
"How dare they tell me what Ron wants!", I thought in utter anger as I drove home crying madly in a cesspool of rejection.
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