by Steven Fishman
23: Paying The Price For A Fate Worse Than Death
After returning from San Francisco, I went straight to the Miami Org to turn in my Knowledge Report. It seemed obvious that my continued cooperation might earn me a stay of execution, especially since I did not say anything to harm Scientology at the indictment. In fact, I didn't even open up my big yap once, as Marc Nurik pleaded "Not Guilty" for me.
"Not Guilty on what basis?", Humberto interrogated with wrath.
"Just plain old Not Guilty", I replied querulously.
"Liar!", he scathed. "You pleaded Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity!"
"On a stack of Dianetics books, neither Marc nor I ever said that!", I swore.
"But Nurik is planning to bring that rat's ass Nazi shrink of yours into court in order to prove that you have a mental disease!", he predicted.
"That's impossible!", I scoffed with remarkable calm. "I don't have any mental disease!"
"That's right! And do you know why, you insane idiot?", he said patiently, trying to be nice. "Because there is no such thing as a mental disease! Look it up, you crazy bastard! Ron plainly states, "There is no evidence of any kind whatsoever that there is anything called a mental disease. So therefore the whole of psychiatry is based on a "wrong why" and the whole of civilization for four and a half hundred years has been tossed into dungeons and tortured and prefrontal lobotomied and put into ice packs and everything else."134
"Well, the Judge is not going to allow Marc Nurik to use a frivolous defense for a non-existence illness", I answered. "Judge Lowell Jensen seemed very fair and impartial."
Unexpectedly, Humberto threw me against the wall. For a short, skinny Cuban guy, he had more hidden adrenaline than a piss-pot full of red ants in heat.
"How dare you say that a Federal Wog Judge who has to take sides between a suppressive anti- Scientologist FBI agent and a rabid anti-Scientologist squirrel attorney is going to remain impartial! Either way, he has to stick his dick in it!", he roared with uncontrollable rage. "By definition he is a Potential Trouble Source Type J for Judge!"
"But he is sitting in judgment over me, not Scientology!", I argued. "How does that make him a Potential Trouble Source?"
"Your squirrel attorney plans to turn him into a fifty-megaton walking time bomb at the moment that he brings Scientology into your case!", Humberto growled. "It is illegal for us to even audit or train Judges, especially Federal Wog Judges! Ron defines the Potential Trouble Source Type J as "Persons attempting to sit in judgment on Scientology in hearings or attempting to investigate Scientology. They should be given no undue importance. One should not seek to instruct or assist them in any way. This includes judges, boards, newspaper reporters, magazine writers, etcetera."135 You ignore hangmen like that not because they are impartial, but rather due to the fact that they are treacherous! Don't you see what you have done to us? That "impartial" bosom-buddy Judge of yours would have never become a problem on our own Justice lines if you had killed yourself like you were supposed to! And one other thing! I'll be damned if I am going to allow you to crash my post as the Director of Special Affairs in the same evil-purposed way that you crashed your own!"
"Humberto was correct, you know", Leah said solemnly. "If you do not finish the End of Cycle real soon, then Humberto will be demoted to a lower position within the Org, or possibly out of a job altogether! You don't want that on your conscience, do you?"
"No, of course not", I cringed. "I never implied that my life was as important as his job."
Amidst all of the doom and gloom, Frank Thompson provided me with a small ray of hope.
"There is always an "open door" in Scientology, even for degraded beings as aberrated as yourself", he said.
"I can't buy everybody's love by taking my own life", I explained in agony. "Why can't the people who I care about understand that?"
"Well, why don't you re-submit your Petition to the International Justice Chief, but this time without any of the false data in it?", he suggested. "I have a hunch that if you volunteer for the assignment of helping us destroy your attorney and the psychs, Paul Laquerre might give you a chance to prove yourself worthy of an extension at least."
"I would love an opportunity like that!", I beamed. "I just want to live long enough to de- Christianize the planet, like I promised Ron."
"You are in no shape to do anything along our dissemination lines with a Justice Order hanging over your head. Officially, your only responsibility is to carry out the End of Cycle and to pick up where you left off in the next lifetime. Nevertheless, Paul Laquerre might take a good look at what you had to say, as long as he fully duplicated your intention to permanently neutralize Marc Nurik, Uwe Geertz, Richard Ofshe and Muggy Singer. If you can convince him that keeping you alive in order to vanquish our enemies was the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics, then he might agree to it. However, in your second Petition, do not use any Human Emotion and Reaction, Reasonableness, False Data, or anything that would cause him to have an ARC Break with you. That is the best advice I can give you under the circumstances, after all the damage you have done."
"Maybe we can knock the squirrels dead in their tracks!", I hoped.
"Something like that", he hinted conscientiously.
And so, while I was awaiting my final disposition from the International Justice Chief, I decided that it was in my best interest to wipe out our four enemies, not only to save my own life, but to more importantly regain the respect of the Third Dynamic as a group. I knew that Ron was watching me carefully from his vantage point at the top of the Bridge, so there was no room for slip-ups anymore.
My assignment was to create a Valuable Final Product of false reports for my lawyer to submit to the court in advance of my trial. Now we all knew, of course, that my trial would never take place, but we wanted Marc Nurik and his three psychs to look like blithering idiots in front of the Judge. The best way to do this was to have them all submit affidavits which contained an obvious pack of lies about the Miami Org and the Church of Scientology, which would fall apart under the least amount of scrutiny. It was a perfect way for us to ram a big fat rod up my defense team's ass!
Accordingly Frank Thompson was acting like his jovial old self again, convinced that we could pull of this brave caper quite easily.
"What could be more convenient than getting your squirrel attorney to tell the FBI only the data which we want them to have?", he laughed. "After I get through with Marc Nurik, he won't even be able to practice urinating, let alone wog law!"
A fantastic Battle Plan was formulated by my super-thetan Frank.
It was unanimously agreed that I would tell my lawyer that my life had been threatened by various Scientologists.
"I don't think that Marc will ever believe anything so stupid!", I told Leah. "Even if I had followed the Justice Order and did the End of Cycle, it would still have been with my full cooperation, consent and support. The idea of murder is just too obscene and ridiculous for anyone as clever as Marc to swallow."
"Oh, but that's the thing about anti-social personalities!", she pointed out. "Such a person deals mainly in bad news, critical or hostile remarks, invalidation and general suppression!136 People like Marc can't wait to hear horror stories about Scientology. They crave it more than the proverbial vampire thirsts for virgin blood. Truth has nothing to do with it!"
Frank ordered Leah to drill me on TR-L, the Intelligence Specialist Training Routine for Lying, which had as its purpose "To train the student to give a false statement with good TR-1, and to train the student to outflow false data effectively."137 The command of part one of the drill was simply the phrase, "Tell me a lie." According to my drill sheet, "the student should be coached on a gradient until he/she can lie facily."138
"What the hell does "facily" mean?", I asked Leah.
Having been a Professional Word Clearer amongst other things, Leah asked me to look up the word in a dictionary while she did the same thing.
"Well, what do you know!", she exclaimed. "Mary Sue spelled it wrong! It should be "facilely", not "facily." I never thought that the Commodore Staff Guardian could ever make a mistake!"
"I am sure that she didn't!", I snapped indignantly. "It must have been done by one of her typists!"
"Of course, that probably was the reason", she acknowledged.
"Facilely: here it is. The word means, "achieved with little effort"," I said once locating the correct spelling. "Wow! How to lie with little effort! If I practiced this drill long enough, I could become a better attorney than Marc Nurik!"
"It should only take you ten minutes for you to achieve that!", she giggled.
"Oh, it was so good to laugh again at the expense of the lunatic suppressives!", I thought to myself.
It took me about four hours of drilling to become the biggest liar in the Org. I ripped through my final pass with flying colors.
"You know that I can't ask Vicki to issue you an award certificate for having completed this drill under your present circumstances", Leah apologized.
"I know!", I realized. "I may be in Treason, an accomplished liar, and better off dead, but I'm not stupid!"
"Now keep in mind that the only way to get worthwhile data from the psychs or your demented lawyer is to pretend to be on their side", she coached. "You've got to appease them and kiss their ass if you have to. You might be forced to bad-mouth Ron or the Org, and you will be forgiven for that in your confessionals if you say those things while you are working under cover. Just keep aligning yourself with the warped viewpoints of your four SPs using TR-L, and you will be just fine. You're a former G. O. Agent, and no matter what you have done to us, there is still some goodness left in you, although I frankly do not know what it is anymore. But as to the matter at hand, these degraded beings are dead in their heads, and wouldn't know a lie if they collided in the teeth with one, as long as you keep feeding their maddening addiction for bad news."
Frank Thompson gave me a project that was right up my alley. He ordered me to send hundreds of requests for Scientology information to Registrars at Orgs all over the country.
"I want you to complain to the squirrel attorney that you are constantly being "harassed" by Scientologists, and bring him a ton of mail to prove it", he commanded.
"But what will that establish?", I asked with dismay. "All of the inquiries will be innocent cycles from promotional staff members who will be trying to sell me something. There will be no threats or evidence of foul play in any of that stuff."
"That's good!", Frank replied. "You are catching on! You are going to resurrect yourself as the "boy who cried wolf"."
"Please don't use the word "resurrect"," I begged. "It reminds me of Jesus and I become sick every time I think of him."
"I'm beyond the point of mincing my words with you!", he warned.
"Sending wasteful inquiries to our own staff members is a harmful, overt act, Frank!", I protested. "I would be causing innocent thetans downstats by writing to them frivolously and not signing up for services! I don't mind annoying the squirrels or the psychs with the junk mail, but it bothers me to torment our own decent and dedicated people with a stunt like that."
"There is no other way, damn it!", he attacked. "What we are doing is far more critical to our survival than tampering with the stats of a few of our communicators! You must provide the evidence to the court that you are attacking us, and that Scientology has been wrongfully framed in all of this!"
Frank's plan finally clicked in my mind.
"That is spectacular!", I cheered. "Nurik will go in front of the Judge and make all kinds of wild accusations against the Church, and the Government will be able to prove that Scientology didn't do it! Frank, you are the most beautiful genius that I have ever known! Nobody will ever be able to harm us now!"
"Yes, and as long as you pretend to be very ARC Broken with Humberto, Ray and I in front of the terrorists, it will work", Frank encouraged. "You have to come across as a disaffected Scientologist who wants to "get even" with us. Use a lot of monosyllabic wog phrases so that you can effectively communicate with those illiterate bastards!"
On the way downstairs from the Ethics Office, I picked up two paper cups next to the water cooler and proposed a toast with Leah standing by.
"To the death of the squirrels!", I shouted.
"To the death of all suppressives", she laughed, "including you!"
I don't know what gave me the idea of smashing two paper cups together that were filled with water. All of it spilled over into my hands. Anyhow, my intentions were good.
There was another thing clawing away at me. I was terrified of meeting Richard Ofshe. I heard rumors that he once had sex with Larry Wollersheim, and just thinking about such a vehement fact made the flood gates of my irritable bowels open up without warning or hesitation into my Hanes briefs.
"I'd better start wearing bladder control garments if I am forced to keep coming face to face with dangerous psychotics", I said to myself in overwhelming embarrassment.
Public Enemy Number Four was only surpassed by Larry Wollersheim, his Psychiatrist Jolly West, and his attorney Charlie O'Brien. They were numbers one, two and three respectively. So it was expected that I had the jitters when I went to meet Richard Ofshe for the first time in his room at the Marriott Harbor Beach hotel in Fort Lauderdale.
"What if he tries to rape me too?", I shuddered.
"Well, perhaps you can kick him in the balls", Harry Sebakovitch answered from deep within the recesses of my reactive mind.
Was I surprised to find out that Richard Ofshe was quite a nice guy! He didn't look like an ogre, despite his psychiatric beard and distended belly. What confounded me the most was when I learned that he wasn't even a psychiatrist or a psychologist! He was a sociologist, which seemed harmless enough, and he spoke the language of Scientology as well as any Class Four auditor. Nevertheless, a Saint Hill Special Briefing Course Graduate like me he was not. But, I had seen worse, I suppose, although at first blush he didn't seem to measure up to his evil reputation.
"Now, you mustn't let yourself be swayed by his deceptive charm!", my valence Harry continued as I gave Richard a six hour summary of my life history.
Amazingly, we went into very good ARC with one another, and I didn't find it difficult at all to discuss my career, my purposes, my goals and my aspirations with him. As horrible as I knew he was, I still liked him, and I even felt some remorse for having to double-cross him in my Knowledge Report to Frank.
"Whose side are you on?", Harry shouted angrily as volcanic thunder erupted inside my head. "You are just like the chameleon Zelig, bending whichever way the wind blows!", he added.
And Harry was right! I found myself the victim of a strange phenomenon. Whenever I was in the company of the four squirrels, I wanted them to like me so much that I actually found myself operating like an anti- Scientologist! Then, when I returned to the Org, my anger, ire and wrath for the suppressives had no bounds. I guess I needed both sides to love me.
Anyway, with my training in TR-L, I had Leah's permission to act like an Enemy, so there certainly wasn't any harm in putting on a good facade to appear more realistic, right?
The one thing that made me cognite on where my loyalties honestly remained was Richard Ofshe's continuously brutal attack on L. Ron Hubbard. He actually had nerve enough to say that Ron had been in Scientology for the money! What libel that was! Ron never gave a damn about money. The twenty-six million dollars that the Admiral had in his estate when he dropped his body were only from book royalties, trademarks and copyrights. He collected a few dollars from drawing the design for the Scientology Car Badge too. But according to Leah, the Church never paid him a nickel! What did he need our money for? He was still collecting disability payments from the United States Government due to his World War Two injuries, so that must have certainly been enough for him to live on, since he had all the free hired help that he wanted in the Sea Org. You don't think he called an employment agency to send over a housekeeper, do you? I would have gladly paid him money to do his wash if he had only asked me to.
I explained to Richard Ofshe that Ron's life had been one big Success Story, and just thinking about the infinite greatness of the man brought a flood of tears to my eyes. Of course, Ron's struggle for survival had not been without its share of setbacks either. For example, on the 15th of October, 1947, Ron wrote a request for treatment to the Medical Office of the Veterans Administration in Los Angeles. In his letter, Ron stated,After trying and failing for two years to regain my equilibrium in civil life, I am utterly unable to approach anything like my own competence. My last physician informed me that it might be very helpful if I were to be examined and perhaps treated psychiatrically or even by a psycho-analyst. Toward the end of my service I avoided out of pride any mental examinations, hoping that time would balance a mind which I had every reason to suppose was seriously affected. I cannot account for nor rise above long periods of moroseness and suicidal inclinations, and have newly come to realize that I must first triumph above this before I can hope to rehabilitate myself at all.Seeing that letter for the first time was one of the saddest moments of my life. Needless to say, Ron wrote it before he realized that the psychs were the cause of all his misery. It was frightening that he had ever entertained the notion of placing so much trust in those villains, considering what scum they have always been. But then again, Ron was always such a trusting soul, forever looking for the best in people, even his enemies.
I cannot leave school or what little work I am doing for hospitalization due to many obligations, but I feel I might be treated outside, possibly with success. I cannot, myself, afford such treatment.
Would you please help me? Sincerely, L. Ron Hubbard.139
Where was I on the 15th of October, 1947? I was in Tahiti, thinking that I was happily married to Gabrielle Kusvitz. Had I known about the poison that awaited me at the twilight of that lifetime, or had I even realized one tenth as much as I know now, I would have dropped Gabrielle like a hot potato and swam all the way to Los Angeles so that I could have comforted and supported my beloved Ron. But, who was so smart in those days? I was just a poor Jewish shmuck who had gotten out of a concentration camp. What the fuck did I know?
Anyway, Ron straightened out his life in very short order. Within three years of writing that pathetic and tragic letter, Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health was high on the best seller lists, and Ron was once again in clover. But, as I told Richard Ofshe, I had no respect for anyone that accused the Admiral of doing it only for the money, because even when he was flat broke, Ron never lost his willingness to fight. And don't think for a moment that our Government did him such a big favor either. If the United States had paid him a billion dollars in disability benefits, it still would not have evened the score for the countless benefits which Ron has unselfishly bestowed upon mankind. I told Richard Ofshe that too, although I think my words helped as much as last winter's snow!
"Ron only did things for himself!", Richard argued, despite my ironclad overture of truth.
I looked at Richard as if he were completely and totally insane.
With all of his defiance against Source, I was shocked at how much information I had revealed to Richard about myself. There was no doubt that he was using a confidential OT process to get me to talk, which he probably learned from his friend and fellow squirrel Gerry Armstrong, who Fred Hare used to refer to as the "Raider of the Lost Archives" because of the reams of documents he stole from the Church before he left in 1981.
As I feared it would, my Security Check betrayed how much data I had divulged during the dreaded Ofshe interview.
"This isn't working out at all!", Frank screamed. "You are telling that scum bag a lot more information than you are getting out of him!"
"He was using some kind of weird process to get me to talk!", I explained. "You don't know how deadly he is!"
"How could you be fooled by his Squirrel TRs?", Leah shouted. "The man is too dangerous, Frank! This little faggot Fishman is no match for him!"
And so while they were fighting it out, Lisa Witt gave me an even more incisive Security Check, putting me in reverie during my inquisition on the E-Meter. After miserably flunking by rock slamming all over the place, the Case Supervisor ordered me to write "Marc Nurik is the Enemy" for a total of at least one thousand times, after which I had to substitute the names "Uwe Geertz", "Richard Ofshe" and "Margaret Singer" for an additional thousand times each, making a grand total of four thousand sentences.
"Am I out of Treason yet?", I asked Lisa Witt when I was done.
"At the rate you are going, you'll still be in Treason a million years after you are long dead!", she responded bleakly.
Nevertheless, I was bound and determined to figure a way to slowly but surely work my way back the ladder of Ethical Success.
Frank Thompson came up with a fantastic idea and asked me to bring all the aerosols, solvents and poisons that I had in my house to the Org. Now normally, a single guy living in a studio apartment wouldn't have had much of that stuff, but I was a junk mail freak, and I had been actively sending away for free samples of industrial compounds for years. I had over a hundred bottles and jars of hazardous materials alone, which I had procured from trade magazines ranging from Chemical Engineering to Electronic Design. In a show of loyalty, I packed up every unsavory solution that I owned in four huge Winn Dixie shopping bags, and proudly turned everything over to our endearing Warehouse Manager with the high sperm count, Charlie Fox.
"Pick up the cans!", Charlie commanded as if he were an auditor starting a session with an E- Meter. It was very important that I got my fingerprints over all of them. Just to be certain that nothing was overlooked, Charlie had me turn all the poisons upside down, so that I could give them a second "touch assist" with my fingertips going in the opposite direction. Charlie then asked me to point out the most dangerous of the products, including those that were highly toxic, flammable or radioactive, and together we logged them on a worksheet, which made Mr. Fox feel rather nifty and cozy with goose bumps.
"I once heard that the Gestapo used to keep records like this for all the Zyklon-B cyanide gas that they used to kill the Jews", I uttered in chatty conversation, trying to keep my friend entertained.
"We've got the Nazis beat by a mile when it comes to our inventories!", Charlie laughed. "I don't work twenty hours a day in this stockroom for nothing!"
Over the next month, I turned over four packages of "poisons" to Marc, keeping my TR-L really in solidly and pretending to be very scared from having received the mysterious fluids. Only one package was actually mailed to me by Charlie Fox. I carried the other three home, in order to save him the cost of the postage.
My attorney was so gullible when I brought the boxes from the Org to his office that he took our bait and turned them right over to the FBI, just like we wanted him to!
"What a jerk he was for believing me!", I chuckled. "How could he be that stupid to think that I would possibly abandon the Third Dynamic just because I was charged with fraud in a criminal case?"
After the boxes of poisons were delivered to Nurik, I turned in my Knowledge Report to Leona Grimm, the Flag Banking Officer, since Frank Thompson had gone to Flag on other business, and both Ray and Humberto were out of the building, having Chinese food.
"Maybe your lawyer will drink the crap in some of the containers", she said as the Miami Bookstore Officer Linda Miller and I both had a good laugh.
"I should have poured some of the hydrosulfuric acid into his Perrier!", I added rather hysterically. "The refrigerator in his office is filled with loads of that yuppie water."
"You should have taken a piss in the bottles before letting him drink it at least!", Linda exploded comically with an uncontrollable grin on our face.
"Steven is too afraid of his ass to do anything that heroic", Linda mocked with regret. "He had plenty of chances to put cyanide in his psychologist's instant coffee and he never did it!"
"It was supposed to go in his orange juice, but come to think of it, sprinkling it in his coffee would have worked out better. It would have been a shame to ruin an eight dollar gallon of freshly squeezed juice on that Freudian Storm Trooper", I confessed.
"Steven is all talk and no action", Leona nodded to Linda. "Don't pay any attention to him!"
"Neither one of you were around in the old days when I knocked the stuffing out of Lavenda!", I reminded them.
"The only thing I ever heard about it was that you knocked her up!", Linda scorned. "If you have to rest on your skimpy laurels to get notoriety, you are history! There is plenty that needs to be done right now to Clear the planet, and merely talking about the past does nothing more than waste my time!"
Despite Linda's criticism, everything was falling into place rather nicely. Even luck was on our side. One night, after humping Dusty and taking my love home to her pimp Shane, I had a blowout on my left rear tire while driving on I-95. When I told Ray Jourdain about it, he suggested that I inform Marc Nurik that "someone from the Org" had called and threatened to blow up the other three tires "next time." Then, as "proof" that the tire puncture was deliberate, Ray instructed me to turn over the bad tire to the FBI, so they could analyze it and see that the faulty tire exploded from natural causes, which proved that I must have been lying!
"If I were gay, I would kiss you on both nuts for being so clever!", I said to Ray in praise, trying to appeal to his rational side.
"Another act of valor like that and you might get out of Treason!", he promised. "If only you could make Marc Nurik mad enough so he would withdraw from the case as your attorney! Now that would get you upgraded to Enemy -- I can almost guarantee it!"
Ron and I talked almost every night, while I was either exteriorizing or dreaming. Over and over he asked me when I was going to keep my promise to him and de-Christianize the planet, and I felt very guilty every time I had to stall him off.
"It's so unfair to keep the Admiral waiting!", I told Louie Jassin on one of the many nights that I took him out to dinner. Louie, as you recall, was my publicist, promoter, and attorney for The Holy Book of Life, and therefore the person I trusted most in the entire world.
For a wog, Louie sure was unusually sympathetic. He scheduled a local press conference, and contacted every radio and television station that serviced the South Florida area. He also called all the newspapers and wire services, so that the conference room would be mobbed. Louie believed in putting on a big splash, so he directed me to rent the plushiest banquet room in the elegant Grand Bay Hotel in Coconut Grove, and scheduled the gala release of the latest book by Malchoot the Antichrist for the 6th of October, 1988.
"There's going to be standing room only with all of the connections I've got!", Louie assured me. "We have to rent a white stretch limousine to take us there too, since no real Messiah would be caught dead in a four-door Cadillac."
Luckily, I axed the limousine rental because I felt it was too extravagant. And it was for good reason, because only two reporters out of the hundreds Louie called actually showed up. One was Jose Diaz Balart from Channel 4 television, and the other was an unknown reporter from 790 AM Radio who never even bothered to give us his business card. The press conference which had cost me nearly five hundred dollars in expenses was a total flop.
"The world must be too insane and suppressed to start taking me seriously", I thought.
Undaunted, Louie Jassin said he was not planning to throw in the towel quite so soon.
Without giving me fair warning, Louie sent a copy of The Holy Book of Life to Bridge Publications International, the printing press of Scientology.
"You idiot!", I said to Louie. "Bridge Publications only publishes material written by L. Ron Hubbard!"
Within forty-eight hours, Frank Thompson called me on the carpet again, furious beyond belief at what he perceived to be my own attempt to exploit my confidential auditing data without either the permission or consent of Scientology.
"You have to be the most insane and degraded being that I have ever known in my entire time track!", Frank scowled.
"I told you what would happen if he didn't do the End of Cycle!", Humberto reprimanded with insensitivity as he slugged me on the back with a fire extinguisher.
"That rag you wrote is nothing more than a trashy attempt to glorify perverted sex!", Frank continued after I got up from the floor. "Once again you have disseminated Scientology improperly to the wogs, and your book has confidential materials in it from Grade Five of New Era Dianetics which is a complete violation of LRH Policy! You had no right to reveal your lifetime as Malchoot prematurely, and your use of the word "Antichrist" is sensationalistic and in poor taste. You were out of line in writing about the Between Lives Area, and your admission to having won state lotteries to pay for your Bridge is an out-and-out bald-faced lie!"
"No it isn't!", I argued. "I won a hundred and sixteen dollars playing Florida Lotto once! I got four numbers out of six!"
"And you probably spent all of it on Dusty, didn't you?", he mimicked mockingly.
"Only twenty-five dollars went to her", I apologized. "I have to have some decent sex to keep me going once in a while, Frank! I can't seem to meet any nice girls here at the Org, especially now that I am a renegade leper in Treason!"
"Under no circumstances are you to publish that fucking book!", he yelled, threatening me once more with a lit cigarette. "It is Squirrel Tech! How can you be such a traitor to the Third Dynamic?"
"That's not true!", I agonized. "Who in the last two thousand years has had the courage and the conviction to stand up to Christ besides me? No one! If The Holy Book of Life is too steep a gradient for the people of Earth, then Earth is far too inferior a planet for me to live on!"
"Then why the hell don't you do us all a big favor and drop dead?", Humberto said persuasively.
"I wish to Source that I could!", I responded. "But I owe the Admiral too many promises to run out on him now! In fact, if you don't like my being here, then you leave! As for me, I am staying!"
Somewhere way out in the distance, probably on the dark side of New Arcturus, Ron was applauding when I said that. I could just feel the great depth of his support.
If there were ever a straw that broke the camel's back, it was the day that I mortgaged my summer home in North Carolina and gave Marc Nurik a seventy thousand dollar check to use for my criminal defense.
What could I do? Louie Jassin wasn't a criminal lawyer, although he often bragged that he could have done a far better job than Marc.
Of course, a Scientologist is not supposed to have any withholds, so I throbbed a short palpitation and confessed the wicked sin that I had committed to my Ethics Officer.
Wild horses couldn't stop Frank Thompson from going off the deep end. I suppose that I was lucky that Humberto Fontana was not around when my bombshell hit. In an unprecedented rage, Frank sat on my chest while he tediously did his famous cigarette trick one more time, scorching my right arm while Leah Abady carefully held it down with enough force to dislodge it from its socket. What a fabulous surgical team the Miami Org had!
"Nobody, but nobody betrays the Master At Arms!", he warned savagely as I finally realized what that seldom-used title of his actually meant. "I am not a dilettante at bashing in the skulls of our enemies like twinkle-toed Ray Jourdain. I've finished treading lightly on your attacks against my Org! I have spared you from punishment long enough!"
I never knew how much more painful the inside of the arm felt then the outer layer, but on October the 14th, 1988, I found out.
"Get your extremities stretched out and don't flinch!", Leah ordered as if she had assumed a new valence as Dracula's nurse. "Keep your TRs in, Steve. I don't want you to move, whimper or react in any way! Whether you know it or not, this is for your own good!"
"I'll try to be still", I promised as I trembled in a fit of fright.
Frank wasn't all that heartless, though. Despite the fact that he burned me until the cigarette had plainly extinguished itself in my right arm, he balanced the pain flows of my body by pinching several areas of fatty tissue in my left arm. In this way, the pain center of the brain distributed the punishment more evenly. Even torture goes a lot better with Tech.
"Next time you have an evil purpose, I'll put out these ciggies up your asshole!", he vowed courageously with the glee of insanity.
After it was all over, Leah threw me a cold, wet towel to apply to my injured areas.
"He's quite a pincher, isn't he?", I told her as I settled down, trying to break the tension with some glib conversation. Those five minutes seemed like an eternity.
"You gave the squirrel attorney seventy thousand dollars to attack us with!", she gasped in shock. "You are damn lucky that Frank is not a chain smoker!"
Four days later, Frank had sufficiently calmed down from his fit of anger to talk to me.
"You are not getting any more second chances", he admonished, while a barrage of mucous dripped down his throat in sympathetic hostility. "You have been playing footsies on both sides of the fence, and I am no longer going to keep letting you make suckers out of all of us! Your last Security Check revealed that you allowed your Nazi psychologist to hypnotize you again!"
"I appreciate your toughness", I wept. "I am nothing without your guidance."
"Fishman, you have a cute way of flattering me by always knowing what kind of opportune bullshit to spit back in my face", he observed. "That's not going to work anymore. Your disloyalty was noted on every Security Check that Lisa, Leah, Kate and Trish has given you since the very first day that you hired that squirrel Jew lawyer. Frankly, I'm ready to vomit from your antics!"
"I know exactly how you feel", I stated consolingly. "I can't stand myself either."
"You have done a hell of a lot more for our enemies recently than you have done for us!", he reminded. "You didn't give me a check for seventy thousand dollars, did you?"
"I was under a tremendous amount of pressure from my parents to mount a defense and -- "
"Shut up!", he interrupted, as his blood pressure started rising again. "Don't push me beyond my breaking point like you did the other day!"
"Well, what did you want to see me about?", I glimpsed.
"Let's discuss how to cut communication lines", Frank replied mysteriously. "I want Marc Nurik to know with certainty that you are out of communication with the entirety of Scientology!"
"Well, I never tell him that I still come here", I explained. "Marc gave me strict orders not to dare set foot into the Org. That's all part of the TR-L that I am running on him!"
"He knows you are full of shit when you lie to him!", Frank revealed wisely. "Ofshe probably realizes that you can't be trusted every bit as much as I do! I want them to have solid proof that you don't come around here anymore!"
"What Scientologist could ever stay away from his Org?", I laughed. "Even the suppressives know how dedicated I am."
"One who has been declared a Suppressive Person", he answered with a lashing tongue.
A sensation of terror overpowered me. Expulsion from the Church was a subject that I approached with horror, as if I were walking on a mine field of plutonium that was about to blow up in my hemorrhoids at any second.
"Has that happened?", I whispered from the valence of the valley of the shadow of death.
"You are this close!", Frank squinted as he held his forefinger and thumb so tightly together that he could have easily squashed a microscopic fissure-full of flea semen.
"In the name of Source!", I screamed. "Don't tell me that!"
"Then you'd better take your ass home and get busy on the typewriter, creating the best mocked-up Suppressive Declare that anybody has ever seen in their life! I want you to convince your pet squirrels that the document you are about to give them came from us, and is even more real than the smell of shit in your underwear!"
"I always lose control of my bowels when I am this nervous!", I explained.
"Well, if you ever creep out of this stinking mess, then perhaps one day you will once again have an opportunity to discuss that problem with an auditor!"
"From your mouth to Ron's ears!", I postulated.
Frank and I spent the next hour going over the specific information that needed to appear in the phony document.
"Can't I type it right here at the Org and get it over with?", I asked. "It will take at least three hours to travel back and forth to my apartment in Fort Lauderdale and get the work done."
"I want it typed from your typewriter, you stupid moron!", he said candidly. "It is vital that the FBI eventually find out that it came from you!"
"Yeah, that is a good idea", I admitted. "The Government will finally have some real proof that you were being victimized and blamed for it! How did you ever think of such a great way for me to protect you guys?"
"You've left me no choice!", he stated smugly. "If it were up to you and your psychs, there wouldn't be an Org still standing! Somebody has to start taking responsibility for you!"
"But there is just one thing, Frank", I hesitated. "When the Government finds out that I typed up my own Suppressive Declare at home, aren't they going to be upset with me?"
"Are you that stupid?", he resounded indignantly. "Do you think that the Feds would ever blame you for helping out your own Church? And even if they were psychotic enough to think that way, I once told you that this case will never come to trial. In any event, it will take the FBI between six months to a year before they realize what you have been doing. Finally, not many SPs have a chance to prevent themselves from being issued their own Suppressive Declare. By all indications you should be expelled from the Church permanently."
"But how can I create a Suppressive Declare without blank stationery from Flag?", I wondered. "All Suppressive Declares are written as Flag Orders. You need to give me some blank sheets of paper with the correct letterhead from Flag if you want me to construct the document properly."
"You're going to write this one from Saint Hill, not Flag", Frank instructed as a complete surprise.
"But Suppressive Declares never come from Saint Hill!", I argued.
"That's right, but the squirrels don't know that, or do they?", he sneered. "I can only speculate as to how much confidential data you have already told them."
"As much as you hate me, you can't possibly believe that!", I groaned.
"My personal feelings about you have nothing to do with it!", Frank asserted in self defense. "We are at war here, and it is a war which you brought on yourself, I might add. You just get that Saint Hill Declare written up immediately, and stop worrying about my state of mind. I'm not the one who mingles with squirrels, remember that! And one more thing: you have a tendency to put together your finished products with all kinds of perfectionist crap. You're not preparing a class action claim form here. I want you to make some deliberate mistakes! I don't want to see your left and right margins lined up flawlessly like tin soldiers, as if the Suppressive Declare was going to be hung up on display in Ron's office for the whole staff to see. The way you do things is far too structured and tedious for this sort of a project. The FBI will see right through it if you pamper the damn document with your sick, compulsive bullshit!"
"Yeah, we wouldn't want it to look too realistic", I chuckled. "Boy, you think of everything!"
"That's because Scientology is a game where everybody wins, except our enemies!", he echoed.
Frank Thompson was always right when his beard itched, and this time, unless he had a bad case of ticks or mites, he was scratching it like crazy.
The phony Suppressive Declare was a work of art. Even Humberto gave me a thumbs-up compliment on it, and that made me almost faint from amazement!
"This will look pretty cool on the desk of the Federal Prosecutor", he said as he reviewed it.
"Then maybe we can all sue the Government for False Expulsion!", I suggested. "We can get a real good attorney like Louie Jassin to represent us!" Somehow after I said it, it didn't make that much sense.
"Wait until Marc Nurik relies upon this document as being authentic and it all blows up in his face!", Frank laughed. "He'll be one very sick son of a wog's bitch!"
"Will all of this get me upgraded to Enemy?", I asked with baited breath.
"You've got a long way to go before you're out of Treason", Humberto warned. "Putting a little Band-Aid on our wounds after you butchered us in your psychiatric chain-saw massacre hardly makes up for the damage."
"But it's a start", Frank added optimistically.
Another part of my life was falling apart.
Dusty's pimp was forcing her to stay out on Hallandale Beach Boulevard nearly sixteen hours a day, hooking near the railroad tracks so that they could have a round-the-clock fresh supply of crack cocaine rocks.
"How could you let Shane Johnson drag you down in the mud like that again?", I cried to her. "I thought you said you could handle it!"
"I am handling it, fuck face!", she said affectionately. "I'm out here working the streets! Have you got a better way to handle it?"
"But I love you!", I begged. "I want to marry you. You are going to be eighteen years old next week, on October 30th. You won't need your mother's consent to sleep with me anymore."
"I haven't needed that ugly bitch's permission to fuck guys ever since I was eleven!", she scoffed. "Anyway, what are you getting me for my birthday?"
"Let's have an elegant candlelight dinner at La Vielle Maison in Boca Raton", I suggested. "We could have chateaubriand, or maybe we can try their pheasant. Of course, you'll have to wash your hair and put on a dress. You can't go to a place like that wearing jeans with holes in the knees."
"What's the matter? Are my clothes not good enough for you or something? I don't own a fucking dress!", she cried in sheer impoverishment. "Why don't you take me to the mall and buy me one if you're so worried about it!"
"I can't afford to do that on the little money I get from the weddings", I pleaded. "You know that I've lost my job with Scientology."
"Well, how much was all that high class food going to cost you?", she inquired.
"For your eighteenth birthday, I have set aside one hundred dollars", I smiled. "I want us to have a night to remember."
"I don't want no fancy dinner in one of those French places where they feed you snail snot!", she admonished. "Just give me the hundred bucks and I'll fuck you all night!"
"You make love to ten to fifteen customers a day", I scolded. "You're earning over seven hundred dollars a week! Why should another hundred dollars make any difference?"
"I could buy an "eight-ball" with it", she explained.
"Do you and Shane like to shoot billiards?", I jumped in awe. "Where do you play?"
"You asshole!", she realized. "An "eight-ball" is a big old bad-ass crack rock! I get a half-hour high out of it at least."
"I don't know what the hell I'm going to do with you!", I said in exasperation.
"Why, you didn't expect to take me out to dinner and then think that you could get away with fucking me for nothing, did you?", she accused with an air of suspicion. "I wasn't born yesterday."
"I was hoping that on your birthday we could forget about business", I serenaded gullibly.
"You pay, you play!", she replied, summing it all up in a nutshell. "Baby, without money, the only action your dick will see is when you shave the fucking thing once a week."
"For your information I trim it every day!", I reacted indignantly.
"I don't give a damn what you do with it!", she argued. "You can go eat it as far as I'm concerned."
"Can't you give me any compassion?", I pleaded.
"Go ask Lisa Lawson for passion!", she retorted. "She's getting thirty thousand dollars for that baby of yours. I could buy a whole fuckload of rocks for that kind of money!"
"Well, maybe I can make you pregnant too!", I offered.
"Honey, I ain't been on birth control since I dropped out of the seventh grade when that black guidance counselor in school used to give me the pills for free", she disclosed. "If I didn't get pregnant with all the kinky sex I've had, the only mother I'm ever going to be is just a plain old mother- fucker!"
"Maybe your sperm count is too low", I suggested.
"Not me, baby!", she corrected remorsefully. "I've got that stuff coming out of my mouth all day long!"
"Just remember that it's never too late for us to be happy and raise a family", I reminded as I tried to stifle yet another panic attack of desperation and loneliness.
But joy and love was not waiting in the wings for me. Dusty's eighteenth birthday came and went like a fallen suppository, and I never got to see her at all. No doubt she spent the most memorable milestone of her life with Shane in some crack house, free-basing her brains out.
The 30th of October was a very sad and lonely day for me all the way around. My best friend at the Miami Org, Ray Jourdain, got married to Nicole Furlin on that same Sunday afternoon, and despite the fact that the entire staff was there to hear Reverend Darrell Kirkland perform the ceremony, no one even bothered to call or invite me. I was just a heap of excess baggage that the entire planet would have truly preferred to forget about.
I spent the day all alone watching Ron on my television screen, long after the videotape had ended.
"Who the hell needs people anyway?", I asked caustically. "I can masturbate just as easily by myself."
When all was said and done, it was just Ron and me, against the world.
Nevertheless, I continued to plug along, still hoping to Clear the planet by default if not by design.
I kept on giving Louie Jassin my wedding money to make extra copies of The Holy Book Of Life for the publishers, but we weren't getting any responses from any of them.
"Where the hell are the receipts for mailing out the manuscripts?", I asked Louie in frustration.
"Receipts?", he laughed. "I don't keep receipts. You're talking big business here! I don't have time to worry about little pieces of
"How can I prove that the publishers received the books?", I challenged. "For a lawyer, you certainly are terrible at record keeping."
"I've got secretaries and gophers to worry about all that!", he assured me.
"Gophers?", I interrupted. "What are gophers?"
"You know; go for this and go for that!", he laughed. "Cheer up, or I won't let you take me out to dinner anymore."
Despite his slipshod and haphazard demeanor, Louie was a lot of fun to spend time with. He introduced me to his favorite waitresses as "Andy Christ" or "Mel Cute." I always came to his rescue in grocery stores or gas stations, since he kept walking out of his house without a nickel in his wallet. He was far from a freeloader, though. He always paid me back by getting me in free to various night clubs and hot spots throughout Miami and Fort Lauderdale, even though I never once was able to pick up any women there.
"You've got to loosen up!", Louie encouraged in the style of a typical Los Angeles sleazeball.
"The hookers cost too much in these disco places you take me to!", I complained. "It's a lot easier to strike a deal with the girls who sleep under I-95 near the Miami River."
Unphased by my complacency, Louie promised that my luck would change after he arranged an interview on a controversial news program called "Inside Story", which later became nationally syndicated and well known as "Inside Report."
Penny Daniels, the anchorwoman of the program, had expressed an interest in meeting Malchoot the Antichrist; and just for the occasion, I dressed up in my pink silk South Korean Samurai outfit, complete with baggy pants which were large enough to accommodate a bowling ball in the crotch, coupled with a hand-woven smoking jacket worn by only the finest pimps in Seoul, as well as a four inch terry-cloth necktie that loosely fit around my cranberry 1960's hippie shirt that I had bought in Greenwich Village a few years after my Bar Mitzvah, and which had somehow found its way back into vogue, according to Louie Jassin.
"Are you sure that you can wear the tie?", Louie asked.
"Sure", I said confidently. "Ever since I returned from Malaga, I only had two or three bad dreams about nooses. But isn't the outfit a little absurd for a religious leader to be wearing?"
"Absurd?", he mocked. "As the Antichrist, you have to make your own fashion statement! As soon as people see you on television, every men's clothing store in the country will be swamped with back orders for your complete wardrobe."
"Do you really think so?", I gloated.
"You'll be on the front cover of Gentleman's Quarterly", he guaranteed without hesitation.
"But aren't you being a bit too commercialized about my appearance?", I debated. "After all, I am a messenger of Source, wearing my hat to Clear the planet, not a clown in a Korean circus!"
"As your publicist and your attorney, I am telling you that whatever you do, you still have to stay funky!", he slurred.
I don't know why I ever listened to Louie Jassin. I looked like your typical shmuck in a zoot suit, and somewhere along the line, I lost my credibility and my respect.
Furthermore at Louie's direction, I told Penny Daniels during the interview that I had five thousand followers; and if the truth be told, Malchoot the Antichrist didn't have a single one, unless you want to count Harry Sebakovitch, my favorite valence who lived upstairs amongst my mental image pictures. Even Louie didn't believe that I was really the father of Jesus. The infidel turncoat attorney seemed to be just in it for the money.
Not being able to corroborate my statements of how I fathered Christ with any of my imaginary five thousand followers, Penny Daniels never aired the segment, and my interview is probably still gathering dust in some obscure and forgotten video vault at the archives of Channel 7.
As usual, Frank Thompson could have throttled me with his bare nicotine-stained hands.
"Did you give an interview to a wog news reporter about Christ without my authorization?", he raged intemperately.
"Don't worry, Frank", I stated calmly. "I said I was an ex-Scientologist, just in case Marc Nurik or any of the other squirrels happen to see the program inadvertently."
"What the hell is wrong with you?", he shouted, extremely pissed off and ARC Broken. "Jumping the gun on bad-mouthing Christ could kill our dissemination lines! Even Scientologists don't get that kind of False Data Stripping until they go through the Second Wall of Fire during New OT Five!"
"If that is your attitude, Frank, then you are a damn hypocrite!", I yelled.
"How dare you --"
"Now you shut up for once!", I rioted. "I am sick and tired of the "reasonableness" of all the Public Relations horse shit that we have to live with! My reputation as a hard-liner always won me respect while I was a Kha-Khan Agent of the Guardian's Office, and as a Psychbuster, I called the shots the way I saw them; and Treason or otherwise, I am not about to make an apology to those Christian bastards whose sensibilities I might have trampled upon! I am appalled that you could stand here in front of me, talking about kissing their slimy asses!"
Somewhat displeased at my outburst, Frank cracked me in the jaw with the back of his knuckles. I never knew that Scientology jewelry could hurt as much as Frank's "Clear" ring did when he smashed it into the left side of my mouth.
"The "Public Relations horse shit" that you are talking about has been responsible for flooding more raw meat into our Orgs than any other successful campaign in the last thirty-eight years", he cautioned. "It will be over my dead body that anyone in your slovenly Ethics Condition is going to stand in the way of freedom! I want you Security Checked until every stupid piece of entheta garbage that you told that television cunt is floating on the E-Meter needle, and you'd better hope to Helatrobus that you don't rock slam!"
Although I zipped through the Security Check as clean as a nun's clitoris, the reward that awaited me was something that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, unless it was Larry Wollersheim.
Like three gray ghosts in drag, Humberto, Frank and Ray beckoned me into the Ethics Office, as somber as a sample of squashed squid.
"We have heard from the International Justice Chief today, and I am afraid that the news is rather dismal", Frank began with wrath.
"Oh, shit!", I feared. "He didn't like my second Petition either, did he?"
"Basically, Paul Laquerre was somewhat more than just slightly ARC Broken because you used that Time Pilot Rundown of yours as a poor excuse for not doing the End of Cycle", Frank elaborated from behind his gloomy poker face.
"You might as well tell him how upset he really was!", Humberto added gleefully, happy at any chance that he had to pour more salt on my open wounds.
Frank Thompson paused as he lifted his left leg to leave a fart.
"There was no record of the Time Pilot Rundown anywhere, and Ray Mithoff has verified that you have been deliberately squirreling the Tech", Frank continued as I felt his thetan condemnation piercing my heart. "Furthermore, the International Justice Chief has cited your failure to turn over your 1988 Allante in settlement of your pledge to the Church, and for that reason he has refused to cancel the Justice Order demanding that you complete the End of Cycle."
"So my suicide is still hot on the agenda, huh?", I replied with a combination of bittersweet antagonism and outright terror.
"Additionally, besides failing to protect your Bridge Fund from seizure by the Third Invader Forces, the record reflects that the Allante money was used in payment of legal fees to enemies of the Church while the Petitioner was still in a Condition of Treason", Frank plodded on. "And not only that, Mr. Fishman continued to render aid, assistance and information to his suppressive group of degraded beings, culminating in a seventy thousand dollar donation to his squirrel attorney for the sole and express purpose of attacking the Church of Scientology on all fronts, while at the very same time petitioning this office to cancel the End of Cycle!"
"You sure have a lot of nerve, Steve", Ray Jourdain interspersed in condemnation, using a swishy, homosexual voice tone.
"Finally, as there is a preponderance of Clear and convincing evidence beyond a shadow of theta that you have falsified Knowledge Reports, Overt/Withhold Reports, and Completed Staff Work Reports -- coupled with the evil-purposed act of placing every Org within Scientology at risk, your Ethics have been downgraded to the one remaining Condition below Treason, which is Confusion", Frank pronounced, reading verbatim from Paul Laquerre's telex.
"Do you mean that I have to work my way back up to Treason?", I gasped. "I never heard of anyone doing something like that before."
"I think the boy is really Confused!", Humberto snickered maliciously, taking obvious advantage of my lack of orientation and perspective.
"Consequently, pursuant to this Irrevocable Ethics Order, It is Ordered that after this lifetime you will be rendered inert and your beingness will be terminated!", he grunted, as the words collided against me with a dead thud.
"How can you terminate my beingness?", I shrieked in terror. "Nobody has that power but Ron!"
"You don't know a heck of a lot about the state of awareness known as New OT Eight", Frank reprimanded vindictively. "Your case has been turned over to Ivy Kimmich, a New OT Eight completion who I believe you met this past June when you attended the Flag Ship Event. She will see to it that Justice is done, and that after your current lifetime is over, you will never have a chance to pick up another body again! New OT Eight graduates are at the top of the Bridge. They can handle suppression in ways that you never even dreamed about! If you think that the false Christian religion with its crock of fake hell has a monopoly on eternal damnation, you ain't seen nothin' yet!"
I had no bladder control whatsoever, and a rumble of diarrhea completely inundated my underwear.
"Go clean yourself up, you smelly cocksucker!", Humberto commanded without much empathy.
When I had fully collected myself, Frank Thompson took an hour of his valuable time to supervise me as I word cleared and clay demoed the Irrevocable Ethics Order. As a result, I cognited in shocking fright how my immortality would be affected upon my death, and how truly fragile was my survival as a thetan.
"Get the beautiful sadness of being trapped forever in a solid rock, simply being an object for the next seventy-six trillion years or longer, knowing every moment that you are immobilized there and cannot get out", Frank revealed in horror. "Being an object is one of the lowest states of awareness possible, at Minus Ten on the Tone Scale, and is a fate far worse than death."
"Isn't it exciting how our enemies get exactly what they deserve?", Humberto gloated, soaking up all my pain with wild glee.
"You can't do that!", I protested. "This goose-egg shit hole of a planet needs me!"
"Not anymore!", Humberto shouted as he gave me the finger.
"That solid rock which you're going to be trapped in will just stay there in some far, remote corner of the galaxy where nothing ever happens", Frank continued sadistically, "and you will have an infinite number of eternities to contemplate the High Crimes that you have committed against us. You are going to be that rock, in the fullest sense of the word. When you are a physical object, you remain a physical object. I assure you that it is much worse than being a Body Thetan, because at least a Body Thetan is attached to a body part in motion. You will be a still, silent, dead object. Isn't that nice? Where do you think the phrase "solid as a rock" comes from? Think about it!"
"But that's so horribly boring!", I exclaimed with alarm. "Ivy Kimmich would never do that to me! Ron would never permit it!"
"Ah, so you think Ron is going to save you from being rendered inert when you have attacked his Church, do you?", Frank mimicked in scorn. "I thought you were a lot brighter than that. If indeed you are so curious, why don't you see what Source has to say about it? Ron wrote, "One is not working for just this life. He is working for any future life at all! Only the insane or a zombie would imperil his own future. So leave the insane conduct, the zombie ranting about one life to the psychs and the Justice Department and other trash. Anyone who has misdirected Scientology Org monies will, of course, try to brush it off in various ways -- black Public Relations, belittlement, seeking to make nothing of the crime. But it won't brush off, brother, it won't brush off. That crime stood in the way of freedom. You better believe it. Whether one has any reality on Scientology or not -- he will, once dead, oh yes, he will! This is not a threat or a curse. This is about the most friendly advice anyone ever gave. -- L. Ron Hubbard, Founder."140
I felt a hollow misery in my stomach as Frank finished reading that very profound quotation. The remaining food in my intestines rumbled through the core of my guts as if it were on a rocket ride through Space Mountain.
"No Scientologist will be "reasonable" with you, believe me", Frank continued savagely. "Not I, not Ivy, and especially not Ron. And just remember that it doesn't end there. I hope you understand that there are states of awareness far worse than "being an object" at Minus Ten on the Tone Scale. Be thankful that Paul Laquerre has left the door slightly open for you."
"Are you crazy?", I shrieked in agonized numbness. "Do you expect me to be overjoyed, now that I will never be allowed to pick up another body again? Should I just roll over and play dead, now that my fate is sealed and I have to be a rock for the next seventy-six trillion years? You might as well turn me into one of Dusty's crack cocaine rocks. At least I can make her a little happy when she gets high."
"Steven, you will have an overabundance of forevers to reflect on Dusty or whatever subject you want to while you are out there in dead space being an object", Frank continued. "Nobody will be around to invalidate your thinking, and that is both a promise and a punishment."
"Oh, and therefore I should be thrilled to death over your generosity!", I said without much gratitude."
"If you consider that there are alternatives far worse, yes, I would imagine that you could show a little appreciation", he answered.
"Why, what is possibly more horrible than being trapped in a lonesome stone out in space?", I wept, trembling and farting at the same time.
"There is always Minus Twenty on the Tone Scale", Humberto interjected spitefully and without reservation. "You really should read Science of Survival again. For such a supposedly dedicated Scientologist, you don't seem to know a hell of a lot about the Tone Scale."
"Minus Twenty?", I froze. "What is that?"
"Ron calls it "being nothing", Frank revealed. "You could be in that very space rock, not even aware that you are trapped. At least when you are "being an object", you know that you are stuck in a rock, and that the rock is you. But when you are "being nothing", well, ha! You won't even know that you're a rock!"
"Being an object isn't really that bad", Ray Jourdain admitted. "Since all of your data will be on file with the International Justice Chief, somebody might find you in that rock some day."
"But not until the very last psychiatrist in the universe has completed New OT Eight", Humberto grimaced, "and from the way things are going, that might not happen in the next seventy- six trillion years!"
"So I may never be found!", I gagged, choking on my words. "Is that what you're saying?"
"Look on the bright side!", Humberto beamed. "Larry Wollersheim will be stuck in his own rock somewhere in some other part of space. Perhaps there will be some way for you two to communicate. You could have a nice father and son talk about all the whores in Nazareth. Or, if you don't want to get back in touch with Jesus, you can remain as still as a dry fire hydrant, without a dog for quadrillions of miles to lift his leg on you. Maybe you can send me a postcard from there!"
"Just think! You will be able to do the Confusion Formula!", Frank indicated logically, avoiding Humberto's sultry humor. "Now that you are in the Ethics Condition of Confusion, you should become familiar with it!"
"The Confusion formula?", I repeated. "You are mixing me up. I don't know what that is."
"Well, let's look it up, shall we?", Frank suggested with a voice that sounded like he was a clone straight out of "Mister Rogers' Neighborhood."
While I held his cigarette squeamishly at his request, Frank reached over to the wall and grabbed a copy of Modern Management Technology Defined.
"There is a Condition below Treason", Frank read as I was extra careful not to drop his ashes on his floor. "It is a Condition of Confusion. The formula of the Condition is: find out where you are."141
"That's pretty easy, sissy boy!", Humberto jeered. "You're going to be trapped in your own pet rock!"
Frank continued reading from the book.
"The additional formula for the Condition of Confusion is: (1) locate the area in which one is. (2) Compare where one is to other areas where one was. (3) Repeat step (1)"142
"You see, Fishman?", Humberto laughed uproariously. "That's not so difficult. You'll be able to do that formula over and over without stopping for the next seventy-six trillion years!"
"But it's an endless loop for eternity!", I protested. "There is no end to it!"
"What do you expect? That's what Confusion is all about!", Humberto heckled.
"I'm afraid Humberto is right", Frank acknowledged.
"Don't worry so much!", Humberto shouted. "Like Ray said, eventually some do-gooder will come along and let you out like the proverbial genie in the bottle. And boy do I feel sorry for the son of a bitch who decides to be nice to a real piece of shit like you!"
"You are pretty rotten for my ego!", I jabbed, trying to get back at his verbal bullets.
"Ego? What is an ego?", Humberto asked. "The SP is not in a state of Confusion for ten minutes and he is starting to use psych words on us already! Your "ego" is nothing more than a cockeyed squirrel valence!"
"That may be true", I conceded, "but I am still indispensable to Scientology. I don't think it's fair that I will have to wait inside a rock while all the rest of the real suppressives go free. Take a guy like Wollersheim's psychiatrist, Jolly West, for example. There is an evil being who killed an elephant by injecting LSD into him for no apparent reason at all. It may take a quintillion lifetimes for that fat pig to complete New OT Eight aboard the Freewinds. Do you honestly expect me to wait until he gets to the top of the Bridge?"
"That would be a fair assumption", Frank replied. "You are a bigger threat to us than he is right now."
"But how can Paul Laquerre justify sacrificing me when my auditing data would Clear half the planet?", I clamored.
"Look, Fishman!", Frank cautioned. "If you took fifty million monkeys and sat them down in front of fifty million typewriters for fifty million years, they still would not come up with anything resembling Scientology. Scientology is here to stay. The sun never sets on it, remember? This is not the Catholic Church, where you can keep committing overt acts and then always get forgiven by some psycho-dog priest. A choice had to be made, and the International Justice Chief made it. He determined that it would be far better to Clear Earth without you than to allow you and your squirrels to wipe out any prospects of salvaging the planet by butchering our dissemination lines. Either you will do your End of Cycle right now and accept the Irrevocable Ethics Order commanding you to be an object, or you can wait in turmoil until the end of your current lifetime and expect the far worse fate of being nothing. That, my friend, is your only real choice."
"I am the one person who can stop Larry Wollersheim from postulating the holocaust!", I cried. "By condemning me like this, you are not practicing Scientology. You are practicing terrorism and annihilation!"
"You are no longer needed or wanted!", Frank assured me. "There are lots of New OT Eight completions who are much more capable of handling Wollersheim than you are. Your only responsibility is to cease to be! How much plainer can I speak than that?"
Needless to say, I was very depressed when I left the Org.
"I wish I could put a bullet in the brain of the International Justice Chief!", I told Ron that night when I exteriorized. "Why should an innocent ant on the sidewalk get stepped on accidentally while Paul Laquerre is allowed to go on living? He is no more qualified to be an International Justice Chief than Josef Mengele was when he killed my family at Auschwitz!"
Although Ron did not answer me in so many words, just seeing that he was there for me made me feel a hell of a lot better. And he looked good, too. Dressed in the finest threads of the Admiralty, standing erect on the squeaky-clean bow of the Flag Mother Ship as it transversed the universe from one end of the Galactic Confederation to the other, my only wish was that I could just be with him, even if I could do nothing more than polish his shoes for the next ten thousand lifetimes.
And the good news was that in all of the empty space in view, there was not a rock in sight.
Curiously enough, despite the doom and gloom that awaited me after my demise, the Miami Org was the only place where I felt absolutely safe. It was still home, albeit a broken one.
In a subsequent Security Check, I confessed all of my evil thoughts of revenge against the International Justice Chief for having issued the Irrevocable Ethics Order against me. When I contemplated it analytically, I cognited that Paul Laquerre was only trying to make things go right, advancing the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics.
"Maybe if I was trapped for seventy-six trillion years, I would eventually come out on the other end of immortality as a better thetan", I concluded.
Consequently, in my Success Story, I wrote that "The Irrevocable Ethics Order had strengthened my purpose, because I finally had a good reality that Scientology is a deadly serious activity." I further vowed that no matter what happened to me, I owed no truth to the squirrels, and I would do whatever was in my power to thwart their evil attacks upon the Church, even if I were just a stone's throw from my final dying breath.
"Had I been in Paul Laquerre's place, I would have done the exact same thing to Steve Fishman!", I told Frank Thompson.
Yet Frank was not very impressed with my frankness.
"We are no longer living in the barbaric era of the Wollersheim trial", Frank advised, bringing me up to date. "Although it has only been two years, we didn't have New OT Eight way back then. You may well be the very first test case of how the New OT Eight task force handles incorrigible Suppressives. In fact, I can safely say that your former lifetime at Auschwitz Concentration Camp was like a cute little Tupperware Party compared to the kind of hell that a full OT completion has the capability of putting you through. If you continue to cause us this much trouble, I promise that you will get thrown into so many different Walls of Fire on the way to your rock that those nice, juicy cigarette burns which I treated you to on various occasions will feel just like the iceberg that sank the Titanic!"
"How come I always get terrorized when I step into your office?", I asked him, begging for the tiniest shred of decency.
"I can ask you a similar question", he replied. "How come you haven't done your End of Cycle yet?"
"I simply can't confront it!", I screamed. "A body is such a stupid thing to waste!"
"Well, maybe Ivy Kimmich will have to postulate your death by giving you a rip-roaring massive heart attack!", he sneered. "With your stats declining by the minute, maybe a little help from your friends is precisely what you need!"
My future looked mighty bleak.
The main problem that I had was the fact that the Irrevocable Ethics Order was irrevocable. Irrevocable means "incapable of being retracted or revoked", according to several undistinguished wog dictionaries.
"Please have some mercy!", I begged Frank Thompson as my pride slowly vanished by the wayside into my lower intestines.
"Do you know what mercy is?", Frank's voice ricocheted. "Mercy is a lessening away from the public's acceptance of discipline necessary to guarantee their mutual security."143
"Whose shmucky definition is that?", I asked. "It sounds psychotic!"
"It just happens to be L. Ron Hubbard's", Frank gawked cantankerously. "Mercy is one of those sick human emotions like "reasonableness" which interferes with production. And in this case, my Valuable Final Product is a dead Steve Fishman, so don't start whimpering about mercy!"
"I don't care what you say or do to deter me!", I yelled. "Nothing is ever going to interfere with my love and loyalty to Scientology!"
And I truly lived up to that maxim of mine. In my second meeting with Richard Ofshe on November the 5th, I lied to him like crazy, giving him a ton of false information upon which he and Marc Nurik could rely to their detriment. Frank Thompson had warned me that revealing to the squirrels one grain of truth would wipe out the effectiveness of telling a thousand lies, so I had to watch my words very carefully with the evil suppressives.
Claire Mesa, the Director of Inspection and Reports of Miami, reminded me to keep appeasing Richard Ofshe so that he truly would believe that I was genuinely interested in going to trial and being acquitted.
"Your Knowledge Reports show too much open hostility toward our enemies", Claire reprimanded. "The only way we can absolutely destroy them is if you secure their confidence. You can't do that if there are any signs of antagonism. If we have to second-guess their every move because they don't trust you, then you have utterly failed as the front line of defense for the Org!"
Besides the barrage of pep talks, Frank Thompson came up with a brainstorm for throwing the squirrels on the wrong track.
As last custodian for all the class action claim forms, Frank photocopied a complete set of all the unpaid claims, and sent me over to visit Dusty's mother, with instructions to have her scribble various "clues" and other hints of information on some of the claims using Scientology words such as "wog" and "entheta", which "could only have been written by a Scientologist."
The idea was a great one. Frank worked it out for me using clay. The FBI knew all about Steve Goldberg, and since Steve Goldberg introduced me to Dusty, what better way was there to prove that the Church was uninvolved in any criminal activities than to have Dusty's mother impersonate a "threatening" Scientologist?
"It will only be a matter of time before the Government puts all of the pieces together and identifies you as the key player", he promised.
Frank assured me that Rita Hipps would never be able to stand up to an FBI investigation "unless she decides to do the Professional TR Course in the very near future."
"So then what would happen?", I asked insecurely.
"Nothing much", Frank confessed. "Dusty's mother will break down and tell the FBI agent that you put her up to the scheme, and the Government will know once and for all that we had nothing to do with making any threats against you."
"And then what will happen to me?", I asked.
"Stop worrying about nonsense!", he commanded. "That's such a long way off right now that we can't concern ourselves with trivial details. Our first priority is to quash any possibility of an FBI raid on the Org and to prevent Church assets from being subject to Government seizure under the RICO Act."
To place some icing on the cake, Frank directed that Rita write me a cryptic letter in Scientology abbreviated code, which upon being translated would reveal itself as a shocking death threat! It sure was fun putting that piece of work together! Frank could be so creative when he was able to stifle his burning desires.
And what an honor it was for me! After all, how many thetans do you know who were condemned to everlasting boredom in a solid object, and yet could still participate in preparing and delivering to themselves their own untimely death threats! My only hope was that life would be equally as exciting when I finally got to my rock, and I didn't mean Alcatraz, or the big boulders of crack that Dusty liked to smoke, or even Prudential Insurance Company's famous trademark.
It was amazing how much Dusty's mother would do for ten bucks. What a shame it was that she was too old for me sexually. All the booze and the Valiums had taken their toll, and Rita looked at least two decades more ancient than the forty-one years of age evidenced on her birth certificate. Yet, her penmanship was flawless. Nobody ever signed the name "Sadie Kirschenbaum" on the class action claim forms quite so beautifully as she used to do. It was only fitting that the same handwriting would be found on our brave and valiant plot to shield the Org from harm.
So wearing transparent gloves and a frozen smile, I went over the copies of unpaid claims page by page, and I orchestrated a marvelous treasure hunt of nasty clues for the FBI to find and unravel.
"Frank will be so happy with my work this time that he will want to smooch with me!", I giggled elatedly in a fit of glory.
Accordingly, I gently coached Rita as she wrote out the following "threat" in longhand:
"Steve: As per a Policy Letter governing damage control in progress in the Hubbard Communications Office Manual of Justice regarding the Questionable Risk List, your entheta acts have created a job endangerment scene for not only Miami, but all Sea Organization and Scientology personnel. A Flag Bureaux Data Letter was issued 21 October 1988 to "End Phenomena" your out-ethics Treason via an End of Cycle; and sorry, we are never going to abandon our target on a degraded being Suppressive Person such as you.
Regarding L. Ron Hubbard on "Troublesome Sources", an undone End of Cycle equals a very painful forced exteriorization. So the Director of Inspections and Reports for the Religious Technology Center returns to you these black public relations dead agent documents (the unpaid claim forms) which evidence your High Crimes against Org Assets as per the Deputy Guardian of Finance."
"You Scientologists sure talk funny, don't you?", Rita asked as she finished the letter. "I bet you really are a bunch of aliens from outer space!"
Back at the Org, Frank Thompson thought that the FBI would get a big kick out of that letter, especially when they finally discovered that it was actually written by Dusty's mother!
If that were not enough, Frank ordered me to "cry wolf", complaining to my squirrel attorney that Scientologists were calling me up on the telephone at all wee hours of the night, threatening my life.
In response to that, Marc Nurik arranged to have the FBI install a surveillance device in my home which would record all of the incoming calls. Bill Kemp, who was the same bulldog-faced FBI agent who arrested me at the Miami Airport, instructed me to keep a written roster of the name of each Scientologist caller, the place or Org from which they were calling, their telephone numbers, as well as the date, the time, and the purpose of each call. Can you imagine what a slimy, fat bastard he was, believing that I would really betray my Church and turn against L. Ron Hubbard?
Behind my plastic doll-body smile as the whore of the Government kept babbling, I was foaming with a scathing eruption of insurmountable disgust.
"Your gun should only go off by mistake and hit you dead-center in the pecker!", I wished silently on Bill Kemp as he told me his wog-load of investigatory entrapment crap.
On the following day, I brought Dusty up to my apartment for the only true pleasure that being stuck in a body still had to offer, and she also became suspicious when she saw the telephone tap on my desk.
"Are you working for the fucking CIA now?", she asked.
"No, the fucking FBI!", I answered remorsefully, wishing that it were not so.
With the monitoring equipment in place, Frank gleefully instructed me to "fill up the tape with innocent Scientology registration cycles and sales pitches, and then turn the cassette over to the FBI, so they can clearly see that no one in any Org has threatened you in any way!"
"Frank, if I were a girl, I'd marry you!", I jumped for joy. I was always an admirer of sheer brilliance, no matter what the Source.
Frank, however, did not share my enthusiasm. If I were a psychiatrist, I would have called him slightly paranoid, but since I am a Scientologist, I thought of him as "causatively responsible."
He looked directly at me with distrustful, penetrating eyes that no doubt could see blood stains through a Catholic virgin's underwear.
"You are still plotting to get in touch with Wollersheim's attorney, Charlie O'Reilly, and sue the Church, aren't you?", he erupted.
"May Ron strike me dead if that were true!", I said devotionally.
"It should happen to you even if it isn't true!", Frank stated with hope, wanting to solve my problem once and for all.
But a further Security Check by Leah Abady revealed that I still had continued to commit suppressive acts against the Church.
For example, I recently loaned my E-Meter to Dr. Geertz, since Richard Ofshe had told my SP attorney that he didn't want me using it anymore. I was certain that the psych idiots were absolutely terrified of the darned thing! Like any other uncivilized bunch of superstitious nincompoops, they feared what they failed to understand.
Nevertheless, Leah's feathers were quite ruffled by my Treasonous act of squirrel appeasement.
"How could you entrust your confessional device to someone who wants to study it just for the evil purpose of attacking the Church?", she screamed. "And what is even more astonishing is how you could ever give the E-Meter to the very Nazi SS Officer who was responsible for murdering your own daughter! Steven, after that Aryan psych is through taking it apart, he is going to smash it into pieces! I hope you think seriously about all this after Ivy Kimmich or one of the other OT Eights puts you to death. And you'll have plenty of time to reflect upon your degradation, I can guarantee you that!"
"I've always found it hard to say 'No'", I admitted in sorrow.
"Then why the hell aren't you on drugs like your prostitute hooker girlfriend?", she balked. "It seems that you are very selective about what you won't say 'No' about and who you won't say 'No' to, aren't you?"
"So what should I do?", I yelped submissively.
"You should get your greasy, loose-boweled ass over to that Jew-killer's office, and if he refuses to give you back your E-Meter, just take a goddamn letter opener and slit his uncircumcised, goose-stepping throat!", she ordered.
To help me confront the Gestapo Monster, Leah put me in reverie, and I joyfully mocked up Uwe Geertz's death once again by putting cyanide powder into his orange juice. During the session, I noticed that every time I killed the psychologist in the repetitive sequences, I had a bigger and bigger erection. Somehow, even just pretending to murder Dr. Geertz made me feel more powerful and causative.
"That was stimulating!", I grinned when the therapy was over.
"One more dead Nazi is always the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics", Leah reminded me as she stuck to the subject. "Just think of Rivkalleh's bleeding face locked inside the jaws of those two dogs if he refuses to give you back your E-Meter."
But surprisingly, Dr. Geertz returned it to me as soon as I asked him for it. He didn't know how truly close he came to visiting that great Oktoberfest in the Between Lives Area, or whatever secret place that unrepentant Teutonic agnostics choose to frequent after death.
Believe it or not, the only bright spot on my horizon came from the Internal Revenue Service. They assigned an Employer Identification Number of 65-0080847 to "Steve Fishman, Antichrist", after Louis Jassin had established "The Antichrist Foundation", in order to have a conduit for any charitable contributions that might roll in. Of course, I never saw a penny of it, since Louie had the papers sent directly to his home address.
"What kind of lawyer is Louie Jassin anyway?", I asked Patty Kyle, who in addition to being Marc Nurik's partner, was a retired Federal Magistrate.
"I can look into it for you", she offered helpfully.
And before long, it turned out that Louie didn't even have a license to practice law in the State of Florida! He was a genuine, bonafide phony!
"What do you expect when you deal with criminal wogs who do not have the slightest hint of ethics?", Ray Jourdain said consolingly for a split second before he slammed the door of his office in my face.
Marc Nurik suddenly gave me the word, and it made me shudder with trepidation.
The Emperor Xenu's wife wanted to see me.
An overwhelming dread of alarm enveloped me from the inside out as I tried to confront the prospect of visiting Muggy Singer, the Godmother of Suppression who, in our darkest hour, had helped her beloved wretch Wollersheim with his offensive offensive against the road to total freedom just two years beforehand.
"How can I deal with meeting such a super-squirrel?", I asked myself quite ominously.
And it was a problem not for the faint at heart, for when Muggy was married to Xenu, she had set up the depth charges that blew up the entire Marcab Confederacy, or the planet that we used to call home, once located between Mars and Jupiter, and which since has had the esteemed disrepute of being looked down upon as the Asteroid Belt; a bunch of fragmentary mindless rocks just sitting purposelessly in space, waiting for a possible inhabitant.
Humberto Fontana saw where I was coming from.
"The rock that you're scheduled to be trapped in is going to be a heck of a lot further from Earth than Marcab", he said, "so don't get any big ideas of trying to amend the Irrevocable Ethics Order for your own convenience!"
"Don't you think there is any way that I could get transferred to Marcab for good behavior?", I asked hopefully. "I don't want to spend my eternity too far from home."
"Not a chance in hell!", Humberto replied mythically. "But I'll tell you what! If you fly out to California to meet that old "Sweetness and Light" rocket jockey Muggy, then Ivy Kimmich and some of her friends on the OT Eight Committee just might blow up your airplane, and you won't ever get there alive!"
"Who told you that?", I quaked.
"It's just a rumor that I've heard, that's all", he laughed demonically.
"Look, I have to be in San Francisco on November 30th to set the trial date!", I pleaded. "If you and Frank don't want me to go, just get me a stowaway pass on the Freewinds! Send me to China; I don't care, as long as they have a Mission or an Org there! Otherwise, I have no choice but to appear in court, or the U. S. Marshals will come looking for me."
"Those trigger-happy faggots can look all they want", Humberto scowled, "but Ivy Kimmich will always know where to find you! There is a Clear view of squirreldom from the top of the Bridge! If you're planning to make that fatal trip, you'd better take out at least a million dollars worth of flight insurance. There's always a chance that your two kids might need the money for auditing one day, although it's doubtful that we would ever accept any members of your family for processing after all the shit you pulled on us!"
On the plane trip, I wasn't worried about myself that much. I knew quite well that the rocky road which awaited me was neither paved with gold nor yellow bricks. It was my parents that I feared for, since they knew nothing about the Between Lives Area, and I was deathly afraid that Ivy Kimmich would want to punish them too because she considered them to be guilty by association. I spent so much time defecating in the airplane's toilet that the stewardess must have suspected that I was a terrorist.
Taking into account my warped intention to visit Muggy Singer, by my own strict standards the flight attendant would have been right.
In between the shitting and the turbulence, I exteriorized during the flight, and begged Ron for my life.
"Dear Ron", I began, almost as if I was praying, "I am not trying to place the Church at risk, but only to bring sanity to a planet which was already overloaded with mass hysteria and psychosis."
In order to take some of the charge off my case, I mocked myself up in the frightful scene of falling out of an exploding aircraft at thirty-five thousand feet. It was rather gruesome to stand by and watch my elderly parents blow up in my face. Consequently, I asked Ron to take a good look around the plane and spare the lives of the innocent people aboard, especially the children who like my own, might grow up to be future Scientologists. I also admitted to Source that Dr. Geertz's hypnosis, which supposedly "cured me" of my fear of flying was a waste of time after all. I promised Ron that if the plane landed safely, I would write the best Knowledge Report for the Org that I had ever written in my entire life, and I would include every gory incident of my meeting with our psych enemies. Finally, I implored my compassionate Eighth Dynamic to intervene on my behalf and talk Ivy Kimmich out of causing the air crash, despite the valid needs and the pressing concerns of the eminent International Justice Chief.
I wasn't sure how valuable I still was to the Admiral, but I must have convinced him, since we landed safely without an incident.
Of course, later I realized why. In the mornings, Ivy Kimmich was on her study time, not on post!
"Anyway, she probably wanted to eavesdrop on what Muggy and I talked about, and then was planning to zap me afterward on the flight home", I told myself quite rationally. "Besides, that would have been my strategy if I were in her shoes", I reasoned.
It was one of those weird days when I tried to talk to myself analytically, except the jerk in the mirror kept looking in the opposite direction, unable to confront anything. What an ass! Then again, even thetans who exteriorize get jet lag, you know.
Despite all of my preconceptions about Margaret Singer, she was truly a charming and elegant lady. Inasmuch as I tried to find fault with her, there were none of the sinister aspects that I anticipated finding in the born-again Mrs. Xenu.
Margaret wanted some data on my lifetime experiences, but I never told her that I had lived in eighteenth century Greece as a woman, because I figured a twisted psych like her would presume that I had some homosexual tendencies, which of course I didn't. Anyway, she never specified which lifetime she was talking about, so I didn't volunteer any additional information.
Margaret did cause an ARC Break, however, was when she asserted that Scientology had abandoned me. She had a hell of a nerve! Just because the Office of Special Affairs wanted me to plead guilty to the wog criminal nonsense and then the International Justice Chief insisted that I kill myself to straighten out my life didn't mean that I was abandoned! The Church was taking responsibility for me by helping me to get my ethics in, and I certainly deserved a lot worse.
"Ron has never abandoned me, and he never will!", I told Margaret with blatant defiance as I sat in her dining room in Berkeley, California.
"Oh, this psychologist is so damned warped!", I thought to myself. "What the devil am I doing in her clutches?"
Margaret also wanted to know how well I got along with Dr. Geertz.
"Ha! Now I'll fix you up real good!", I swore.
I told her that the Bavarian shrink drilled me on how to lie to the Draft Board Lady back in 1968, in order to keep from being sent to South Vietnam.
Actually, it was my Aunt Jeanne who kept me out of the army.
My darling Aunt told me to go down to the Draft Board wearing five wool sweaters on one of the hottest days of the Florida summer, after which I started playing with myself through my pants in front of the highly embarrassed female interviewer.
To set the record straight, it was when I snotted all over the lady's table and I knocked off all of her papers onto the floor with my elbow while I demanded that she give me an automatic sub-machine gun "to kill all the Chinese gooks" that actually earned me my well-deserved military deferment. Even without her TRs, Aunt Jeanne was a great coach, because she had previous experience in keeping Cousin Richard out of the army in the very same way.
For the rest of the day, Margaret gave me some psychological tests, including the infamous Rorschach madness. I probably saw more squirrels in those ink blots than anyone ever did before. All the while, I kept on thinking of spicy things to put in my Knowledge Report that would enable me to score some extra brownie points with my buddies back home at the Miami Org.
After Margaret's interrogation was over, Marc Nurik drove me to Richard Ofshe's chateau atop a mountain in Berkeley, where he played me a cassette tape which revealed the violence and the insanity of the anti- drug group Synanon.
Now if you ask me, Synanon was a real cult. Not only were they the direct competitors of our beloved Narconon, but they used highly unorthodox methods for obtaining their funding, they brainwashed their constituents with Pavlovian hypnotic techniques, and even broke the wog law by acts of intimidation and violence.
"What a bunch of sick bastards!", I told Richard Ofshe. "I'm glad that you are going after them! It's time we cleaned up the anti-drug business!"
Despite the fact that he took me into his confidence regarding Synanon, Richard knew how to push my buttons. I confessed a lot to him about my involvement with Lavenda, and how I crushed her vicious attempt to sue the Church by rescuing Ron's documents while her sister Lisa was justifiably being raped.
"Why did I ever tell him that?", I asked myself in shame. "I am such a flaming asshole! I am going to flunk every Security Check from here to eternity if I keep up this irresponsible bullshit", I added in grief-stricken horror, after I realized how wickedly my words had betrayed me.
And I must have truly been in Confusion, since even my basic loyalties to my principles started to crumble. After being influenced by Richard's lunacy, at one point I acted as if Frank Thompson was the enemy!
When I returned to the Miami Org, I immediately fell apart during my debriefing interrogation, even before I was hooked up to the E-Meter for my Security Check.
"You smell from a rotting stack of withholds!", Frank chastised.
"I don't know why Richard Ofshe had such power over me!", I cried naughtily. "He always knew when I was exteriorizing in front of him. But do you know what was ironic, Frank? He knows the Tech! Richard would have made such a damn good Sea Org staff member if he were not on the wrong side of suppression, evil, destruction and death!"
Unimpressed, Humberto splashed some scalding hot Cuban coffee in my face, severely burning my eyes, nose and lips.
"AIDS!", I screamed after the shock slightly subsided. "If that crud gets into my bloodstream, I'll get all the symptoms of the disease!"
"I hope your dick falls off!", he rallied. "You are knee-deep in squirrel shit! You think like them, act like them, squirm like them and squawk like them!"
The debriefing took six long, grueling hours. I even had to build a clay castle of the interior layouts of both Richard and Margaret's homes. Frank Thompson asked me personal questions from the name of Ofshe's wife to the color of Muggy's underwear. Although I had no data on the latter question, Frank and I got into a heated argument when I told him that Richard's wife's name was Bonnie, and he insisted that it was Lynne. It was futile trying to argue with my Ethics Officer when he was convinced that every word I spoke had to be a bald-faced lie.
"Stop trying to protect them!", Frank blasted as he threw his ash tray at my head.
"You probably had sex with Muggy, didn't you?", Humberto bellowed accusatively.
"Now you know very well that I don't screw around with women over thirty!", I protested in apathy.
"I can't believe a fucking word you say!", Humberto replied combatively. "You are a false son of a bitch!"
"Look, if you don't want the truth, just tell me what you want to hear and I'll say it!", I begged feverishly, taking the path of least resistance.
And that is exactly what Frank did.
He had me write up a slightly exaggerated Knowledge Report, accusing Margaret Singer of trying to seduce me with an electric shock machine that we claimed was located on a plant stand in her dining room. Humberto also thought it would be a good idea if I stated that Muggy showed me some naked pictures of children under twelve having intercourse in a Danish pedophilia magazine during the psychological testing session.
"Anyone who has sex with kids is disgusting!", I yelled. "There are very few twelve year old girls that I would ever be interested in. The best ages are between thirteen and seventeen", I explained.
"I don't give a flying fuck what kind of perverted shit you like!", Humberto outlined. "Just write the damn report!"
Consequently, in order to make Humberto a mite less angry at me, I wrote that Muggy showed me the kiddie porn in the course of a "simple psychological test" where she used a stopwatch to see how many minutes it took me to get an erection.
"Do you think that the Federal Prosecutor will take this information seriously?", I wondered.
"That's not your concern!", Frank reprimanded. "We just need some solid evidence of patient abuse on Muggy to present to the Citizens Commission on Human Rights."
"Dennis Clarke won't believe any of this crap!", I scorned, throwing my finished document on Frank's desk.
"Unlike you, he is on our side!", Frank sneered as he picked his yellow teeth with the nail from his pinky.
"You know, Fishman, I can just visualize you right now, socializing and eating lunch with those psych bastards, and it makes me want to puke!", Frank admonished.
"The testing took the entire day", I complained. "There was no time for lunch. All I ate was an apple. Margaret gave it to me around noon during a fifteen minute break."
"An apple?", Humberto laughed hysterically. "Do you think the old whore could afford it, with all of those fat fees that your squirrel attorney is paying her?"
"Oh, I'm glad that I didn't have a big meal", I confessed. "I would have had a bad case of diarrhea, looking at all of those ink blots and everything."
"I'm tired of hearing about your stupid problems!", Humberto shouted without much humanity. "Hey, Frank! Was that cartoon witch who poisoned somebody with an apple from Snow White or Sleeping Beauty?"
"I wish that the old creep had poisoned this ugly duckling so we could get back to our stats!", he grimaced, pointing to me with genuine contempt, without ever answering Humberto's question on fairy tales.
After another full hour of "Muggy-bashing", Humberto helped me by telling me what to include in my supplemental Knowledge Report on "Repulsive Richard." The highlight of that masterpiece was my comment that "Richard Ofshe was a primary source of illegal psychotropic drugs." Frank said it was also important that I "remember" when Richard asked Marc Nurik where he could buy a small stash of high-quality marijuana during his next trip to Florida. As icing on the cake, I claimed that Marc answered, "Don't worry, Richard -- I have plenty of uncut grass at home."
"What the hell is 'uncut grass'?", Humberto bellowed? "Don't you know anything about drugs?"
"I must have been thinking about Marc's front yard or his garden", I confessed.
"You've got to re-write that stupid thing! The way you did it, it's sheer idiocy!", he commanded resourcefully.
In the course of the tedious debriefing, I reported that Marc Nurik used to be a Federal Prosecutor in New York City. As a result, Humberto assigned me the task of finding out the names of some of the criminals who Marc had convicted and sent to jail, so that we could contact them anonymously in the hope that they would murder him out of revenge, once they found out where Marc was living in Florida.
"One way or another, we are going to put that shit head squirrel out to pasture!", Humberto promised.
"But if you kill Marc, then who is going to handle my defense?", I asked perplexedly.
"There is always Louie Jassin", Frank smiled. "In fact, that's who should represent you! We wouldn't worry one iota if you hired him."
"I thought you didn't like Louie because he was trying to promote The Holy Book of Life in violation of Ron's Policy", I challenged. "Besides, there might be some question as to whether he is legally qualified to represent me, since he doesn't have a license to practice law. You're not serious about wanting Louie, are you?"
Humberto nodded his head serenely.
"He's a real honey", he argued. "Not only do we love him, we simply adore him! He is just the man you need for your criminal case!"
Somehow I didn't think that Humberto and Frank were playing with a full deck.
When you work diligently on post, trying to boost your stats up over eighteen hours a day for seven days a week, sometimes that happens.
With all of our little scuffles, I truly looked up to Humberto Fontana and Frank Thompson. Frank especially knew how much I revered him.
"If I could just be one percent of the man you are, I could learn how to tolerate myself again", I mumbled in praise.
Frank peered down at me with his omnipotent ethics presence.
"If you were only one percent of the man you are, I would scrape you off the bottom of my shoe and finally be rid of you!", he griped.
"Before my life is over, I'll make you proud of me again", I smiled sadly. "You'll see."
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