Lonesome Squirrel

by Steven Fishman

25: A Race To Get To Sea As The Captain Of A Sinking Ship

The vultures were circling and the storm clouds were gathering.

Marc Nurik informed me that he intended to have his private investigator infiltrate the Org. Predictably, Frank Thompson went off the deep end.

"We have to speed up the resolution of your case!", he shouted. "I won't allow suppressives to be planted in my Org!"

For the next three hours, I gave him a detailed description of Marc's coarse, unshaved investigator, whose name was Steve Sessler. Frank sent me downstairs to Alicia Noguierra, the Extension Course Supervisor of Miami, who had dabbled in art before she found her truer purpose in life. Together, between my flubs at the clay table and her limited expertise with pen and ink, we drew a composite of Steve Sessler, beard and all. By circulating sketches of what he looked like to all of our Department heads, to Reception, and to Squirrel Watch, we would be able to identify him if he came into the Org to upset us. If anyone spotted him, he would be sent up immediately to a staff member in the Review Section of the Qualifications Office who would run "Reverse Processes" on him, which meant that he would be audited backwards to spin him in and make him real sick, whereby he would feel a lot worse instead of better.

"Never forget for a moment that we have the Tech to cave a suppressive in and completely crush him if we have to", said Doug Carr, the Keeper of Tech of Miami. "It's the only way to handle infiltrators."

Doug was such a nice boy. He, unlike myself, had guts.

Frank Thompson subsequently began focusing his attention on my old friend Steve Goldberg, who was the only missing link between Dusty and myself which the FBI truly knew about.

At Frank's command, I began to send a swamp load of junk mail to Dusty Hipps in care of Steve Goldberg's address.

"That ought to put a bug up Goldberg's ass!", Frank cackled spontaneously. "Maybe he'll complain to the FBI about Dusty's mail coming to his home and that will get the momentum started."

But Bill Kemp was way ahead of us.

On December 19th, he paid a visit to Dusty Hipps at her slummy house on Lincoln Street in West Hollywood. When Kemp announced himself to Dusty's mother as an FBI agent, Rita told him that Dusty wasn't home. But alas, Dusty was standing right next to her, and Third Invader Bill had a picture of Dusty which he already had obtained from Steve Goldberg.

"Are you here to arrest me?", Dusty asked nervously.

"No, I just want to talk to you", he replied.

According to Dusty, Bill Kemp asked her if she ever threatened the life of Steve Goldberg.

"That's a lot of bullshit!", she yelled. "I never threatened that man's life! I wasn't mad at him for anything!"

"Did Steve Fishman ever threaten his life?", Kemp continued.

"How the fuck should I know what he does?", Dusty responded angrily. "My boyfriend don't want me seeing him no more!"

Then, as Dusty reported the sequence of events to me, Bill Kemp told her that I had been arrested "a few months ago" and that I was under indictment for "mail fraud involving seven million dollars", and that I was "facing fifty years in jail."

"Is that clown serious?", I gasped. "Did he really say seven million dollars? Are you sure it wasn't "several" million dollars and not seven million dollars?"

"What the fuck is the difference?", Dusty scorned. "Whether it's several million or seven million, you've been paying me shit money for years no matter how much good sex I've been laying on you, while you've been scamming millions of dollars! My pussy is the tightest in Broward County 'cause I'm little! I'm worth a hundred bucks a pop and you know it, you cheap, dick-faced mother-fucker! You're a real piece of shit, do you know that?"'

"Look, Dusty", I explained. "If I really had that kind of money, I would never have sold my Allante to pay for my legal expenses."

Dusty hesitated for a minute, trying to calm herself down.

"Yeah, that makes sense", she admitted. "I knew that son of a bitch cop was lying to me."

"What else did he say?", I pumped.

"Oh, you know. He showed me that picture of us when we went to Las Vegas last year, and he asked me what a seventeen year old girl was doing with a forty year old man."

"I'm only thirty-nine!", I protested. "What an insulting bastard he is! Anyway, what did you answer him?"

"Nothing, just that we were out there visiting Lisa's mother, and my mom told the asshole that she gave me permission to go with you to Vegas and everything, and that you paid for our plane fare home 'cause we were broke. I told him we were friends. Then the fucking dick had the nerve to ask me what I do with you when I come up to your apartment!"

"And then what did you tell him?", I continued, running a real good flow of TR 2 on her.

"I said we visit all the time and we talk, 'cause that's what friends usually do, isn't it?", she blushed coquettishly. "But then the dipshit pig asked me if I've ever been arrested for solicitation, and my mother was standing there, and I had to tell him 'yes'."

"Did anything else happen?", I interrogated encouragingly, as if I were doing a debriefing at the Org.

"Yeah, he asked me all about Lisa Lawson, and I didn't tell him squat about the baby or where she is, so forget about that. Then he started asking about what you do for a living besides weddings."

"And what did you say?", I smiled with artificial poise.

"I told him you work for the Church of Scientology! What the fuck was I supposed to say?", she blared with a guilt-ridden face. "And then that dick-digger asked me if I was a member of your stupid Church."

"You didn't tell him that you were, did you?", I trembled with mortal terror.

"Fuck no!", she dramatized. "Mama said, "Are you kidding? I can't even get her to join the Baptists!" I told him that your retarded Scientology scum-brains keep sending me all that shit in the mail to join their drug program, which I'll bet the bottom of my white ass that you had them send me; but you know damn well I can't afford to spend no twelve hundred dollars to lay naked in their fucking steam bath and take their pissy alien vitamins, and I told that big old queer cop that I wasn't interested in all your weird bullshit. If I want to get off drugs, all I have to do is quit and go "cold turkey", and I can stop doing crack any time I goddamn want!"

"You can do anything that you make up your mind to do, Dusty", I reassured her. "So did that idiot say anything else to you?"

"He told me I might have to go out to San Francisco and testify at your trial", she revealed. "And I said that he'd better give me a first class plane ticket and a room at the Hilton with lobster dinners every night, because if he thinks that I'm going to help his dumb Federal ass from some old Salvation Army flophouse, then he can go suck his own fat dick!"

"What he meant is that he might lay a subpoena on you, and then you would have to go to California and appear in court", I clarified.

"Lay a subpoena on me, huh?", she wriggled. "If he wants my time, he's got to pay for it, just like any other horny cocksucker! If he don't come across with some V.I.P. treatment, then he can go fuck himself!"

"Well, I can't give you any legal advice", I apologized. "I'm not an attorney. But I do know that you would have to testify if they served you with a summons."

"A summons my ass!", she screamed. "I've got too many of my own troubles to have all kinds of fucking cops coming to my door, especially Government cops! Shane said I can't see you no more, even while he's in jail."

"Why not?", I screamed in an uproar.

"Because of all this FBI bullshit, that's why not!", she elaborated. "And now my phone is probably bugged just like yours so I'm not going to call you at home either! If you want to help me, take out five hundred bucks from your seven million dollar bank account and bail Shane out of jail!"

"Dusty, everybody has problems from time to time", I said softly. "This sort of thing doesn't have to affect our relationship."

"It already did, puke breath!", she groaned with an air of finality.

"Please, Dusty!", I begged. "I love you very much! I want to marry you! It doesn't matter to me that you sleep with other men."

"Get fucked!", she cursed, slamming the door in my face.

Forlorn and alone, I cursed the day that I met myself.

At least I was able to meritoriously report to Frank Thompson that Bill Kemp had interviewed Dusty and had come one step closer to taking our bait.

"What the hell are you celebrating about?", Frank growled argumentatively. "Kemp doesn't even know about Shane Johnson yet! So he had a tea party with your favorite hooker. Big deal! That's only the tip of the iceberg!"

But poor Frank was distraught for another reason. His right hand man, Humberto Fontana, was removed from post because he had gotten into a violent fist fight with one of the Sea Org Manning Chiefs from the Flag Bureaux. He was remanded to the Department of Review and to Ethics for correction, and simultaneously was taken off post. The new Director of Special Affairs was a snot-nosed twit named Lynn Shape, who I fortunately never had very much to do with.

I nearly went into cold shock when I sensed the smell of vodka on Frank's breath.

"That's whiskey!", Nicole Jourdain said. "Vodka doesn't smell!"

Feeling like the sky was falling on his head, Frank was too numb and shit-faced from bad news to even look me straight in the eye.

So, it was Leah Abady who read me the riot act this time.

"Who the hell is Dave Jackson?", she screamed.

"How should I know?", I answered. "Is he related to either Michael, Janet, Andrew, Reggie or Jesse?"

"He's a stinking FBI agent!", Leah babbled in a flustered state. "He and Bill Kemp went to visit Peter Letterese yesterday!"

"Peter Letterese?", I repeated, immensely startled. "Oh, no -- did they arrest him?"

"Look, did you ever mention Peter's name to your squirrel attorney?", she nagged. "I can't believe that I forgot to ask you about that in your Security Check!"

"Does Peter need a lawyer?", I continued, wanting to be of some help.

"No, not unless you did your best to destroy him!", she seethed.

"Peter and I have mended our fences", I assured her. "We shook hands at Ron's birthday party last March. I would never hurt him!"

"You told Marc Nurik about Peter, didn't you?", she shouted in a fit of rage. "Why else would those two Third Invaders bother him at his home? They were asking a whole lot of questions about the class action lawsuit claims and about you!"

"Peter didn't tell them anything, did he?", I quaked.

"I wish you were as smart as he is when it comes to handling suppressives and Federal Government bastards!", she said. "And whatever he actually said to them is none of your damn business, because the first thing that you'll do is to go right back to your filthy squirrel shyster and betray us again!"

"Leah, I have an application in at the Sea Org Recruiter's Office", I reminded her. "Do you think that I would jeopardize it by lying to you about this?"

"No, maybe not", she realized. "But this is the very thing that wasn't supposed to happen! You know how unreliable Peter is!"

"Not necessarily", I argued. "He called you, and I'm sure that he is going to send a Knowledge Report on the FBI visit to the Office of Special Affairs. He followed Policy correctly and notified the appropriate terminal at the Org. I don't see any problem with how he handled it, do you?"

"The FBI wants Peter and Barbara to testify against you at your trial!", she panicked. "Can you imagine what would happen if Marc Nurik starts cross-examining Peter on the stand?"

"Frank promised over and over and over again that there is never going to be any trial, so what are you worried about, Leah?", I yelled reassuringly.

"But why did the FBI go to them in the first place?", she repeated. "That's what you have to tell me! Come on, Steven! You can't hold back anything from me at this stage of the game!"

"I think Marc saw a copy of Peter's Suppressive Declare in my files", I acknowledged. "I never told him that Peter was fully rehabilitated and that his Suppressive Declare was reversed, though. Frank and I were hoping that Marc Nurik would try to get in contact with Peter so that we could trap him in a reverse sting!"

"So the FBI must have thought that they were disaffected enemies of the Church", she laughed. "What idiots! Peter and Barbara would never abandon Scientology, no matter what they did in the past! Well, that's typical of the Psych Government for stupidity."

"If it were up to Michael Hambrick, they would both be outcasts", I recalled. "He's still very mad at Peter for starving the staff."

"Michael is a stubborn mule, and that's why it took him over two years to get his own Ethics cleaned up", she revealed. "Anyway, this isn't about Michael. I want you to find out from your squirrel attorney what he knows about the FBI's investigation of Peter Letterese. Is that understood?"

"I'll get right on it!", I promised.

The answer became crystal clear.

Marc Nurik had told the Government about Peter Letterese's involvement with the class action claims from the beginning in a document called a "proffer", which offered the Government my immunity from prosecution if I were willing to testify against the Church.

"I'd rather go to my pet rock for the rest of eternity right now, than to do a vile thing like that!", I negotiated.

"You can say that again!", she replied nastily, as if she was secretly trying to encourage me or something.

Peter Letterese's Knowledge Report to the new Director of Special Affairs Lynn Shape finally arrived at the Org several days later.

With my life and limb quite numb with fear, I picked up the ominous paper and started to read it, as my frozen thoughts turned to solid ice, putting quite a damper on my mood of despair.

Peter wrote, "Fishman, when I was at the Mission, only bought books -- he had no auditing or major training. We explained (to the FBI) how the Church doesn't take "bad monies", whenever it discovers that a person used criminally-gotten funds to pay for books or services. Both Barbara and I gave anonymous but accurate examples of people who'd come into the Mission, 'fessed up to trying to use "drug money" for services and had been denied services by us. We explained that this would be true in any Church of Scientology. I further explained how, if a person might covertly use such funds, when it was later discovered, their monies would be returned. This surprised them, but they "got it", noting that perhaps the Catholic Church might not be so picky about donated dollars. The Church had long ago returned Fishman's monies, and found him to be an insincere would-be parishioner. He (Kemp) was surprised but accepted the data. I said someone thought Fishman might be in a mental hospital. Kemp said he wasn't."153

"You'll have to back up all of Peter's facts to Marc Nurik", Leah insisted. "Remember, you were never audited or trained, and you only bought books. And you never read the books, either. You were just a collector of L. Ron Hubbard's works."

"But he said I was in a mental hospital! Just get me out of South Florida!", I pleaded. "Everything seems to be closing in around me! You've got to put me on the Freewinds! The FBI went to Dusty's house, and then to see Peter -- I don't know how much more of this I can take without cracking up!"

"Don't start caving in after feeling a little heat!", Leah warned. "The Sea Org isn't going to want you if you're a pussy-whipped wimp!"

I read the rest of Peter's Knowledge Report, and he enumerated his conclusions in a section which he called "My surmises:"

"They were "fishing" with us", Peter added. "They have no hard "evidence" in their minds of our involvement, and (they) were perhaps led to believe we might be anti-Church. We even asked if they had anything we were supposed to have signed or written. They said "No."

They have no hard "evidence" of Church involvement either. But perhaps (they) were hoping (we) might infer "this or that" if disaffected to lead them to something or another. Fishman's lawyer might be trying to use "harmful acts against Fishman by the Church" as a defense. Someone is trying to connect Fishman's alleged actions to the Church in some unflattering way. Much Love, Peter Letterese."154

"Peter is just afraid of getting his own ass indicted!", Leah interpreted. "That's what this piece of crap is all about! It's his fear that scares me."

"Oh, hush!", I interrupted. "Peter is a survivor. He always has been and he always will be. Any attack on Peter should be construed as an attack on all of us. You see, despite his numerous faults, he's still a Scientologist."

"He's not much of one, and neither are you!", Leah scorned. "I don't need anyone with an Irrevocable Ethics Order hanging over his head to start preaching to me! You of all people should just keep your ignorant mouth shut and just do what you're told! When I want your opinion, I'll give it to you!"

Frustrated and distraught, I got the distinct impression that no matter how much I tried to redeem myself, I was no longer wanted or needed by the Third Dynamic. No one at the Miami Org even invited me to come down to the gala New Year's Event. I felt like I was at the end of my rope, completely forgotten and abandoned by the precious group that once loved me, and forever condemned to walk through the wog world like the living dead, waiting for September the 9th, 1997, when Larry Wollersheim would end my nightmare for good by pushing the button and blowing up the planet.

But thinking about Wollersheim only made me more frustrated.

"May he suffer the worst type of cancer, causing his penis to burst in his face with the most agonizing pain; and may he spend every day of his miserable immortality shrieking and gasping, stuck in an engram of the Wall of Fire with pictures of exploding volcanoes erupting inside his ass until he drowns in a bloody pool of his own evil vomit!", I postulated without anger.

Incredibly enough, Richard Ofshe had once told me that Larry was just a "regular guy." One of us was crazy, and it sure wasn't me!

And speaking of Richard Ofshe, Marc gave me the frightening news that he was on his way back to Fort Lauderdale to meet with me again!

"What else can possibly go wrong in my life?", I sighed hopelessly to Ron, to whom I could always communicate. "Dusty won't talk to me, and so I can't even get laid anymore, because every girl I find in the street insists that I wear a condom! They are all walking around in a mad scare over AIDS, and they are stupid enough to keep drinking coffee and Coca-Cola anyway! Not only that, most of the whores won't even masturbate me for less than fifty dollars!"

But Ron did not offer up any advice to handle my sexual problem. Maybe he was still mad because I never bought that five thousand dollar bronze bust of his face back in 1987 when Fred Hare tried to sell it to me.

"With all my other troubles, I surely hope he has forgiven me for that!", I cried.

Richard Ofshe was on his way from Berkeley, replete with a fresh truckload of insults about Ron, and rip- roaring ready to stir up another hornet's nest of antagonism and bullshit.

"Use the time with Ofshe productively", Frank Thompson encouraged. "Build a firm web of lies which will embarrass him in court. Give him as many misunderstood words as you possibly can, and keep him outflowing as much as possible, gathering more data on Nurik's plan to attack us! I don't want you to come back here with crappy garbage like the last time. No more excuses that he has "power over you" or that you were "silly putty in his hands." I want a solid Knowledge Report, outlining the essence of his evil purpose and Battle Plan!"

Leah Abady gave me my final Security Check, and drilled me on running several new Shore Stories on Richard, as well as a ton of TR-L.

"I want you to pretend to be shocked by anything he tells you, so that you will appear "interesting" to him and his guard will drop. Don't forget that the more goods that you get on the son of a bitch, the closer you will get to your voyage on the Flag Ship!"

Although he was staying at the Marriott, Richard came to my apartment. He taped the whole interview on cassette, prying into my past in the Guardian's Office, and asking a bunch of nosy questions about the class action lawsuits. He had nerve enough to say that if I jumped bond and was spirited aboard the Freewinds, that I would be murdered and drowned at sea!

"What a shmuck he was!", I wrote in my Knowledge Report. "Richard came across as a highly deluded psychotic who is deathly afraid of Ron and of Operating Thetans in general. He actually believes that the Tech has flaws, and his hatred for our system of Ethics shows what kind of aberrated maniac he really is behind the thin veil of his social veneer."

Of course, Richard slipped up big time.

Knowing that I was going to be seeing Marc Nurik before he was, he gave me the complete set of seven cassette tapes of our conversation so that I could deliver them to my attorney.

That was his big mistake.

Wow! Did I get rave reviews from Frank Thompson after I duplicated all of the tapes and brought him the entire interview from beginning to end! Due to my heroism, my Ethics Condition was immediately upgraded from Non-Existence to Danger.

"Next time the squirrel will know better than to underestimate one of Ron's Loyal Officers!", I said to Ray Jourdain.

"A Loyal Officer would never have allowed his lawyer to hire a degraded suppressive like him in the first place!", Ray replied.

Humberto Fontana, who although was not the Director of Special Affairs anymore, happened to be working on his Amends Project in the Ethics Office while I went up there to talk to Frank. Now that he did not have any direct command value over me, he was somewhat friendly and tolerant, mildly validating me for bringing all of Ofshe's tape cassettes into the Org.

"That was more than I ever gave you credit for", he said in his classic, personal style of paying left-handed compliments. And although he had no authority to do so, Humberto also asked to review my Knowledge Report, which was quite abbreviated since all of the data was on tape.

"Here's what else you should do", he suggested, very much like his old self again. "Include some data about Ofshe's homosexuality. Say that he urinated with the bathroom door wide open, so that you could get a good look at his ugly penis!"

"But wouldn't that also make me a pseudo-homosexual for peeking at it?", I objected.

"It doesn't matter what you did, especially since it never happened anyway!", Humberto laughed. "If the International Justice Chief only thought that you were queer and nothing else, then you wouldn't have the Irrevocable Ethics Order hanging over your head. It's very important to make Ofshe look like a pervert in all of your documents, just in case your squirrel attorney slaps us with a subpoena and we have to furnish them something for the Judge to look at. Anyhow, you did a good job with the tapes. I'm sure that Tim Bowles in our Legal Department can find more than a few violations of law in those recorded interviews once he has a chance to evaluate them."

"Pissing with the door open!", I repeated. "Yeah, that's a good one. I'll stick that in there. Sure, I could see Richard doing something as screwy as that!"

Leah gave me a brand new statistic called a "WGCS", or a "Wild Goose Chase Stat." It was directly related to the amount of money and time which Marc Nurik wasted on false leads and dead ends.

"The more you mess him up, the higher your stat!", Leah grinned.

I also reported to Leah that Richard Ofshe paid a visit to Dr. Geertz, as well as to my once beloved marital partner, Jaime Nureyev.

"I can understand his reasons for talking to the Nazi", Leah eclipsed, "but why in Ron's name would he want to talk to your ex-wife?"

"Richard said he needed some more background material for the defense", I explained delicately.

"I wish you could get a tape of their conversation!", Leah scoffed. "I'm surprised that your lawyer didn't have Lavenda sit in for good measure! Then, if you could just arrange for Muggy and Marc to be there at the same time, you could drop a bomb on all of them and we'd have every one of our problems solved!"

Finally, my moment of triumph had come.

On January 6, 1989, at 7:22 P.M., the Senior Sea Org Recruiter of the Flag Service Organization called me.

I had met Jan Logan once before, at the unveiling of the Freewinds Flag Ship Event in September of 1986.

I recalled Jan as a middle aged chain smoker with scores of bags under her eyes and rotting skin that was withering prunefully by the minute. It was no wonder that she literally used a cake-load of smelly, barfed- out make-up that was customarily worn by old hags twice her age who do nothing all day but live in their dilapidated trailer parks and play Canasta with their French Poodles until Johnny Carson comes on television.

At the time when I was introduced to Jan Logan, she also had hideously fake blonde hair that was being overrun by an unenchanted forest of black roots which had just a wee hint of colorless, gray gristle sprouting through the cracks. Of course, the perfect way to know a woman's true hair color is to examine her vagina, but since we were talking about Jan Logan here, I had no intention of grossing myself out by asking to look at a rancid, withered thing like that!

Jan's tiny office was in a part of the Fort Harrison Hotel that looked more like a cellar than a Sea Org Recruiting Office, adjacent to the parking garage and the incinerator.

But on the telephone, despite all of the months and years that had trickled by since we met face-to- pathetic-face, I still recognized her hacking cigarette-coughing voice, and my heart pounded with oodles of stress-related anticipation as I awaited the words that I had been longing to hear since time immemorial.

"Welcome to the Sea Org!", Jan cheered.

Fireworks went off in my mind! I was somebody again!

With my Ethics Condition raised again from Danger to Emergency, my Irrevocable Ethics Order had finally been postponed for a billion years, pending an unbroken chain of upstats and good behavior.

In one of the most memorable telephone conversations of my lifetime, I signed my billion year Sea Org Contract over the phone, even to the extent of drawing two cute little seahorses on the document, which according to Source were the "traditional Sea Org symbols for Standard Technology."155

Jan spent a lot of time briefing me on the Sea Org Purpose, which is "to get in Ethics, and to put Ethics in on this planet and eventually the universe."156 She also cleared the Sea Org Motto of "Revenimus" with me, which of course means "We Come Back", referring to the act of picking up body after body, lifetime after lifetime.157

But of all the new things that I learned over the phone, the Code of a Sea Org Member had a special place in my thetan heart.

In my spectacular long distance Recruitment Cycle, I promised "To uphold, forward and carry out Commanded Intention",158 which is a form of obedience only known to the most Ethical people on the planet, as well as to a few Shiite Muslims and two specific attack dogs. Needless to say, Rhinebourgen and Besieschtigen came to mind.

I also promised "To exemplify in my conduct the belief that to command is to serve and that a being is only as valuable as he can serve others."159 Now wouldn't that be a great oath to train slaves with? Just don't let the Government of South Africa find out about it. Well, maybe Jan Logan used to run a finishing school for chambermaids, Geisha girls and butlers, who knows!

Further, I vowed "Through my actions to increase the power of the Sea Org and decrease the power of any enemy",160 and finally I promised "To make things go right and to persist until they do."161

"Well, I've been doing all that for the last ten years, so there was no point in stopping now", I thought to myself. There was no harm in going along with the entire shooting match of oaths, vows and promises. Nobody would ever be exploited in Scientology, so there was nothing to fear including fear itself!

Jan Logan explained that the Sea Organization is "a disciplined body of persons who have learned to operate in coordination with one another and who are at a higher, much higher level of discipline and purpose than Scientology organizations at large."162

"I really could use some discipline, especially if some pretty teenaged Sea Org Messenger would spank me!", I told my reactive mind quite secretly as Jan rambled on.

"Just remember that the Sea Org is an organization of expansion!", she garbled as if she were consumed with manifest destiny. "And our prize is a sane planet!"

With Dr. Geertz, Richard Ofshe and Muggy Singer out there, I wished her a lot of luck with that one!

Now that I was officially aboard, Jan spoke to me about doing what was called a "Sea Org Project Prepare." Basically, that involved accomplishing all of the vital things necessary to wrap up my wog life and get my ass over to Flag in short order. This included selling my real estate and my car, packing up my collection of L. Ron Hubbard books and tapes, jumping bond, abandoning my family, giving Frank Thompson a big, wet kiss good-bye, and hitching a ride to Clearwater.

"That won't take me more than two or three weeks!", I reported with hefty optimism. "It's going to be rough leaving my two children, but when they learn that I've finally made it to the top of the Bridge, I know they'll be proud of me once and for all!"

"Of course they will!", Jan agreed saccharinely. "I'll be proud of you too!"

There was something so special about Jan. She met Ron in the country of Rhodesia back in 1962, where the Admiral (then Commodore) was trying to establish a safe, clean environment for Scientology, especially since Ron had been Cecil Rhodes, the Founder of Rhodesia in one of his past lives, and during that time period had buried millions of dollars in gold and diamonds there which he now wanted to retrieve.

Jan, who was born in Rhodesia, took up Ron's brave challenge of Clearing the planet, and actually had audited Ron personally on where he might have hidden the secret treasure. Unfortunately, Jan refused to tell me whether or not the heavy metal stash was ever found, as that information was a matter of Church security. Of course, back in the sixties, Rhodesia was infested with psychiatrists and other rats, and eventually the evil and ungrateful Prime Minister Ian Smith threw Ron out. But just like me, Jan was loyal to the very end, and devoted the rest of her life to the pursuit of Ethics and non-filtered cigarettes.

Don't get me wrong. Jan Logan was a genuine sweetheart. We had a bond that transcended the most ironclad umbilical cord.

"Just call me your Other Mother", she whispered semi-maternally.

Although I did not know it at the time, the competition was hot and heavy to get new prospects recruited into the Sea Org. I got a call a day later from Rochelle Shay, the Sea Org Recruiter from Celebrity Center International, who was competing for stats against Jan Logan.

"Sorry, Shelly", I said. "But the early bird catches the Seaweed!"

Somehow I don't think the jealous bitch liked my sense of humor, because she never called back again. Well, tough shit on her, then.

But while I was in all of my glory preparing to set sail on the billion year voyage of buttock-kissing obedience, my timetable was running out.

Shane Johnson was finally released from jail on January the 8th, and was furious when he found out that the FBI had been asking Dusty a lot of personal questions. At the same time, Rita was fuming because Shane had no job and had moved into Dusty's bedroom without asking her permission. It wasn't the fact that Shane and Dusty were sleeping together in her house that bothered Rita. Virtue was never an issue. She was simply afraid that she would lose her welfare benefits because Shane was living at home and was able-bodied and therefore eligible for work.

"If the welfare inspector comes down here and sees that lazy bum in my house, they'll stop giving me my monthly checks!", Rita told me in person while Dusty and Shane were out. "I don't want that FBI snoop coming around and seeing Shane either! He might tell the people at the welfare department the wrong thing!"

"FBI people don't have anything to do with welfare investigators", I explained to her. "I think you are over-reacting. As soon as Shane gets a new job, I'm sure that he and Dusty will get their own apartment again like they had before in Hallandale."

"They weren't paying the rent there either!", Rita confessed. "Shane was pimping Dusty off to the landlord so he would let them slide until the guy's wife finally kicked them out after they lived there a whole five months for free!"

"Rita, Is there any way you can talk Dusty into seeing me again?", I begged, changing the subject.

"With what's going on, Steve, I really doubt it", she sighed. "Dusty could sure use the money, but that Kemp feller could be following you all around town, and if you and Dusty saw each other for you-know-what, he would know about it as sure as hell, 'cause the jerk's not stupid! You ought to lay low for a while and not come around no more while things are so damn hot. I just can't deal with any further trouble with the police. That's the FBI you're fooling around with!"

But just as I was about to leave, Dusty and Shane pulled up toward the driveway in Shane's rust-colored, rust-bucket Bonneville with the broken front window. From the way they looked, there was little doubt that they had just made a mad dash to the crack house.

Rita looked as angry as the dickens.

"Now you're doing rocks in the daytime, you assholes?", she yelled. "What about that job you were supposed to get, Shane?"

"They hired some fuckin' Jamaican nigger instead of me!", he swayed.

"The way you look, they probably kicked your butt out of the garage the minute they saw you!", she nagged, acting like a real mother-in-law. "Nobody wants to hire a goddamn mechanic who is high on crack!"

"Hey, I wasn't all buzzed out when I went for the job!", he stated responsibly. "Dusty was the one who talked me into partying on the way home. We stopped off at Sistrunk Boulevard -- hey, what's Steve doin' here?"

"Nothing!", I answered so that Rita wouldn't have to. "I was just leaving."

"Wait! Shane has to talk to you!", Dusty said nervously as she blocked the front door with her midget figure.

"Well, what is it?", I replied with grand annoyance. "I don't like to see you when you're stoned out of your mind like this, Dusty."

"Look, Steve", Shane began. "You need to give me fifty dollars!"

"Fifty dollars?", I laughed. "For what? Did Dusty visit me twice in my dreams? That's funny, but I didn't find any extra semen on my blanket."

"Just call it protection money", he growled with the aggressive demeanor of Al Capone.

"Oh, you're crazy!", I bellowed. "I can't talk to either of you when you're like this! Move out of my way, Dusty. I'm going home! Anyway, what the hell do I need to buy protection from you for?"

"'Cause unless you give me the fifty dollars, I'm going to tell the FBI about that telephone call I made from Denny's!"

I started to laugh. The poor shmuck had no idea that he was playing right into our hands.

"Good-bye, Shane", I waved, pushing Dusty out of the way. "If I need protection, I will buy a pit bull! The only reason you want the money is to buy some more rocks. I'm wise to your ripoff strategies. Anyway, I don't have fifty dollars to give you so we have nothing further to talk about."

"You've got until tonight to get it, dick brain!", he persuaded. "I'm through fuckin' with you, and you can believe that!"

"Later", Dusty shrugged, which was her abbreviated way of saying good-bye.

I couldn't believe the sheer audacity of Shane Johnson!

"I've known a lot of pimps in my time", I revealed to Frank Thompson, "but never one so vile and completely devoid of ethics as Shane.

Frank turned around and stared at me transparently, and I knew that once again the light bulb had turned on in his head.

"Pay him the fifty dollars", Frank commanded.

"What?", I gasped in shock. "Whatever for? Why should we prevent him from telling the FBI what happened that night?"

"You fool!", Frank flinched. "I don't want Shane to withhold the information from Kemp -- It's more important that Kemp hears what we selectively want him to know!"

"I'm not following you at all", I whizzed.

"Listen! Just do what I say!", he ordered. "Give Shane the money, and instruct him to tell the FBI that he met with the "head of Scientology" at a "secret meeting" in Dusty's house."

"Oh, right!", I mimicked. "I could just see David Miscavige and Pat Broeker spending a leisurely afternoon popping Valiums with Rita Hipps! That is so absurd, it borders on the ludicrous!"

"That's just the point!", Frank roared. "If Bill Kemp has any common sense, he will recognize your Shore Story as complete and utter bullshit!"

"But then you would be discrediting Shane as a reliable source of information!", I protested. "Bill Kemp will never believe another word he says about anything!"

"Correct!", Frank challenged. "And so when Shane insists that he drove himself down to Denny's Restaurant and when he hammers away at Kemp until the cows come home that you had nothing to do with teaching him how to mispronounce the strange words in the telephone script, it will be as if Saint Judas the Ethical had returned from the dead with cocaine on his breath, revealing the Holy Gospel according to Fishman!"

"Have you lost your mind?", I yelled. "Are you saying that you want me to implicate the Church?"

"You are really very stupid, Steve!", he observed. "I don't know how the hell you were ever a G. O. Agent! Do you think that Bill Kemp will believe that crap for ten seconds? I repeat, how plausible would it have been for the "head of Scientology" to visit Shane? In fact, use the name Ronnie Miscavige, the Director of Marketing for the Religious Technology Center."

"David Miscavige's brother?", I laughed.

"That's right!", he reinforced quite brutally. "Ronnie Miscavige is just fine! He's never even been to the Miami Org! Using his name would have just about the same validity as bragging that Dan Quayle came to visit Shane Johnson. Do you see what I mean? And when Shane tells Bill Kemp that he drove himself to Coral Gables, Kemp will know that he is full of shit when he can't even remember where the Denny's is located. In fact, have Shane write the directions down on a piece of paper, but make it all very vague and ambiguous. It will appear far more absurd when Shane can't recall how he was supposed to get there from the notes!"

"I still can't see how Bill Kemp will find out the truth", I stated, shaking my head with maximum bewilderment. "Where does all of this horse shit lead to?"

"Oh, that's the easy part!", Frank smiled. "The FBI uses an investigation routine known as "Divide and Conquer." He'll drag Shane into one room and question him about what happened, and then he'll interrogate Dusty in another room, and in no time flat he will see that he's been made a complete fool of. Then he'll start squeezing Shane and Dusty for the truth, threatening them with jail, and they will sing like unclogged canaries! Shane will confess that you paid him a bribe to tell the FBI false data, and Kemp will get the impression that you were doing a grand-scale cover-up! Ha! This is superb, Fishman!"

"Can't this whole thing backfire?", I cautioned. "Supposing that Bill Kemp doesn't know who Ronnie Miscavige is, or what if Shane actually knows how to find Denny's Restaurant -- Or, if Shane tells Bill Kemp the truth and Kemp still doesn't believe him? What then?"

"It still doesn't matter!", Frank hyped. "The FBI will be able to break their stories down piece by piece and bit by bit, and as soon as Kemp finds out that you paid Shane fifty dollars to change the truth, he can only conclude that you were trying to cover-up your role in the telephone call and to blame the entire incident on the Church. Then you will go on to Flag and hopefully I can get back to acting like an Ethics Officer around here, instead of your feeble nursemaid!"

"Well, as long as they don't really hold the Church responsible, it could work", I concluded.

"You let me worry about that!", Frank reprimanded arrogantly. "Just have Shane admit that he called you from Denny's, and that the "head of Scientology" paid him to do it, and that he drove down there himself. And tell him to keep protesting over and over and over again that you had absolutely nothing to do with any of it. Make certain that Shane is positively adamant about your innocence! In Kemp's twisted mind, that will be the best signal of all that you were exclusively to blame. We are working with reverse flows of the physical universe here. Kemp thinks that Shane is the biggest liar in the world, so we have to make that stable datum work to our advantage!"

"It all seems so backwards, though!", I objected.

"No!", he screeched. "You are backwards! You are stuck in some pitiful wog-forsaken squirrel cage because our enemies are suppressing you! I only wish that there was some way left to tie Marc Nurik into all of this! Anyway, doing the task at hand correctly will get your Ethics Condition raised from Danger to Emergency, and you know full well that part of your Sea Org Project Prepare involves getting you into Normal Operation. After this accomplishment is over, you'll only have one more step to go! You shouldn't have even been accepted into the Sea Org while you were still in Danger. If Jan Logan knew about that, she would have never called you!"

"But what's going to happen once Bill Kemp finds out that I bribed Shane and Dusty? Won't he be mad at me? That FBI bulldog can be truly vicious!"

"That's the least of my worries", Frank bumbled. "Bill Kemp may not interview Shane for a very long time. After all, the idiot doesn't know about him yet, does he? You'll probably be basking in the Caribbean sun on the Freewinds by the time all of this nonsense gets handled. I just don't want to be forced to pick up the pieces after you're gone. If you move on to a new post without resolving the problems of your old post, then you are clearly in violation of Policy. And with an Irrevocable Ethics Order hanging over your head, the last thing that you're going to need is a major downstat while you are in the Sea Org!"

"I think the one thing that I'm going to miss the most when I'm working in Archives for the next billion years is your tremendous ability to make decisions for me", I sighed.

"A Sea Org member has to serve others by carrying out decisions by himself!", Frank decreed wisely. "The highest standard of discipline has to be imposed against yourself by you!"

"I hope we can still always be friends", I offered with a tear in my eye.

"You're assuming an awful lot right there!", he said realistically. "You and I were never friends!"

But bosom buddies or not, Frank was still an excellent Ethics Officer. I went back to Dusty's house and gave Shane the fifty dollars, which Dusty promptly grabbed out of his hand for their next acquisition of rocks.

"I hope your business with Shane don't take too long, dickweed", Dusty warned me. "We've got to take a ride over to "Nig Town."

I instructed Shane to write down the directions to the Org, but since Shane's handwriting was deplorable, Dusty grudgingly volunteered to do it, even though she had nothing to scribble on but an old envelope.

"Writing things down for money was always a lot easier than fucking you", she said with sour grapes. "I wish you still had more of those stock claims for me to sign. That extra cash came in handy."

In order to fully develop the Shore Story, I gave Shane and Dusty a recent photograph of Ronnie Miscavige taken from Impact Magazine, so they could adequately describe what he looked like to Bill Kemp.

"Here is Ronnie Miscavige, the head of Scientology!", I said with utmost pride as I grandiosely showed off his picture.

"He looks like your typical faggot!", Shane commented with a preponderance of deep-seated jealousy. "Does he shave off his dick to keep away the evil spirits too, just like you do?"

"Those are Body Thetans", I corrected, "and I have know idea whether they attack him in that sensitive area or not."

Shane swore to me on a stack of worthless bibles that he would tell Bill Kemp precisely what I asked him to say, if of course he were ever asked.

"I won't hold my breath!", I said to myself, knowing how much value a wog moral commitment was worth from a cocaine addict.

It seemed, however, that Bill Kemp had his own warped idea on how to follow up on his pointless case. Of all things, he demanded that I take a polygraph test on a wog meter that wasn't even built, designed or approved by L. Ron Hubbard!

"Those dumb squirrel machines don't work!", I protested to Marc Nurik, as I found the very idea of not being trusted extremely demeaning.

"That's besides the point", Marc said. "Bill Kemp just wants to rule out the possibility that you had anything to do with sending me that threatening letter."

"Now why on Earth would I want to harm my own attorney?", I inquired with a throb of venomous hostility.

At the FBI headquarters on Northwest Second Avenue in Miami, Bill Kemp flounced me into the polygraph room, and another Third Invader drone gave me the test. He asked me if I sent the death threat to Marc, as well as whether I had any connection with the four packages of poison solvents which I claimed were mailed to me from the Org. I had expected those questions and I was fully prepared to lie about them. But when the polygrapher asked me if I had ever threatened the life of Steve Goldberg, or if I had called in a bomb threat to Marc Nurik's office, I was stunned and I nearly hit the ceiling! It was bad enough for the enemy to interrogate me about things that I actually did, but when the bastards accused me of nonsense that I had nothing to do with, why, that was the last straw.

Predictably, after I failed the polygraph exam by wiggling my toes, sending "rushes" or bursts of oxygen to my heart, "tingling my spine", and breathing erratically as Frank Thompson had instructed me, my Ethics Condition was immediately upgraded to Emergency, and I received a full validation and a strong handshake from Bob Levy for flunking the wog test with integrity, as well as for effectively handling Shane Johnson with the bribe.

I felt just like new again, all prepared to pack my suitcase and fly toward the Clearwater sunset into the arms of my Other Mother, the Senior Sea Org Recruiter Jan Logan.

Jan, of course, was also quite proud of her courageous little boy, and I grew dependant upon having her maternal shoulder to lean on.

I told Jan how troubled I was because I could not gain custody of my beloved but unseen son, Blake Elmowitz.

"That tiny baby is going to need his Daddy", I sobbed, "almost as much as he is going to need Scientology!"

"Since you will be leaving the country, it would be much better to wait seven years until the statute of limitations ran out for your criminal charges, and then afterward you could come back to claim your son", she consoled. "By that time, the Earth will be well on the road to being Cleared, and you will return to the United States as a planetary hero. There won't be an Ethics Officer in the world who wouldn't instantly return your child to you upon demand."

"But what about the seven years with him that I will have missed?", I wept lamentably. "How can I ever make up for that lost time?"

"As a Sea Org member, you will have to keep your priorities straight", she insisted. "I don't get a chance to see my sons as often as I'd like either, but what I am doing on post is the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics, and you will have to do the very same. The important thing is to make Ron proud of you, and from that worthy achievement all good things will follow. As long as your Ethics are flawless, flubless and unimpeachable, you will come out all right in the end!"

After I flunked the polygraph test, Marc Nurik started to have his doubts about me. And despite Leah Abady's promises and assurances that my lawyer would believe anything I told him because I was his client, the gossamer curtain of my moral fiber began to crumble and shatter in his face.

Just to make certain that the results of the FBI polygraph was truly the big mistake that I claimed it to be, Marc arranged for me to undergo a second lie detector test with a private bogus examiner. Not too remarkably, I failed that one also, but with slightly more dignity. The results were skeptically labeled "inconclusive!"

"Wog machines must be made out of pure, unadulterated crap!", I told Marc, who was neither too amused nor impressed with me. I think he had begun to suspect that something quite scandalous had been going on, the poor sap. Just to be on the safe side, however, he bought a bomb-proof safe and put all of my dinky defense papers in there.

When I told Leah Abady about Marc's paranoia, she just burst out loud laughing.

"An OT Eight Completion like Ivy Kimmich could blow his head wide open just by making a single postulate!", she explained. "She could make minced meat out of him! Your squirrel attorney thinks he is a real big hero with his bullet-proof alarm system and his bomb-proof safe! What a degraded skunk you pulled into your universe!"

I thoroughly agreed.

"Let's see how well he will be protected on the 9th of September, 1997, when Larry Wollersheim blows up the whole goddamn world!", I scoffed.

Leah was a real life saver.

Every time that Dr. Geertz tried to sinisterly brainwash me against Scientology, Leah would run some very helpful processes on me known as "Occlusions", which were able to neutralize and de- intensify the harmful effects of his evil-purposed psychological Gestapo garbage.

"In addition to blowing up Marc's office, someone should put a bomb up Geertz's Nazi ass!", I postulated. "He's recording the hypnosis sessions on tape now, and he's constantly throwing my auditing data into the Wall of Fire and trying to invalidate all of our precious Tech! He thinks that Marc Nurik is going to give him an Academy Award for suppression!"

"There is no greater cult on the planet than psychology. In due course, he will get paid back in spades for all of his attacks", Leah reassured me.

After strolling out of the auditing room, Humberto Fontana met me in the hall, angry as hell.

"You are such poison!", he screamed. "Each and every thing you do turns to shit! You are the kiss of death for any Org that you have ever come in contact with!"

"Why? What's wrong now?", I trembled.

"Just drop dead!", he shouted as he walked away.

Doug Carr, the Keeper of Tech of Miami, soon told me why Humberto was angry.

Heber Jentszch, the President of the Church of Scientology of California and the Commanding Officer of the Church of Scientology International, was arrested by the City Magistrate of Madrid, Spain in connection with the Narconon flap. Apparently, Humberto Fontana blamed me as if I were directly responsible for it.

I found Humberto in the Academy Courseroom and I valiantly asserted myself in my own defense.

"By holding me responsible for what happened to Heber, you are condemning me as a false target!", I cried. "All I ever did was deliver some corporate resolutions to the Madrid Org! It's not my fault that Heber was arrested! I don't even know why they did that to him!"

But Humberto was not buying it. He spat right in my face.

"Get out of my sight this minute before I kill you!", Humberto warned in a slightly annoyed tone of voice. "You are Scientology's deadliest cancer! While you live, this planet has no hope! Get the fuck away from me, you Marcabian bastard!"

"Why, what planet did you come from, you stupid crazy lunatic?", I screamed. "And don't you ever spit at me again! You're not even the Director of Special Affairs anymore! You are nothing but a piece of hot-tempered Cuban shit without a hat to wear around here!"

In a fit of unrelenting rage, Humberto hit me over the head with the Volunteer Minister's Handbook by L. Ron Hubbard. Although I felt like I had a minor concussion, and I have had pains in the back of my neck ever since, Frank Thompson said that the fight was all my fault because I ridiculed him for crashing his former post.

"But he called me a Marcabian bastard!", I argued.

"So what?", Frank refereed. "That part is completely true."

But I had the last word.

In my Knowledge Report, I wrote that "Humberto hit me on the back of my head unscrupulously with the Volunteer Minister's Handbook. Although it was apparently fine to strike me on my skull, Humberto was thrown into Liability for "intentionally showing disrespect and disregard for Courseroom property, and additionally causing permanent damage to the binding of a Source book."

My head was not that important, because eventually it would either heal or die, but injury to a book written by Ron -- well, that was quite unforgivable!

Payback was sweet when I found Humberto Fontana cleaning the men's toilet while he was doing the Liability Formula.

I nonchalantly whistled as I pissed on the floor.

All I really wanted was to get out of town and get assigned to the post that I had always fantasized about -- in Archives.

"Please, Jan", I begged. "I can organize Source Data better than anyone else on the planet. There's got to be a job you can give me in the Compilations Division. I can put Ron's books in size place, and transcribe his precious lectures onto a word processor, or do whatever else you want me to do. I would even be happy to sweep the floor of the Bookstore aboard the Freewinds if there were no other openings. But I am pleading with you, Jan! Get me away from here!"

"Archives my foot!", she nattered. "I need you in Tech! You're a Saint Hill Special Briefing Course Graduate Auditor! You are Malchoot! How do you think it would look for the Antichrist to be sweeping a dirty floor when he could be Clearing half of this planet!" Use your ruddy head, my boy!", she stampeded with her flippantly Rhodesian half-cocked accent.

"But I know the Sea Org Tape Catalogue Numbering System by heart, and in no time flat I could be trained on working the INCOMM Scientology Computer Network, and there is no one more qualified in Org Bookstore Dissemination Tech or in organizing the Publications Org stockrooms and warehouses on this planet than I am! Surely you wouldn't want to deny me my full potential as a thetan. I was the Spatial Conceptualizer of the Galaxy on the Planet Avodelegadra, and before that I was the Archivist of the Universe! Certainly I have a right to get my original post back if I can perform better on the job than anyone else!"

"Yes, and you can have it as soon as you've earned it -- after we Clear this planet!", she echoed sternly as her chalky breath hit me right through the phone. "We are desperate for Class Twelve Auditors to rocket people up the Bridge! Your daydreams about aesthetics will just have to wait until we finish getting the job done! There will be plenty of time to turn you into a stuffy Librarian when you get old and become useless!"

"Okay, but just remember that Ron wants his Tech and Source Data properly maintained, safeguarded and protected by his Loyal Officers!", I argued. "I was a Kha-Khan once. Did you know that?"

"In the Sea Org we never rest on our laurels", she warned. "You are now part of the Scientology aristocracy -- the elite! And I fully expect you to take up the challenge by doing exactly what you are told, and serving the Third Dynamic with pride!"

"Yes, you are right!", I buttressed. "I was thinking only of myself again."

"Well, if that's the case, what other wog considerations are stopping you from fully duplicating an ethical viewpoint?", she inquired pompously.

"Now that you mention it, I'm worried about not seeing my two daughters once I leave Fort Lauderdale", I confessed. "That definitely troubles me a lot. I love my children and I am very devoted to them."

"If that's true", she counteracted, "how come you never took them away from that greedy bitch of a mother of theirs, and put them in the Sea Org Cadets where they belonged in the first place?"

"I suppose I was too reasonable about it because they seemed to love Jaime so much", I sighed.

"But the hag is a suppressive shrew!", Jan argued. "I've read your Knowledge Reports on your ex-wife Nureyev. She is an anti-Scientologist! You have done your kids irreparable harm by leaving them in her clutches for all of this time!"

"Oh, Jan -- you are so correct!", I sobbed, breaking down into a fit of regret. "But what can I do about it now? I'm under this Federal wog indictment! I can hardly get adequate visitation rights, let alone custody!"

"Your girls will be extremely proud of you when you start taking some responsibility for your solemn promises to Ron, and you finish de-Christianizing this mess of a planet!", she advised. "And you can't do it by writing unauthorized squirrel books like your "Holy Book of Lies." You are a big embarrassment to your Org for that, Steve."

"But you haven't answered my question, Jan!", I quivered. "How soon can I come to Flag?"

"As soon as you've sold your condominium as well as your summer home in North Carolina", she disclosed. "If you left town without disposing of those properties, the first thing that would happen is your maniac Marc Nurik would claim those assets as his legal fees, and he would use all of the proceeds of your estate to fight us with! How would it look if those funds were used to attack the very group who was providing you sanctuary? Now we surely can't have that, can we?"

"No, of course not", I agreed. "But there may not be time to sell the houses. The FBI is closing in on Dusty, and sooner or later they will blame me for everything that I did to protect us!"

"But surely you haven't broken the law by wanting to keep your Church out of a biased witch hunt!", she asserted. "Anyone with real integrity would fight for Scientology, and those who lack ethics on this degraded globe are not even worth talking about!"

"Yeah, but in the meantime --"

"In the meantime just sell your damn houses and bring us the cash or a cashier's check!", she interrupted. "There is no other meantime!"

"I'll try to get it done in a few weeks, but --"

"There are no buts about it!", she insisted. "Nothing else is acceptable and you know it! Anyhow, the money from the sale of your real estate is the very minimum that you will need to do your "L" Rundowns. And no more talk about indecisiveness or "Q&A"!"

"Wouldn't the Government be able to figure out what happened to me when you cash the checks from the sale of my property?", I wondered.

"The check can be cashed anywhere in the world!", she revealed jurisprudently. "In fact, as a decoy, I would recommend that the money be handled by the Scientology Shalom Center in Israel, because that would be a perfect place for a nice Jewish boy like yourself to go up the Bridge. I think I'll suggest that to the Flag Banking Officer."

"But I don't even have a passport anymore!", I cried in despair. "Bill Kemp took it away from me when I was arrested last July."

"Don't worry about that", she smiled. "There are dedicated Scientologists busily at work in the passport offices of every country in the free world, and they can accommodate any request that the Flag Bureaux commands of them. It is a lot easier to get you a new passport than to weed out all of your psych lice. Just concentrate on selling that property before the FBI really does decide to close in on you."

"How soon do you think everything will sell?", I asked in befuddled stupefaction.

"As quickly as you can make your postulates work!", she replied logically. "But as an extra bonus, if you bring in the cash within one month, I'll arrange for you to spend three days and two nights in the Presidential Suite at the Fort Harrison before you start your Sea Org Basic Training. Paul Laquerre will want to debrief you and Security Check you anyway, and he always insists upon complete privacy."

"Do you mean that I could sleep in Ron's bed?", I said in astonishment, my heart pounding at the glorious possibility.

"That's right!", she radiated. "That's quite a reward for an upstat, isn't it?"

"That property is going to be sold this very week!", I vowed. "Nothing is going to stop me now!"

I couldn't get the exciting prospect of falling asleep on Ron's bed out of my mind. It was as if I was finally going to have sex with God.

"I bet I'll be able to smell the theta on the pillow cases!", I told Harry Sebakovitch from behind a peephole in my reactive bank. "Life will finally be worth living if I could really lay my head down on the same soft sheets where Ron exteriorized to the top of the Bridge! What a thrill that will be!"

Two days later, I spoke to Jan Logan again, and she had more good news!

"Ken Delderfield, the Commanding Officer of the L. Ron Hubbard Library and Archives International has approved your request for a Sea Org post in his Org!", Jan announced.

I thought that I would faint from joy. Everything that I ever hoped for was finally coming true.

"Why couldn't this have only happened to me ten years ago?", I asked Jan, completely overcome with emotion. "Then I wouldn't have ever gotten into trouble with the stupid wog law and their Psych Government."

"To hell with all of those regrets", she miffed. "The whole agonized future of this planet, every man, woman and child on it, and your own destiny for the next endless trillions of years depends on what you do here and now with and in Scientology."163

"Ah, I love it when you quote the Admiral!", I praised adoringly. "But where will I be posted? What country will I be sent to?"

"We don't have a whole lot of choices", Jan slobbered. "There aren't that many countries that won't ship you back if you were extradited. After all, in the reactive minds of the wogs, you'll be considered a fugitive!"

"Well, where can I go then?", I asked stealthily.

"I would have selected Indonesia, but we don't have an Org there yet. I'm afraid you'll have to decide between Cape Town, Durban, Port Elizabeth, Pretoria or Johannesburg. Actually, we have two Orgs in Johannesburg, although one is really in the suburb of Yeoville."

"But those places are all in South Africa!", I quibbled. "There's a race riot going on in that country!"

"Thetans will be thetans!", Jan said cutely. "You will simply have to explain to them that the color of their bodies just doesn't matter very much. Racial prejudice can always be eliminated by giving people the correct Scientology data."

"Don't we have Orgs anywhere else where they can't extradite me?", I groaned.

"Well, you could try Harare or Bulawayo", she suggested.

"Where the hell is that, in East Kukamonga?", I ridiculed fastidiously.

"Try Zimbabwe, right next door to South Africa", Jan offered with a touch of class.

"Give me Johannesburg", I shrugged. "How many years will I have to wait until the statute of limitations runs out on my arrest?"

"I believe it's seven as I've told you before", she recollected, "although I'm afraid that I know very little about the stupidity of wog law. You could call Timmy Bowles at the Office of Special Affairs' Legal Department in California if you really need to know, although I don't really see the necessity of pursuing it. By the way, Johannesburg is the only post with a Sea Org Archives Section, so that is your most plausible choice, in any event."

Having gotten over the initial shock of being deported to the forbidden land of Apartheid, Jan explained that the Freewinds would take me as far as Kingston, Jamaica, and from there I would be given a fake Danish passport which would get me as far as Johannesburg, after which I would have to apply for South African citizenship under my new name.

"What will I be known as?", I asked Jan, wondering about my replacement identity.

"I don't know", she revealed, "but I fervently trust that your initials won't be 'SP'!"

"That will never happen again!", I reassured her. "But what do you think will happen in court after I'm gone?"

"Frank Thompson promised you that the wog criminal case would never go to trial, and I am here to ensure that dear old Frank delivers on his promise!", Jan stated with pithy sentimentality.

"Well, I suppose that I'll have to learn how to speak South African!", I bemused pensively.

"I'm afraid that just like we Rhodesians, the people of Johannesburg still speak the King's English", she laughed. "Although it wouldn't actually hurt to brush up on your Dutch and Afrikaans."

And so while I was getting ready to order my correspondence courses in those distinguished languages from the Berlitz Company, Bill Kemp had other ideas in mind. On January the 20th, he went to Dusty's house again and introduced himself to Shane Johnson, fully equipped with a copy of my cassette tape of the greasy pimp pretending to give me a hypnosis session.

It didn't take Baptist Billy Boy more than ten minutes to unravel the mystery, and to correctly conclude that Shane Johnson was actually "Scientology Scott" after all.

"You will be hearing from me real soon!", Kemp warned them as he made a hasty exit, warning my two accomplices not to leave town.

As soon as Rita told me what had happened, I phoned Jan Logan in a fit of frantic anxiety, telling her that I couldn't wait for my property to be sold. I requested permission to come to Flag right away.

"You are handling your squirrel environment rather badly", she scolded. "There's no way that I'm going to allow you to bring all of your stinking problems here! Although it is true that Flag is a sanctuary from wog, suppressive and psych interference, keep in mind that we are a religious retreat, and we employ the Tech to keep the outside world of insanity out! Accordingly, I am not going to tolerate any disruptions of the Flag Land Base just to accommodate you!"

"You've got to help me!", I pleaded. "Things are happening way too fast! The FBI is a lot smarter than Frank Thompson ever thought was possible! They are closing in on me!"

"If you truly want to come to Flag, you are going to have to prove it by doing one critical thing first!", she propositioned. "I want your squirrel attorney to drop you as a client! If you cannot convince Marc Nurik to withdraw from your criminal case, then you can't come to Flag, period. Is that simple enough for you? I told you once before that I'm not going to permit that stinking ambulance chaser to claim the money from your unsold real estate as his legal fees and then use those proceeds to attack us with, and I meant it!"

"But how do I get Marc to withdraw?", I cried.

"Just convince the idiot that he doesn't have a legitimate defense! You are not insane, and not even a deranged squirrel has the right to question your sanity! Not only that, you can prove that you are perfectly of sound mind! After all, you perform weddings, you maintain your own apartment, you drive a car, you have travelled all over the world, you have been a responsible parent to your children, and you have a Source-given right to your freedom of religion, which is Scientology. You'd better make sure that he understands that! Just tell Nurik that you did all of the class action claims on your own, and that Scientology had nothing in the world to do with it! And if he doesn't believe you, then just fire the bastard! What the hell is so difficult about canning him? Or, if you're that embarrassed about dismissing him, why don't you simply tell him that you were the one who sent him that threatening letter? No lawyer in his right mind would stay on your case after he found out a thing like that! My heavens, man! You're in the Sea Org now! If you aren't able to get rid of your son-of-a-bitch suppressive squirrel attorney, then there is no place in Ron's most elite Org for a wishy-washy, panty-waist dilettante like you!"

"Yes, that's what I'll have to do", I admitted.

"And throw your goddamn father out of the house!", she screamed. "Every time I try to call you, that grumpy old coot answers the phone! What's going on? Doesn't he have his own place to live?"

"Yeah, but Marc told him to stay in my apartment in order to watch me and prevent me from being contacted by Scientologists like you and Frank!", I confessed.

"And you are putting up with bullshit like that?", she nagged. "Don't you see how all of these degraded suppressives are ruining your life?"

"They don't understand how important Scientology is to me", I stated as a noteworthy excuse.

"Now you listen to me!", she ripped. "Either you fire that bastard lawyer and disconnect from your suppressive father, or don't you dare call me ever again!"

Jan Logan hung up on me, without even waiting for my rebuttal.

"Touchy, aren't we?", I said to the dial tone.

On Tuesday, January the 24th, Dusty called me up at five in the morning, demanding that I come down to her house in West Hollywood at once and pick her up.

Although I hated to be awakened by the sound of the telephone while I was exteriorized at the bottom of a wild dream, my heart sang with joy when I realized that the love of my life wanted to see me. All Dusty told me was that she needed a ride to court, and I assumed that it was in connection with her prostitution case that was pending on the docket in Fort Lauderdale.

I had no idea until I arrived at her house that both Dusty and Shane had been issued subpoenas to appear before a Federal Grand Jury in order to testify against me for the new and additional charges of Obstruction of Justice!

"You've got to drive me to Federal court, dickweed, not to County court!", she said, taking me by surprise.

I was stunned.

After reviewing the summonses, I asked Dusty and Shane why they wanted me of all people to drive them to the court house.

"Why didn't you just go to court in Shane's Bonneville?", I inquired innocently. "Isn't it a wee bit strange that you asked the very person who you have to testify against?"

"My car ain't workin' so good", Shane muttered in a pool of false data.

"Well, why couldn't you get Rita to drive you in her Ford?", I stated with intense exasperation. "You have a hell of a lot of nerve waking me up at five in the morning and then imposing upon me to do you this rude favor when it's quite apparent that my involvement in your little charade is going to cause me even more trouble!"

"We need to talk to you about what we have to say to that Grand Jury!", Dusty explained.

"Why are you putting me in this awkward position?", I objected.

"Who should we ask, your fuckin' grandma?", Dusty reasoned.

Reluctantly, I agreed to drive them to Fort Lauderdale.

"This is all happening way too fast!", I told them. "I just need another couple of weeks to get to Flag, that's all."

"Flag, my ass!", Dusty responded insensitively.

"They're going to stick a big flag pole up all our asses!", Shane concluded with tremendous insight. "Bill Kemp said that the Grand Jury wants to know everything about the night we went to Denny's. It's up to you whether we tell them the truth or not."

"Why is it up to me?", I inquired.

"Because if you give us two hundred dollars, we will tell them whatever the fuck you want!", he stated while I took them to breakfast at Burger King. "Plus there's gonna be an FBI sting comin' down on you, and Kemp wants Dusty and me to be a part of it. We ain't gonna tell you shit about it without some decent front money."

So it was decision time for me. I could have easily given them the two hundred dollars to save my own skin. But I was deathly afraid that if they lied in court, their testimony could harm the Church, and unlike Jesus Christ's gay boyfriend Judas, I was unwilling to sell L. Ron Hubbard down the river for thirty pieces of silver, which at six dollars an ounce, was worth a trifle less than the two hundred bucks that Shane demanded of me.

I turned them down flat, forcing them to come clean and be honest, despite the potential personal risk to myself.

"Whether anyone knows it or not, I finally did something worthwhile!", I mumbled heroically. I was hoping Ron was listening.

While driving back home after I dropped Shane and Dusty off at the Federal Courthouse on East Broward Boulevard, I wished that I had been on the Roman Grand Jury when Jesus Christ was indicted.

"Roasting him over a slow flame while his testicles were being bitten to pieces by fire ants would not have been adequate Justice!", I said to Harry Sebakovitch, who hated my bastard son even more than I did. Harry was one of those permanent valences in my head who was forever reliable and who stood by me through thick and thin. When the entire world was busy deserting me, Harry was always there.

My first impulse was to call Frank Thompson, but the Org wasn't open yet at eight in the morning. But having cognited that a second arrest on the new charges of Obstruction of Justice was imminent, I reluctantly phoned Marc Nurik. At that point I didn't care who I called, just as long as someone would actually help me.

At ten o'clock I arrived at Marc's Miami office, and I admitted to him that I had paid Shane to make the threatening phone call to me from Denny's Restaurant. Furthermore, I revealed that I had typed up the letter which threatened the lives of Marc and his wife Cindy.

Marc exploded in a torrent of anger that gave the meaning of ulcers a new name. He threatened to withdraw as my attorney if I told him just one more lie! And so, during the next six hours of Marc's yelling and screaming, I vacillated back and forth between my desire to please Jan Logan and to quietly pacify my grueling, drooling solicitor.

What a dilemma I was in!

If Marc was correct and my re-arrest was imminent, the goal of my meeting with Squirrel Nurik was to assess how many days it would be before I had to leave town. Yet, in order to go to Flag, I had to accomplish the now-not-so-difficult feat of getting Marc to quit.

The problem was such that if Marc walked off my case too early and the Third Invaders grabbed me, then who would I call upon for help? And yet, if I ran off to Clearwater without first having Marc withdraw, I might not be accepted or allowed to stay at Flag at all.

I felt as if I were walking along a mine field with neutron bombs hiding under every pebble. I was in a race to get to sea as the Captain of a sinking ship.

"How could you threaten the life of my wife?", Marc gasped in horror.

"How could you think that anything was more important to me than my immortality?", I responded without much sympathy for him.

It was simply amazing to hear where Marc Nurik was coming from. In my opinion, my attorney was nuts! The fate of the entire world was in jeopardy, and all he was really concerned about was the safety of his wife Cindy, who I had recently discovered was a psychologist herself!

"Lunacy has always been the earmark of suppression", I reminded my valences philosophically, as they all stood at attention.

"The Church of Scientology will never place me at risk when I am so vital to L. Ron Hubbard for Clearing and de-Christianizing the planet!", I explained to Harry Sebakovitch and the others.

But the truth be told, there was trouble brewing in my collapsing universe. For one thing, the FBI discovered my involvement a lot faster than Frank Thompson promised would happen. Secondly, nobody ever warned me that I would be charged with "Obstruction of Justice!"

"What the hell is "Obstruction of Justice" anyway?", I screamed to Marc. "All I did was protect the Church! What does that have to do with obstructing justice? Wog justice doesn't even exist in this sector of the galaxy."

But Marc was much too angry to explain anything so illogical to me. He simply couldn't believe that I had lied to him.

"A Scientologist doesn't owe a wog any kind of truth!", I asserted in my own defense. "The most that I can offer you is a "Level of Acceptable Truth! That's the best that I could ever do for a non-Scientologist!"

Public Relations, according to Source, is "The technique of communicating an Acceptable Truth which will attain the desirable result."164

"An "Acceptable Truth" is nothing more than another lie!", Marc hissed, spitting all over his ostentatious moustache. "I want the complete truth, and no more lies, or you are history!"

For me, death was a far sweeter alternative than disloyalty.

Every time I told Marc the truth, I was piling up more and more overts and withholds against Scientology.

I also had some mammoth overts and withholds against Marc. The biggest withhold of all was that I didn't give a fucking damn about my criminal defense! But it was still a Catch-22. If I fired Marc, I was certain that he would betray me to the U. S. Marshals, just for spite!

"He's just that type of squirrel!", Harry whispered behind my ear.

Marc wanted the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me Ron! That was a bit too much to ask for, wouldn't you say?

This mess was the biggest paradox of my eternity. Telling Marc the truth would have resulted in the most devastating downstat that I ever had to face in my life! Yet, what choice did I have? Somehow, I didn't think that Jan Logan would come to see me in Federal prison on Visitor's Day. Furthermore, I didn't know of anyone who was qualified to calibrate my E-Meter inside a Third Invader Jail.

"Why did you sabotage your own case?", Marc asked with fumes of rage and wax coming out of his ears.

"Who ever thought in terms of sabotaging my own case?", I argued. "What kind of semantical crap is that? I was protecting the Church, pure and simple. Frank Thompson assured me that this case would never come to trial, so what was there to sabotage? Going up the Bridge was and still is my only concern, and nothing else matters to me!"

But alas, there was no meeting of the minds.

Marc could not fathom even slightly why my Ethics Conditions were more important to me than my criminal defense. He was coming from a decadent wog world of stark, raving madness and was attempting to perceive what our wonderful organization of total goodness, ultimate truth, and complete sanity was like.

"I was never very good at communicating with ants", I said allegorically. "Scientology is here to make the able more able. Consequently, I don't know what it can do for you!"

"I don't give a shit about that!", Marc raged. "For the last time, I want the truth!"

So I tried to make Marc a deal. I offered to tell him the complete truth in exchange for Scientology's complete immunity.

"If you don't attack the Church, I promise to tell you everything!", I suggested, missing a heartbeat or two along the way. "No more deals!", he roared. "You tell me the truth right now, or it's all over!"

Catching my breath, I realized that I had revealed far too much already. There was no way that I would be able to get through one of Frank Thompson's grueling debriefings after a six hour session with Marc! And how could I tell Frank that I lied to Marc if I actually told him the truth? I would literally be cremated by Frank's personal sojourn into Cigarette City! My arms burned from merely thinking about it!

Marc's office began spinning around me. The walls were rapidly dissolving and his oriental furniture looked like an egg dropping of Chinese junk.

To make matters worse, my TRs all went out. I began losing my award-winning composure.

The only element that kept our communication alive was my uncanny ability to go into the valence of a Suppressive Person, out-Marking Marc with hatred toward myself.

"I'll tell you all of it -- the truth", I began, "but I want you to know that my immortality will be on your conscience for forcing me to do this!"

"Are you crazy?", Harry shouted in muted silence where only I could hear him. "This shmuck has no conscience!"

"There isn't a Scientologist alive who wouldn't use pimps, prostitutes and squirrels to preserve their own beingness and to keep Source Tech in!", I continued. "I have a responsibility to eliminate all of the false data of the filthy cult of Christianity, and I may very well have a higher standard of diligence than the average Scientologist does, to boot! Contrary to wog law, Scientology Ethics is the only system of agreement that has ever made sense to me!"

But I finally caved in to peer pressure.

I even admitted to Marc that I had planned to visit Frank Thompson after our interview was over, in order to undergo a thorough Security Check and an intensive debriefing.

After I was finished, a withered and exhausted Steve Fishman was sitting at the wrong end of the stick, totally vanquished and beaten by his squirrel attorney. As I laid there, exteriorized on the ceiling looking down at that wretched body which I often called my own, it made me puke to see Marc Nurik having his field day, although at best it was a hollow victory, even for him. After all, Marc had wasted seven months of his time and countless misspent dollars on some of Frank Thompson's better wild goose chases.

"There's no hope of postponing the Irrevocable Ethics Order now, you asshole!", I said to my body.

But it was me, not my shell, who had betrayed myself.

The wog world may have applauded me for "coming clean" with the bastard barrister, but my rash moment of weakness would undoubtedly cost me a dismal immortality of dark, boring loneliness within that infamous rock, and the International Justice Chief would without question have the last laugh.

"How long will it be before I am re-arrested?", I asked Marc with trembling hand and crackling voice.

"Nothing will probably happen until this coming Monday", he replied with a lack of total certainty that is so typical of criminal courtroom jesters. "We will just have to get through it, that's all. In the meantime, I don't want any more lying, or any further contacts with Frank Thompson, Jan Logan, or any of your other Scientologists!"

"Can't I see Dusty for sex?", I pleaded, hoping to extend myself. "I feel so lonesome already!"

"Don't even think about it!", he warned. "She's a Federal witness against you. Go get AIDS from somebody else!"

Marc was serious. He meant business.

No way was he going to give me another chance.

That evening, on the 24th of January, 1989, the State of Florida executed Ted Bundy, a notorious murderer who had the sad misfortune of never being audited. As I watched the execution on television, I wished that the two thousand volts of electricity had passed through my body and not his.

"Ted Bundy did not deserve to have the infinite pleasure of death for the out-Ethics crimes which he committed against innocent people", I wrote in my diary. "The ecstatic sensation of death should go to me!"

Ah, but as I told you before, death was a far sweeter alternative than disloyalty. Death was too much of an upstat for me. Lifetime after lifetime, it had always been so. You don't know how many times I tried to fight the bastard Christ and lost! Yet, there was a soothing peace in that dull rock which awaited me at the furthest corner of nowhere. Nevertheless, I was the first to admit that my evil actions might not earn me that cool dip in the Sea of Tranquility.

"That's a moon rock anyhow!", Harry reminded me as if he knew everything.

But Harry was so right!

What did I have to lose?

I was getting kicked in the ass of the universe to a purgatory a lot further away than some dead air in space.

And so, I made up my mind right then and there to repent for betraying the Church, in the hope that one day my disloyalty would be forgiven, and I truly would deserve to die.

"If I am going to be arrested on Monday, I have only five days left to get my life in order and to go to Flag", I said to myself, since even my valences had gone to bed. "The worst that could happen is that Jan Logan will turn me over to the Federal Government once she finds out how badly I have betrayed the Church. The Security Check at Flag will reveal how much I have told Marc, and I will simply throw myself at Jan's mercy. But it won't make much difference if I am arrested in Clearwater or in Fort Lauderdale. At Flag, there is still a chance for me, although it is rather a slim one."

I remembered how horrible it felt when the Gestapo dragged my family and I away to Auschwitz during my lifetime as Mordecai Kusvitz. My beautiful wife Natalya, and my children Aron, David, Barna and of course my precious Rivkalleh were all brutally slaughtered. I had no more respect for the Federal Government of Third Invaders than I had for the Nazi Government of the Third Reich. After all, it was the United States who raided our Founding Church of Washington, D.C. and seized our E-Meters; and were cruelly responsible for making Ron a virtual fugitive and prisoner during the twilight years of his beloved life. Nazis and Feds -- they were all one and the same to me.

"The Psychiatric Christ Government must die!", I swore, as I began to pack my bags with recently-ironed socks.

After all, it was L. Ron Hubbard who wrote affectionately of "Scientocracy -- Government of the people, by the Thetans."165 What we actually have now is a Government of the Psychs, by the Suppressives!

I made preparations to leave Fort Lauderdale that coming Sunday night, after I had a chance to say good- bye to my two beautiful daughters for the very last time, as Sunday was the day when my ex-witch Jaime allowed me to see them.

I weighed the risks of waiting until the weekend carefully, and although I knew that by hanging around I was playing Russian Roulette with my freedom, I nevertheless relied upon Marc's statement that "Nothing would happen until Monday", especially after he spoke to Bob Cornell, the Federal Prosecutor of Fort Lauderdale, who assured him that nothing was being done about me until the beginning of next week.

"The FBI will not be psychotic enough to look for me at Flag", I told Harry, my only remaining friend and Body Thetan companion. "If Bill Kemp thought that I was trying to blame everything on the Church, then there is no way he would ever send a search party to the Fort Harrison Hotel!", I concluded. "I will be safe there!"

"Life is always a matter of choices", I thought. "Once I resumed my ten trillion year-old post as Archivist of the Universe, then I would have all the time in the world for luxuries, such as meat- body wog parents and children."

I had every intention of phoning my family once in South Africa, just to tell them that I was safe.

"No one will ever accuse me of being inconsiderate!", I winked.

I knew that my children would be well cared for, because Jaime once told me that if I ever jumped bond, she would report me as missing, so that she could cash in on my life insurance policy after seven years. My ex-wife always had a good nose for business, despite the abysmal plastic surgery that she had snotted through two years before.

My entire future rested with Jan Logan.

I was betting the house that once I showed up on her doorstep, she wouldn't turn me away.

She was, after all, my Other Mother.

And even though I had been a very bad boy cavorting with the squirrels, I lived in the fond hope that no matter what had happened, she still loved me.

Time would tell.

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