Lonesome Squirrel

by Steven Fishman

26: Messiah In The Spin Bin

I was hoping it was only a dream.

There I was in 1944, back in the body of Mordecai Kusvitz, when three Obersturmfuhrer Elite Guards from the Gestapo Secret Service pounded on the door of my Budapest apartment, and carted off my family and I to Auschwitz.

Therefore, when I heard the banging and shouting of Bill Kemp and his pistol-packing henchmen in the hallway of my condominium, I was certain that I hadn't snapped back into my body yet, and that I was still Free Wheeling inside the Nazi nightmare.

Actually, Special Agent Kemp didn't bring two henchmen. One was a hench-woman. Trembling and disoriented, I changed out of my pajamas after I had urinated in them from catastrophic fright. Old Billy Boy read me my "rights" and then accused me of my "wrongs", telling me with his repulsive Christian stone-face that I was being re-arrested for Obstruction of Justice.

"But today is only Friday!", I pleaded, foolishly hoping that he would take the weekend off and come back Monday after I had left town.

"Hurry up!", he yelled like an overseer from a pre-Civil War Southern Baptist plantation before the slaves were set free. "We've got a date with the Magistrate!"

"How poetic", I thought as I tried to postulate the hemorrhaging of his vile wog heart while I meticulously got dressed.

"Let's go!", he ordered abusively, not even giving me sufficient time to shave my face and penis.

There was no point in calling the Org. Neither Frank Thompson nor Ray Jourdain were there at eight in the morning, and the last thing that I wanted to do was to implicate them in my downfall, after all I had been through to help them.

Magnanimously, Kemp agreed not to put the handcuffs on me until I got into his asshole-brown car, so that the receptionist and the Security Guard of my condominium building would not see me being dragged out into the street like a common criminal. Of course, the darling tyrant warned me about trying to escape. Like other friends of country, death and Jesus, he was carrying a loaded gun under his belt.

"Maybe one day it will go off where it hurts him the most and make the slimy sweat-hog impotent!", I said to myself.

The Federal Magistrate ordered me back to the Metropolitan Correctional Center of Miami, commonly known as jail. I wasn't allowed to make bond again because I had been arrested for violating the previous bond conditions, despite the fact that Frank Thompson never warned me that this would ever happen. I was held over on some wog rule known as "Pre-Trial Detention", which meant I had to remain in jail until the trial for criminal fraud in San Francisco took place. The news sent me into a state of shock.

"This is not fair! You are all crazy!", I screamed.

As soon as I was taken out of the court room and thrown into a holding cell, I was overcome with a gripping case of mortal terror. I was especially in a state of panic over my squirrel attorney because Marc had promised me that I wouldn't be arrested until Monday.

"How could that bastard betray me like that?", I cried out loud. "I was so honest with him during the last time we met! How could I have ever been so stupid as to trust him over the weekend?"

I started freaking out.

"What a difference a day makes", I sang with deranged glee as I tried to saw off the bars of the holding cell with my fingernails.

The only wonderful thing about being in the bowels of the Federal Building was the tuna fish that they gave me for lunch. In fact, the sandwich which the U. S. Marshals handed me was the best tuna fish I had ever eaten in my entire life! I have spent up to ten dollars for similar platters in the finest seafood restaurants in Florida, and never did it taste as good as that one. Even the tuna fish at Flag wasn't quite as fresh, although I don't want that confidential information leaking out to anyone. Ordinarily I wouldn't have eaten a blessed thing, because I was exceedingly nervous and I wasn't very hungry. However, who could resist the catch of the day! I doubt that the Marshals made the sandwiches themselves. They probably sent out for the snacks from some obscure wog restaurant. If the person who cooked my lunch is reading this book, please let me know so I can send him a thank-you card.

I had to wait in the holding cell for the whole damn day. Jan Logan's voice comforted me, and I knew that as a Sea Org member, I had to "Make Things Go Right" by throwing in the towel and dropping my body in favor of a new one without further ado. The proper action was to commit suicide, and somehow I knew that Ron would be waiting for me at the top of the Bridge, guiding me through the Between Lives Area, so that I would avoid the dreaded shifts of time.

"And even if I come back to life in the sixth century, so what?", I asked myself. "I could teach the druid monks all about doing their TRs, according to Ron's rules of Standard Tech!"

When I finally arrived at the jail, the harrowing experience of having to change into prison garb in front of all those naked hairy criminals was far too much for me. My sensibilities were visibly shaken. I was terrified of being raped by them because my testicles were covered with day-old stubble, and already they had started to mouth some very vicious homosexual profanities to me.

"I assure you that I'm not queer!", I yelled to the mob. "I'm just protecting myself against Body Thetans!"

"Maric'n!", the crowd began chanting, which is the Spanish word for "faggot."

I started shaking uncontrollably, and for the first time in my life, I couldn't get my words out.

"Hey guard!", a prisoner shouted who had a little bit of sympathy. "This prick is having some kind of seizure! Get the fuck over here!"

I kept smelling rotten eggs and shit, and seeing visions of vomit and diarrhea, and Jan Logan continued to call out to me so that I would quickly end all of my pain and suffering.

A very compassionate and good-natured prison counselor named Officer Blackwell separated me from the other men who were teasing me, and brought me into his office, placing a heavy blanket around me to stop me from shivering. My eyes would not focus, and I could not talk at all without stuttering wildly.

"Bring us back the faggot with the shaved balls!", the criminals taunted from the main transfer cell of the Prisoner Receiving Section of the jail. "We want to play with him!"

"Quiet down in there!", a guard shouted back.

"What kind of a fucking jail is this?", griped an enraged Cuban reprobate. "How come you give special treatment to gay pussies?"

"Either you shut up or you'll stay in the transfer cell all night!", the guard warned.

"You want me to wait while that fairy douche bag gets pampered?", he argued. "I'm freezing my buns off in here, man! How come I didn't get a warm blanket like the faggot?"

"Maybe Blackwell wants a piece of his tender ass!", another prisoner suggested derisively.

Officer Blackwell closed his office door and shook his head in disgust.

"I don't know how you're going to make it in here without getting your head bashed in", he sighed. "Meanwhile fill out these admission forms."

But I had a better idea in mind. I started doing the Helatrobic Effect, inhaling vigorously and repeatedly while I held my nose and swallowed rapidly after each forced breath. I knew that I had to keep doing the maneuver without stopping, and if I kept an accurate count, I would be deep in a coma long before I repeated the routine one thousand times.

While "Helatrobing", as I affectionately called it, I became aware that I was running "time" as an engram. Every tick of the clock was a moment of pain and unconsciousness for me, since I never wanted to be stuck on the time track in the first place.

"Soon I will be beyond time's deadly reach!", I told Ron as I continued counting.

How ironic it was that in the twilight years of my awareness, I would be imprisoned in a place "to do time", the very thing I wanted no earthly part of. The good news was that I no longer required a physical body either, and consequently I was very anxious to get rid of it.

"What kind of breathing exercises are you doing?", Officer Blackwell inquired, forcing me to temporarily stop.

"I'm very much out of valence right now", I insisted, "and I need to do an End of Cycle and exteriorize so that I can be with Ron right away!"

"Who is Ron, your boyfriend?", he asked with a straight face.

"Oh, no!", I cried. "You think that there are sexual overtones to this too, don't you! Ron is Source, the Eighth Dynamic!"

"Could you please tell me what it all means?", he said in earnest.

"Jan Logan will explain it to you!", I promised. "Just call her at Flag, or let me talk to Frank Thompson at the Org!"

But Officer Blackwell did not allow me to use the phone.

"Either let me phone my Ethics Officer or permit me to handle my body and resolve this lifetime once and for all! Can't you see that I have to end this contagion of aberration that I am embroiled in? You are interfering with my destiny!"

"And what exactly is your destiny, Fishman?", he inquired with all the disadvantages of an open mind.

"To drop my body and be with the Admiral!", I assured him. "I don't want to live in this grotesque human shell anymore!"

"Why do you want to commit suicide?", he asked in a monotone of moderate curiosity.

"I have a stack full of overts against the Third Dynamic, and I have gone into agreement with a boatload of squirrels and SPs!", I sobbed. "Nobody has to tell me what Ethics Condition I'm in! I'll tell you, okay? I'm in Treason or worse! Now how do you expect me to live with that? Just put me in my cell! I need to buy myself a one-way ticket out of here!"

"Out of where?", Blackwell asked in a web of total confusion. "Out of jail?"

"No, out of my body!", I clarified. "This lump of meat is my only jail, and I want out! There is nothing more that I can accomplish here!"

"It's that breathing exercise, isn't it?", he beamed. "You were trying to kill yourself somehow, weren't you?"

I didn't even bother to dignify him with an answer.

"All he would do is to try and stop me anyhow", I thought out loud to whichever thetans were still listening.

I shouldn't have told Blackwell as much as I did. He put me into the prison hospital, and onto a humiliating program called Suicide Watch.

"Any time he starts that funny breathing stuff, you stop him!", Blackwell told Officer Williams, the guard who was assigned to watch me.

My hospital cell was quite comfortable compared to where I had been last July in the "E" Unit. There was a sink, a shower, and a soft bed with three blankets and two pillows. The room even had a cheap looking white and orange curtain, just like the one that used to be hanging up against the window of my favorite massage parlor in Pompano Beach.

And I was not alone either. The other prisoner on Suicide Watch was a deranged old Spanish man living next door named Santos, who kept drinking from out of the toilet as if it were the fountain of youth.

The prison hospital ward had a refrigerator, and the physician's assistant was very kind to me, giving me orange juice whenever I was thirsty. Of course, he also tried to give me a sleeping pill with it, which prompted me to throw a mad fit about the perils of drugs.

"Give this shit to your psychiatrist!", I yelled, hurling the medication on the floor and stomping on it with my foot. "I have an uncontaminated body, and I intend to keep it that way for as long as I am trapped in it, which I hope to Source isn't too damn long!"

To pass the endless torture of time, I stayed exteriorized most of the day and night, mocking up a variety of idyllic scenes of myself at Flag, doing my OT Levels and the precious "L" Rundowns. My favorite pleasure moment was dramatized by becoming a new baby again, and being cradled in the soft, mushy, flabby arms of my Other Mother, Jan Logan.

"I promise to protect you from Christ's nuclear holocaust", Jan whispered as she rocked me back to sleep. "You are my beloved Malchoot, and Ron is your real father."

With the guards watching me twenty-four hours a day, it was very difficult to do the Helatrobic Effect in their presence.

"When am I going to have some privacy?", I screamed. "I can't even masturbate while all these men are watching me!"

A bright spot on the horizon came when I heard one of my baby sitters, Officer George Kurz, mention the subject of "OT." I jumped out of my bed, and my heart began pounding a million miles a minute.

"Are you a Scientologist?", I gasped with unrelinquishing enthusiasm. "Did I really hear you talking about OT?"

"I'm no scientist!", he confessed. "I'm one of the officers in the prison kitchen. And yeah, I was talking about OT. It means "overtime". I get fifteen dollars an hour to watch you sleep!"

It was hopeless. I was anchored and marooned at the very bottom of a wog wasteland.

It was a true pain in the ass to come back into my hideous body and do such boring things like piss and eat. The guards complained that I didn't answer their questions most of the time, but I was far too busy trying to shut down the body's vital functions from the outside looking in to hear the likes of them. I attempted again and again to pierce the body by postulating its overdue death with mocked-up lightning bolts, but the damn genetic entity wouldn't die. It just laid there on its stinking bed, staring up at me on the ceiling.

"We really built shit like you to last, didn't we?", I told my body with a blood-thirsty appetite for destruction.

To keep myself from going crazy, I mocked up an imaginary E-Meter and began auditing myself. I ran into problems when the meter needle started to rock slam, and I didn't have any worksheets to write down the disturbing data.

"Okay, Body Thetans, here is your chance!", I screamed in horror. "You always wanted to take over my evil-purposed body! Why don't you do it right now? I don't want the damn thing anymore!"

While inside my hateful torso, I went into a sharp decline, feeling depressed within a state of apathy, and not wanting to eat any more of the drab, unseasoned food. Fearing that my health was failing, which would have been darned nice, Officer Blackwell requested that one of the prison doctors come to see me.

"A psychiatrist?", I screamed in mortal dread. "No! Keep that bastard away from me!"

But my pleading was to no avail. Both a psychiatrist and a psychologist came to see me at the same time.

"This outrage can't be happening!", I screamed, embalming myself in a pool of sweat which was replete with the odor of pungent fear.

I was literally beside myself with despair, as the body was laying down in a terrified stupor while I was standing up, aghast with alarm and wrath.

"No electric shocks, and no psychotropic drugs!", I warned them from my stew-pot of self- abasement. "That's the only way that I'll talk to you!"

Much to my surprise, they unconditionally agreed to my terms.

Neither Dr. Perez nor Dr. Neuhring ever met a Scientologist before. It didn't take them very long, however, to sense the hatred which I had for their repulsive "profession".

"Why do you dislike us so much?", asked Dr. Neuhring, the psychologist.

"Who do you think trapped us in our physical bodies in the first place?", I replied. "You and your degraded predecessors!"

When I calmed down, I explained to the two suppressives that I found it impossible to relate to psychs of any kind, because of the overt acts they have been committing against thetans for the last seventy-six trillion years. I further explained that Jesus Christ was the first psychiatrist to trap people during his lifetime as Yushkipondrec, and how my mission on Earth was to de-Christianize the planet and rid the world of all such criminal forces of counter-intention and evil. I told them how Christ intended to blow up the Earth on the 9th of September, 1997, and that he was grotesquely occupying the wretched body of Larry Wollersheim, the nemesis and public enemy number one of Scientology. I revealed myself as Malchoot the Antichrist, and I detailed how my bastard son Jesus was really born. Finally, I disclosed the essence of my promise to Ron, which of course was to stop Wollersheim, to Clear the planet, and to save the world from being destroyed.

"My name is Ron too", Dr. Neuhring said.

"I'm talking about the real Ron, L. Ron Hubbard!", I insisted, highly incensed that a psychologist would dare compare himself to the Admiral!

Dr. Perez, the psychiatrist, had not said very much up to that point. He kept writing down notes, and appearing very menacing with his invalidating, drug-dispensing, beady eyes.

"If your mission is to prevent the Earth from being blown up, then how can you consider suicide as an alternative?", he asked with profound curiosity.

"I no longer have any reason to remain in this body!", I cried. "The International Justice Chief gave my mission to somebody else! Don't you understand? I crashed my post! A Scientologist without a hat to wear is worth nothing! If there were any way to carry out my promise to Ron and Clear the planet on my own, of course I would stay in my body! But it just doesn't seem possible from where I am right now!"

"Supposing there was hope?", Dr. Perez asked.

"Now, this is really cute!", I shrieked. "I can't believe that I am actually listening to a mad psychiatrist encouraging me to Clear the planet when he doesn't even have the foggiest idea as to what Clearing the planet really means! But I'll tell you what it means right now, Dr. Perez! Earth would no longer have a reactive mind! Thetans would be free and able to exteriorize at will just like I do, without either the fear or the stigma of being called "crazy" by aberrated scum like you! And every trace of suppression would be finally eliminated! Each psychiatrist would have but one chance to be rehabilitated, and those who either fail or refuse to help Scientology must and will be separated out from the sane and able strata of civilized society for eternity! So now that you have heard me out, how in Ron's name can you go on encouraging me to continue my quest for total freedom when it is absolutely contrary and inimical to your brutally destructive and evil purposes? The psychiatrist creates mental illness! Why are you being such a damn phony?"

It was a moot question.

I was diagnosed as "bi-polar" or manic depressive, which are both pathetic psych words for what we call a "Roller-Coaster" in Scientology, or one who "gets better, gets worse, gets better and gets worse, because the case is a Potential Trouble Source to his auditor, to others, and to himself."166

Of course, Dr. Perez's cockeyed "bi-polar" analysis was a lot of bunk! Had it not been for the suppressive Third Invader Government and their insane wog laws, I would have continued to make stable gains in Scientology, and I would have been at least an OT Two completion by now!

"Bi-polar my ass!", I screamed to Dr. Perez. "What do you think I am, a copper-top battery?"

"Don't worry about a thing", Harry Sebakovitch said while I was having a chat with him after I was brought back to my room on Suicide Watch. "You don't have to huff and puff so much trying to do the End of Cycle all night long. Ivy Kimmich certainly must be aware of your predicament at Flag, and I'm sure that she's going to postulate a massive heart attack for you that will be worthy of your attention."

So I waited and waited, but Ivy didn't do a damn thing to take me out of my misery.

"When is that OT Eight whore going to wake up and remember that I am laying here suffering without any remedy?", I cried. "Why can't she spare me all of this agony and just kill me?"

"Maybe you're getting what you deserve, you dog!", someone bellowed.

"Who is that?", I quaked, treading lightly on my thoughts.

No reply was necessary. The sound of his wonderful voice was all that I needed to make me happy. It was Paul Laquerre, the International Justice Chief, putting out a communication line to me!

"Even bad communication was better than no communication at all", I reckoned.

But of every one of my dearest friends who cared more about me than life itself, it was Jan Logan that I longed to talk to the most.

"What a flagrant disappointment I must have been for you, my sweetest Other Mother", I cried, flooding my smelly pillowcase with internal devastation and regret. "I wanted so much to go to Johannesburg and make you so very proud of me!"

I must have spent the next two days thinking about good old "Joburg", which is what Ron used to call the Johannesburg Org in his many tapes and lectures. The most famous Security Check called the "Joburg", also came from there.

But there was a brand new fly in my ointment.

Johannesburg was only a Class Four Org, and as a Class Six Saint Hill Special Briefing Course Graduate, there wouldn't have been any auditing available in South Africa that would have taken me any higher than I already was on the Bridge!

"Why the hell did Jan Logan promise that I would do my OT Levels in Johannesburg when there is no Advanced Organization in South Africa to deliver them?", I asked Harry. "I would have never gone up the Bridge if I were stuck in a place like that! The bitch fooled me!"

Consumed with anger, I stopped trying to kill myself and demanded that I be permitted a phone call to Flag. Predictably, both of the prison psychs refused to let me contact Jan.

"I need answers and I need them now!", I screamed to the psychologist, Dr. Neuhring. "I want to know how Jan Logan expected me to go to the top of the Bridge from an Org that doesn't deliver any auditing in the OT levels!"

"I have no idea", he replied, "but I wouldn't want to take my own life without getting to the bottom of that mystery, would you?"

"No, damn it!", I responded with grief-stricken animosity. "I'm not going to the Between Lives Area empty-handed! I need to know if Jan Logan was just pulling my leg!"

From that point on, Jan Logan was the only person that I could think about. I was obsessed with reaching her. Without realizing it, I had come up the Tone Scale from deep apathy to raging anger, and my entire outlook began to improve. I started eating regular meals again, and after Marc Nurik arranged to have a small black and white television brought into my cell for me, I started watching soap operas. Ironically, my favorite was "One Life To Live" -- indeed a very strange title for a Sea Org member with a billion year employment contract to confront.

After spending ten days in Suicide Watch at a tremendous cost in overtime salaries to the facility, Warden Clark paid me a visit, and asked me if I was ready to rejoin the rest of the prison population.

"I don't want to let you out of this here cell and then find out that you went ahead and killed yerself!", he warned. "We don't need any more lawsuits!"

"Don't worry, Warden", I reassured him. "The last thing I would ever do is sue the prison after I'm dead. Besides, I have sent in enough claims for one lifetime already."

Within hours, I was transferred to a supervised open unit which contained thirty-six modular bunks, known as the "Glass House."

Life was not so bad in the Glass House. It was more like a summer camp than a prison. We weren't locked up in individual cages at night, and the other inmates were not as antagonistic as the ones who I fell prey to in the transfer cell when I entered the prison.

I quickly discovered that most of my roommates in the Glass House had daily appointments with the psychiatrist and psychologist. Many seemed to suffer from the imaginary wog disease of claustrophobia, and as a result, the open layout of the Glass House best suited their needs. It didn't take me very long to make a few friends.

"Is this some kind of mental ward?", I asked Roger Robillard, a burly, wild-haired professor from Quebec who threatened to blow up an Air Canada plane because one of the ticket agents refused to speak to him in French.

"Well, some of these prisoners are on Lithium and other stabilizing medication", he replied. "They call this the Glass House because the guards can always watch us through the glass windows. The longer we stay in this place, the crazier they think we are. The sane ones are soon taken out of here."

"My sanity has never been in question!", I asserted defiantly. "I am a Scientologist!"

"I'm not the one to complaint to, my friend!", Roger smiled. "You look pretty normal to me!"

Another confidant of mine was Nelson Clark, a sixty-one year-old Australian hippie with long, scraggly white hair. He was thrown into the Glass House after he called up a local pizza parlor and ordered a large pepperoni and mushroom pizza to be delivered to the jail. Because both he and the Warden had the same last name of Clark, he tricked one of the prison operators into giving him an outside phone line, as she mistakenly thought that the Warden was the one ordering the pizza.

He also decided to go swimming in the prison lake without any clothes on, which of course was somewhat against the rules. Finally, he made an eighty-five dollar unauthorized long distance call to his son in Australia from the social worker's office, having impersonated the Warden again, and had gotten into additional trouble for that.

"You're never going to get out of jail doing those kind of mischievous things!", I warned him advisedly.

"I hope that I stay here for the rest of my life!", he answered with sincerity. "God forbid that they throw me out of this terrific place! I was homeless -- sleeping under a bridge and eating out of garbage cans. I didn't have a bath in three weeks, and I hadn't had a square meal in over a month. In this hotel, I receive three free gourmet meals a day, plus I get to jog, lift weights, and play lots of shuffleboard; and whenever I need extra money to buy things at the canteen, I can work in the prison's uniform factory and make forty-four cents an hour! My bed's always clean; I take a shower twice a day, and I can play chess to my heart's content until the lights go out. I never had it so good!"

"What crime did you commit to get put in here?", I asked.

"Crime?", he laughed. "No, mate. I committed no crime. I wanted to get put in here. I walked over to a cop and told him that I was going to kill the Pope during that week when he visited Miami. I couldn't think of any other way to get myself arrested!"

"Do you really want to stay in here forever?", I gasped.

"Yep, that's right, Stevie boy!", he grinned. "So would every starving man, woman and child in Ethiopia if they had the chance! Hell, they'd all climb over the barbed wire fence just to get in here! The guards would have to shoot them with M-16 rifles to keep them out!"

"I suppose that's true", I reflected. "There are probably quite a few people much worse off than this."

"A lot worse!", he added. "Whenever the Feds got ready to drag me back into court and throw me out with a suspended sentence, I did something practical to extend my vacation here, like ordering the pizza and all that stuff. I'm not going to bite the hand that feeds me by leaving this paradise! I'd have to be nuts to want to go back out on the streets! I wouldn't give a wooden nickel for the County or the State jails, but the Federal system is like the bloody Waldorf-Astoria!"

"So you're just pretending to be crazy?", I asked, rather astonished. "That's humiliating!"

"Humiliating my ass!", he wheezed. "I'll do whatever it takes to stay in this fancy country club. They once got so tired of my antics that they sent me to be evaluated at a Government loony bin up in North Carolina called "Butner". I had the time of my life there too! I could never have afforded a plane ticket to see that part of the country on my own. No, my life right now is too good to be true! I wouldn't change a friggin' thing!"

Of all the close friends that I made in prison, my favorite was Rolando Nieves, a brave and valiant Cuban Freedom Fighter.

Rolando was a hero of the Cuban people. Having spent over twenty years in one of Fidel Castro's squalid jails, he was arrested with a boat full of explosives by the infamous Coast Guard while on his way back to Cuba to blow up several of Fidel's oil tankers. Labeled a madman by the prison authorities because he refused to be strip-searched due to his tremendous integrity and pride, he was the inmate who commanded my greatest respect. We immediately developed a strong bond, having both been victims of our principles and our idealism.

"In my own way, I am a freedom fighter too", I explained. "Except that in my world I am fighting for total freedom -- meaning freedom from the entire physical universe!"

"What were you arrested for?", he inquired in Spanish, within which I was perfectly conversant ever since my ill-fated life in 1561 as a well-hung Catholic Priest.

"They threw me in here for protecting my Church from attacks", I revealed. "The Feds called what I did "Obstruction of Justice" because I would have rather taken the blame myself than to endanger the sterling reputation of my Church."

Rolando had written a twenty page press release in his native tongue about his shocking arrest and the struggle of the free Cuban people against the suppressive tyranny of Castro. He needed it translated into English so that he could send it to the American newspapers and wire services. I gladly took up the challenge. It gave me something constructive to do which would benefit the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics. Prison or no prison, as a Scientologist, I was more than happy to do my part. I prepared the report using a typewriter in the prison law library, and my friend was extremely pleased indeed. Tears came to his eyes when I handed over the finished product.

"I have never seen anything so well written in all my life!", he cried with great happiness.

"You should have seen my student loan applications and my class action lawsuit proof of claim forms!", I bragged. "They would make what I wrote for you look like pure scribble- scrabble."

Rolando soon became very interested in Scientology after I taught him the basic principles of ARC, the Eight Dynamics, the communication formula, the Tone Scale, the history of the thetan across the time track, and why death is nothing but an illusion of psychiatric implanting.

Wherever I walked in the prison, Rolando followed. And even the toughest drug dealers respected Rolando. He was like a god among his people. The same wild bunch that had called me a queer and a faggot some ten days earlier were now coming over to quietly introduce themselves to me, hoping to pay their respects and to get a word of advice and approval from my disciple Rolando, who truly represented the future and the survival of the Cuban people.

"Here is the Messiah!", Rolando shouted in Spanish, pointing to me. "Come listen to him speak! He is here to prevent the world from being destroyed in 1997!"

And so each night, during the free time between dinner and "lock-down", I stood by the foot of the lake under the moonlight at a section of the outdoor compound known as "Marijuana Hill", called so because it was generally a hangout for the toughest dope dealers in the prison. With Rolando forever faithfully by my side, I lectured to the inmates on the splendors of Scientology. Each day more people came to listen, and the crowd grew larger and larger as the message of my sermons spread through the convict population like wildfire.

"You are not in prison!", I screamed frantically to the audience. "Only your body is in jail! You have the power to exteriorize -- to move out from your physical body and be anywhere you want to be on this or any other planet. You are the innocent victims here! You have been suppressed by the evil and vicious Federal Government consisting of store-bought psychiatric whores! Every one of you has a natural right to be free -- not as a body, but as a spirit, which is universally called a thetan! The longer that you stay trapped within your bodies, the more you allow the deranged suppressives of this sick, psychiatric society of theirs to control and punish you!"

My speech concerning the cruel fraud of death and the implants of the Between Lives Area had the group mesmerized in a frozen state of shock. Everything that I ever learned from Ron I eagerly imparted to the crowd. And I demanded absolutely nothing in return but their awareness. People tried to give me what little property they had -- cigarettes, a piece of candy, an fresh Florida orange -- just to show how much that they appreciated me. But I turned it all down, telling the generous ones to give the presents to others who truly needed them.

"Take back this pack of cigarettes", I told one man, and when some prisoner really craves an extra smoke, give it to that person and tell him it was from Malchoot, the Disseminator of Scientology", I said.

Under normal circumstances, many of the prison's officers and lieutenants would not have allowed such a large crowd to congregate on "Marijuana Hill" where I openly spoke to them. But having been my personal baby sitters on Suicide Watch, I knew most of the guards on a first-name basis, and they came to trust me. Many of them enjoyed listening to my message also, and there was not one disturbance or fight during the entire time that I addressed my captivated audience with the Power of Source.

My only criticism came from Warden Clark himself, but for quite a different reason.

After dinner, I would customarily take my evening stroll with Rolando Nieves, feeding the beautiful ducks that gathered on the banks of the prison lake with pieces of bread that I took out of the dining room.

One evening, Warden Clark came over to me while I was throwing a dinner roll to a white-necked mallard with a big green head.

"Can't you read the sign?", the Warden complained. "It says "Do not feed the fish or birds"!"

"That thing in the water, my good Warden, is neither a fish nor a bird, but a duck!", I revealed. "And even if you put up a sign telling me not to feed the ducks, I will disobey it, because just like you, Mister Clark, ducks have a right to eat too!"

The crowd that had gathered went wild, cheering for me resoundingly as I dared to defy my keeper, in defense of those helpless animals.

"Hey, you could get thrown into Segregation for that!", my Australian friend Nelson warned me. "You'll be locked up twenty-three hours a day!"

"He can even kill me if he wants to, but I will never let a duck starve!", I shouted in front of everyone, including the Warden. "A Scientologist is a friend to the fifth dynamic of all plant and animal life on this planet, and don't you ever forget that! If you harm these ducks by withholding food from them, then you are bound to come back as one yourself in your next lifetime!"

Seeing that the spectators were behind me, the Warden backed off, and never said another word to me about anything else ever again.

As luck would have it, I was well liked by everyone in jail except for two people.

One was my old arch-enemy Aranguez, the sadistic guard from the "E" Unit who gave me a hard time when I was arrested the first time in July. He made no attempt to hide his feelings toward me.

After he called me a "Scientology bastard" in front of several of my close friends, I wrote a long Knowledge Report including a list of witnesses, and turned it over to Officer Blackwell, my compassionate counselor who had helped me get through those bleak days in Suicide Watch.

"You sure write good reports!", Blackwell stated. "Your facts seem to be pretty accurate and well substantiated. This will go in Aranguez's personnel file, and will count against him for any promotion he may be in line for."

"Maybe in some small measure there is wog justice after all!", I smiled. I don't think Blackwell knew what I was talking about.

My other adversary was the prison's Chaplain.

The imbecile asked me to leave the non-denominational chapel because I started to play several songs that I had memorized by ear from Ron's "Road to Freedom" album on the piano in the stained-glass prayer room.

"That piano is for Church music only!", he screamed insultingly.

"Look, you hypocritical, bible-kissing son-of-a-bitch!", I chastised. "I am playing Church music! These are hymnals from the Church of Scientology! And if you try to throw me out of here for no apparent reason, I will have my lawyer splatter your name across every newspaper in this Christ- infested country of yours! You have no right to interfere with my religion! Nobody is using this chapel right now! I have just as much right to use the piano as you do, especially since if I hadn't jerked off into the Virgin Mary's crazy-glued muff in the first place, neither you or your putrid statues of my illegitimate bastard runt Jesus would be here!"

I was taken down to the prison psychologist by an armed guard for my "outrageous" behavior.

"You can't talk to the Chaplain like that, Steve!", Dr. Neuhring reprimanded. "He's part of the staff here!"

"Why not?", I protested. "He knows less about religious truth than all the flies and maggots in your cafeteria put together!"

"First of all, you can't be disrespectful to anyone on duty inside the prison. That's an infraction -- you should know that. In any case, the Chaplain serves a definite purpose here", the psych laughably argued. "Religion helps to rehabilitate many of the inmates. It allows them to reconnect with their heritage and their traditions."

"You don't rehabilitate criminals by lying to them!", I doted. "It was their heritage of being manipulated by the wicked Creeping Jesus that landed them here inside this jail in the first place, because the bastard Christ was the biggest criminal of them all! If you truly want to help these people, then purchase about ten E-Meters and train about a hundred auditors in Scientology technology, and then your job will be obsolete. But I suppose you won't risk losing your cushy position in this place, will you?"

"So how can we rehabilitate Steve Fishman?", he quizzed in veiled double-talk without ever handling my origination.

"Look, Dr. Neuhring!", I retorted. "I have done a lot worse in my time than to merely obstruct justice. I pulled off the air cover of the planet Arslycus forty-one trillion years ago, and everybody choked to death as a result. That was pretty awful, wasn't it? Well, I have news for you, Mr. Psychologist. Call me a criminal if you like. I have no regrets. Arslycus was a slave society. I spent over ten thousand lifetimes on that Source-forsaken wasteland just polishing the same brick on a road built out in space. The same brick! Every time my body died from weary exhaustion, they transplanted me into a new one, and within three years I was put right back on post, polishing that same brick all over again! Once a week the overseers would come to my workstation and feed me some horrible green slime by pumping a plastic tube into my stomach! It wasn't just me -- they did the same exact thing to L. Ron Hubbard! We were both there as prisoners together. But as his Loyal Officer, I helped him with the revolt against our slavemasters, who by the way were psychiatrists, and I personally lifted off the air cover from that despicable planet while Ron blew it all up. And that, my dear friend, was the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics. I was considered a criminal by the psychs in that society too. But as sure as I am here talking to you right now, I did the proper thing back then in that lifetime, just as I have done the correct thing in this one. All your chaplains, priests, ministers, nuns, psychiatrists, psychologists, psychoanalysts, psychotherapists, hypnotists and other whores of the scum-sucking Christ in this or any other world could never convince me otherwise!"

"You are a bigot!", he sentimentalized. "You sound no different than the Nazis, the skinheads, or the Ku Klux Klan! Instead of picking on Jews or blacks, you attack Christians and mental health professionals! That is nuts, man!"

"Scientology has nothing against the Christian people!", I protested. "Where the hell do you think most of our membership comes from? We want to set the Christians free from Christ, not to harm them or keep them enslaved! Our auditing easily disabuses them of their insane fixed ideas of heaven and hell, brought on by the Marcabian implanted brainwashing of the cult of Jesus Christ! I am here to fulfill L. Ron Hubbard's destiny! The last thing I will allow is for another space ship full of sick psychiatrists from the destroyed planet of Marcab to land here and join forces with Larry Wollersheim! No way will I ever agree to that!"

"Where is Marcab?", he inquired in a pixilated stupor.

"Where is it?", I repeated. "You mean where was it! Marcab used to be the planet between Mars and Jupiter. You lived there, I lived there, and we all came from there. Now it's just a scrap heap of asteroid rocks, floating aimlessly in space. That's another raving testimonial to the botched-up work of your Chaplain's idol Jesus! He blew it up without any remorse or regret, and now he's about ready to level this decrepit prison planet in the very same way! It's quite a clever trick that my bastard son is playing on all of you! He gets you distracted by making you afraid of a non-existent Devil so that no one will be observant enough to recognize his own evil schemes and purposes!"

"Ah, so you don't believe that there is a Devil, but you feel that Christ is the evil one", Dr. Neuhring summarized.

"I don't feel it, I know it, and with total certainty too!", I divulged. "In the OT Eight Confidential Student Briefing of May the 5th, 1980, Ron stated "The Anti-Christ represents the forces of Lucifer -- literally the "light-bearer" or "light-bringer"; Lucifer being a mythical representation of the forces of enlightenment, the Galactic Confederacy. My mission could be said to fulfill the Biblical promise represented by this brief Anti-Christ period. During this period there is a fleeting opportunity for the whole scenario to be effectively derailed, which would make it impossible for the mass Marcabian landing, or "Second Coming" to take place. The Second Coming is designed, among other things, to trigger a rapid series of destructive events."167 He further wrote, "It is a good joke that the Galactic Confederacy is associated with the Serpent in the Garden, the Beast and other emissaries of the "Prince of Darkness". Yet, in certain passages and esoteric interpretations of the Bible, much of which has been taken out and effectively suppressed for centuries, as well as the Cabbalah, the truth reveals itself quite nicely for the clever and the ungullible."168

"So who is the real Antichrist, you or L. Ron Hubbard?", Dr. Neuhring asked sarcastically.

"Ron left me his legacy, and I am certain that I understand him as well as if not better than anyone else does", I explained. "I am not competing with Ron to be the Antichrist. It was my unfortunate predicament to have fathered the bad seed of the vicious Christ in that horrid lifetime which most wogs remember him for. It may have been Ron's misfortune to have interconnected with him genetically at a different point on the time track. All of that has no significance, as it relates to the assignment of bodies and not to thetans. What is critical is that the raw meat wogdom of Earth have been implanted, hypnotized and influenced by the wretched slavemasters of Marcabian psychiatry to follow their suppressive leader Jesus, falsely thinking that he represented goodness rather than the evil tyrant that he has always been and forever will be. The slaves of this planet have been fooled and have been lied to, and once they realize that his supposedly "immaculate birth" was a fraud, they will rapidly cognite on how harmful and deadly the parasitic Christ truly is! Just remember that I did not ask to be the father of that Living Death. But I have never been one to shirk from my responsibilities either! I created the problem, and now I have to handle it! I often wish that there were more than one Antichrist. I could surely use all the help I can get!"

Even if I explained my viewpoint until I was blue in the face, Dr. Neuhring still would not have understood it. After all, as nice as he tried to be to me, he was still a psych.

However, it was Jan Logan who was perpetually on my mind. I went to the prison's law library and typed out an eight page letter to Jan, blasting her for trying to send me to an Org where I could never be audited on my upper OT levels. When Marc Nurik came to visit me, I gave him the letter, demanding that he send it to Jan by registered mail, since I wanted to be sure that she received it. Predictably, Marc double- crossed me again and never forwarded it, brazenly keeping the letter for himself.

"That just shows how much you can trust a squirrel", I sadly told Ron as I requested that he communicate my message to Jan via a theta wave. With the phone lines bugged and with Marc working against me, I knew the only one left who I could really trust was Source himself.

The U. S. Government was insane enough to think that I was crazy. The prison psychiatrist, Dr. Perez, testified to that effect in court. Bob Cornell, the Federal Prosecutor, wanted to send me for an evaluation up to that loony bin in North Carolina called "Butner", but Marc successfully argued that he needed to confer with me about preparing my defense, and the Federal Magistrate agreed to place me into a private psychiatric facility known as the Hollywood Pavilion.

"I hate the idea of going into a spin bin!", I told my mother, who, like myself, never had any doubts as to my complete and utter sanity.

But as far as spin bins went, the Hollywood Pavilion was one of the more tolerable ones, although I will probably be struck dead by direct order of the OT Eight Committee for implying that a psychiatric palace of shocks, drugs and death would ever be "tolerable".

So how did I learn about the place?

I once dated a mental patient named Susan Cohen, who I had taken to one of the Citizen's Commission on Human Rights' many Psychbusts, and she had stayed at the Hollywood Pavilion as a guinea pig. Susan was once a nice, quiet girl with anorexia until her psychiatrist, Dr. Bruce Jones, turned her into an unbalanced, gruff, fat slut.

Dr. Geertz had privileges to come and visit me, and I was happy about being out of jail, despite the fact that I hated to leave all my newly found friends, especially Rolando Nieves.

The Hollywood Pavilion occupied half of the second story wing of a run-down nursing home, and was owned by the same Dr. Bruce Jones; a greasy, sloppy snake of a psychiatrist who didn't give a damn about his patients, and never learned to tie his shoelaces.

Except for a small screened-in patio, all of the windows were locked, and the place reeked from the stench of madness and stale cigarette smoke. In retrospect, Frank Thompson would have been quite at home there, at least as far as his obsession with tar and nicotine were concerned.

Some of the patients were quite bad off, walking up and down the drab, boring hallway; talking to themselves and doing the "Thorazine Shuffle", a swishy, trance-like walk caused by the debilitating effects of psychotropic medicine. I couldn't avoid noticing that many of the lost and the listless were buttered all over the asylum walls, as their bodies pointlessly trudged along, highly symptomatic of being locked out of their pathetic genetic shells, and equally unable to re-interiorize into their own gloomy carcasses.

In contrast, my roommate was a very decent sort of older man named Paul Schoffler who was depressed because his back pain prevented him from working anymore.

"I know exactly how it feels to lose your career", I sympathized. "You wouldn't know it by looking at sad, pitiful me, but I used to be the Fields Financial Planner of Miami. Now I am just a plain old useless lump of squirrel shit!"

Being in a tomb like the Hollywood Pavilion was unnerving enough, but my worst anxiety was knowing full well that Scientology Policy would bar me from ever being audited again. Ron was very clear about that when he wrote, "No person who is insane or who has an institutional background, nor any person who is chronically ill may be accepted for processing by the Hubbard Guidance Center."169 Ron defined an "institutional background" and "institutionalization" as "Having been committed to a public or private institution for the insane."170

Furthermore, Ron stated, "With insane persons, or persons with a proven record of insanity, do the following: Establish to the best of your ability within reasonable administrative limits and known tests that any Hubbard Guidance Center preclear accepted for processing does not have a history of deserved institutionalization in an insane asylum or similar place, and process only those persons who have no such history."171

My worst horror had come back to haunt me.

After ten years of attacking the psychiatric spider, I was now deep within the foreboding recesses of his web.

Not only was I thrown into the merciless hands of the enemy, but even if I were successful in avoiding being electric shocked and medicated to death, just by virtue of the fact that I was there, festering within the bowels of a psychiatric spin bin, I would never again be eligible for auditing, and I would have to kiss the beloved world of OT good-bye.

The Road to Total Freedom -- my beloved Bridge, had been detonated and blown right off the face of my time track forever. After this lifetime I knew that I would be rendered inert by the Irrevocable Ethics Order and my beingness would be terminated, and this time I had no way to climb out of the abyss.

To add insult to injury, I was introduced to my new psychiatrist, Dr. Aksu, who along with Dr. Geertz, were going to "treat" me.

I quickly hid my testicles between my legs.

Dr. Aksu was a man in his fifties who was nearly bald, and sported a menacing pencil-thin moustache. He looked like a classic villain from a silent movie -- one who would have no compunctions or qualms about tying a helpless virgin to a moving log while he watched with glee as a buzz-saw split her in half.

He loved wearing mustard-colored shirts, and in fact he had three or four of them. In Scientology Orgs, mustard was regarded as the ugliest of colors. If a preclear ever wrote an "entheta" letter containing insult, discourtesy, or nastiness about a particular Org or L. Ron Hubbard, we would handle the writers of those choppy letters by sending an ugly, mustard-colored postcard to any Org where the writer's name might have been part of their Central Files, and accordingly order that person's Folder into the Dead File.172 It was so typical that a despicable psych would parade around his filthy spin bin wearing the disgusting color considered most ugly and obscene by Scientologists.

The only thing that Dr. Aksu had going for him was that he was a Turkish Moslem, not a clone of the cockeyed Christ.

"I understand that you've been telling the other patients how much you hate Jesus", Dr. Aksu began.

"You wouldn't be on his cheering squad either if you smelled the foul stench of his body odor while he was dangling on the cross", I informed him. "Personally, I would have preferred it if he were strung up by the balls, but then again, I'm quite a purist when it comes to real justice."

Without hesitation or warning, Dr. Aksu diagnosed me as a paranoid psychotic.

I burst out laughing.

"This just proves to me what an arbitrary pile of crap psychiatry really is", I objected in disapproval. "For the last twenty years, your eminent Nazi colleague Dr. Geertz has called me schizophrenic. In jail, the prison psychiatrist Dr. Perez accused me of being manic depressive, or "bi-polar." Now you have the unmitigated gall to label me a paranoid psychotic!"

"I call it as I see it", he defended emotionlessly.

"So either I am actually a manic depressive paranoid psychotic schizophrenic, or you are all full of shit!", I screamed. "Take your choice!"

"How would you diagnose yourself?", he asked with snotty disdain.

"For starters, I'm an out-of-valence, roller-coastery Potential Trouble Source with an unfulfilled compulsion to make it to full Operating Thetan at the top of the Bridge!", I revealed. "Secondly, I have a pressing need to expand the Third Dynamic by getting in Ethics all over the planet. Thirdly, I demand "A civilization without insanity, without war, where the able can prosper and honest beings have rights, and where man is free to rise to greater heights."173 That leaves you out, Dr. Aksu, as well as the rest of the criminals in your sickeningly repugnant homicidal "profession". Finally, I want to be free from both my physical body and the physical universe. That just about sums it up!"

"Paranoid psychotic with intense hostility and delusions of grandeur", he mumbled to himself as he walked away, writing down all of that idiotic jargon on a prescription pad, upon which he had already scribbled the names "Meloril" and "Restoril", indicating that my days of exemption from the March-of-the-Zombie pill line were indeed numbered.

"Fucking suppressive!", I whispered to Ron, indicating my own diagnosis of him.

When Marc Nurik came over to check up on me, I demanded another doctor.

"This guy wants to give me drugs!", I shrieked in deep, dark terror. "I can see it in his eyes! He's going to send me to the head of the nurse's station! Who knows what he will try to put me on!"

"You'll just have to live with him!", Marc said. "There is something radically wrong with you, and you need help! Dr. Aksu comes highly recommended."

"Who recommended him? Larry Wollersheim?", I snapped.

But it was to no avail. Marc wouldn't yield. I was stuck with that Islamic electric-shocking terrorist.

I thought of escaping from the nut house by sneaking out of the building through the adjoining nursing home, but I had no money to get to Flag, and I was terribly afraid that the U. S. Marshals would pick me up at the moment I ran away. I was under a court order to remain in the lunatic asylum, and Marc would have been very annoyed if I ever tried to pull a stunt like that.

Nevertheless, the spin bin was a living hell. I had no telephone privileges, because Dr. Aksu and Dr. Geertz both thought that if I were allowed to make outside calls, the first thing that I would do would be to phone Frank Thompson at the Miami Org.

Boy, were they wrong!

He would have been the second person I called. My first choice would have been Jan Logan. I still wanted to know how she expected me to go up the Bridge from South Africa where the OT levels couldn't be delivered!

"Who am I kidding?", I sighed to Harry Sebakovitch, who hated the psych ward even more than I did. "Being in here is like being branded a leper or the proverbial scarlet woman. I'll probably have to sew a big letter "I" on all my shirts for "Institutionalized"."

Harry and I both missed the Miami Org terribly. Tears of chronic nostalgia flooded our grief-stricken face.

"What I wouldn't give for a good cigarette burn right now!", I told old Harry. "At least Frank Thompson was interested enough to make an impression on me."

As an eternal survivor, I tried to make the best of the place. I even thought it would be possible to forget about my troubles and get laid in there. After all, there were plenty of female patients. But if those dogs who called themselves women were ever taken to the animal shelter, they would all have been put to sleep -- that's how ugly they were. A few of them were in for severe eating disorders such as bulimia and obesity, and were so flabbily hideous that they could have turned a whole boot camp full of steroid- infested U. S. Marine studs completely gay. The rest of them looked like summer-school graduates from the Bag Lady Academy, and smelled like they spent their last forty years of puberty on the inside of a dump truck. Personal hygiene amongst the chronically insane was not too cool. When all was said and done, they were a fairly gross bunch of dogs. The only lady that I would have possibly been willing to fuck on a real dull day was a rape victim who had been seduced with a lead pipe by her lesbian lover. However, she would have been a last resort in getting me back my wilting machismo and self-esteem, I can assure you of that.

So even in the funny farm, I was still lonesome. The only person who had a crush on me was a homosexual Puerto Rican named Freddy Cabrera, and I found that out by mistake when I caught him playing with himself while he was watching me sleep. Staying out of my body at night while I exteriorized did not give anyone else the right to enter into it, and I promptly warned him to stay away from me or I would cut him down to size.

The food in the cafeteria tasted like strained elephant turds. The meal planner had to be a patient herself, I concluded. The activity schedule stank too, and I got tired of stringing beads and making pot holders. Ironically, in the asylum, "OT" stood for "Occupational Therapy." Again Scientology abbreviations were being abused.

Most of my days were spent in the smoke-free group therapy room, where I watched soap operas and game shows. I finally figured out who the majority of the characters were on "All My Children", which replaced "One Life To Live" as my favorite soap, although I watched them both every day, along with "Loving". By the time "General Hospital" came on, I was ready for my nap, so I never really caught on to that one.

Three times a day, the patients marched like Zombies in the "Dawn of the Living Dead" to the pill line at the nurse's station. It was a scene right out of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest", except that this was frighteningly real. I was the only one who refused to have a dose of my own medicine, as that was my legal right. Other patients resented me for that. In a blind rage, a three hundred and fifteen pound rhinoceros named Jeffrey Meffen accused me of being a spy for the Central Intelligence Agency because I never had to take any pills. He was certain that I was brought in as a Government plant to watch his every move. He became so annoying that I finally started writing down everything that he said and did, and then believing that his fears were true, he ran away from me and never came near me again.

I found a thirty-seven year-old Jewish patient named Steve Schorr to play chess with, and in fact he was an excellent chess player. Although highly educated, he went nuts after his father ran off with Steve's wife and then married her. After thirty games of chess, I finally beat him, and I discovered that he couldn't take losing. He threw a cup of lemonade in my face. For revenge, I falsely told him that I had seen his medical records and had discovered that he was adopted, after which he had a complete nervous breakdown, and was taken to the closed ward and placed in hand restraints inside the "quiet room." You would be surprised how well Ron's Tech handles suppression, even in the crazy house.

"Nobody is going to splatter a soft drink in my face and get away with it without paying the piper!", I warned Harry Sebakovitch, just so that he wouldn't start any shit with me either.

Unfortunately, nobody else knew how to play chess, so I had to play with myself. I would have been better off if I had let Steve Schorr win, just to have something to do that was a little less sticky.

Despite the roar of the maddening crowd, each and every patient was required to go to Group Therapy. My group was designated for the highest functioning patients, but you wouldn't have known it from the limited caliber of the dippy goons in there. Group One, as we were called, was run by a squatty little Latino social worker named Evelyn Figueroa. Evelyn didn't like me very much because I was always encouraging the other patients to spit out their medicine and forever telling them that the psychiatrists were trying to poison them, which of course they were. I even talked a sad old lady named Thelma Baumann out of taking electric shock therapy, which made me extremely unpopular with the hospital because I cut right into their income.

"Besides butchering people, electric shock therapy is one of the biggest mental meat market money makers in the psychiatric art of creating brain damage", I told poor Thelma with bedpan in hand.

Evelyn's main goal and purpose was to try to re-integrate her patients into "normal" middle- class American society. Her values were of the typical mainstream American-pie crud and smut that L. Ron Hubbard had always warned us about.

For example, in his Bulletin of 16 April 1982, entitled "More on Potential Trouble Source Handling", Ron stated, "Person of the middle class, which is a culture, not an income bracket, to which belong all the puritan hypocritical mores of the cop and the get-a-job, be-a-moderate-plugging- success, frown very terribly on anything that the least bit tries to make a better world. The middle class wants the world of a job and order and even hypocrisy and cops because they are afraid. They hold their narrow views because any other views may disturb their twenty-year house mortgage, the store, the job. So when someone decides to make a better world, they look on him as a direct menace even though the dull middle-class world is a sort of slavery and suicide."174 He then adds, "Many of them (the middle class) are caught up in the mystery of why they are snarled at, and have no conception of the middle class as a formidable and jealous force that goes psychotic when it feels anyone may get away from the treadmill and threaten their uneasy and doomed lives."175

"I have nothing in common with your maudlin, castor-oil wog society", I conveyed to Evelyn. "This adjust-to-your-environment crap reeks from the blood-stained hands of the psychs who pay your salary. Life without the Tech of the Admiral just isn't worth living. I am nothing without Scientology!"

Needless to say, I was the black sheep of Group Therapy.

Dr. Aksu came to visit me every day. After all, my father was paying him four hundred dollars a week, a fact which went against my grain like chocolate-covered splinters. Dr. Aksu kept inferring that the Third Dynamic betrayed me!

"You've got it all wrong, shrinky-dink!", I yelled. "I betrayed them! I should have pleaded guilty and then done the End of Cycle. We don't have that squeamish fear of death like you do. But then again, it was the psychiatrists who implanted that lethal terror within us, wasn't it? My, how soon you have forgotten!"

"Your denial of reality sounds delusional", he remarked, invalidating my knowingness like crazy.

"My mental image pictures aren't delusional, "doctor"," I snapped. "I remember all too well that glass of poisoned milk and that yank of the hangman's rope. Your opinions aren't convincing enough to take away my pain. Recalling how Dr. Geertz's savage dogs chewed my daughter's head to bits was a little too vivid for me to forget!"

But Dr. Aksu didn't give up.

"What did Rivkalleh look like when she was born?", he pried.

I couldn't remember for the life of me.

"How about your other three children? What were their names?"

"Aron, David and Barna", I cried bitterly.

"What did each of the boys look like when they were born?", he continued bluntly.

Surprisingly, my mind scored a blank.

"I need my E-Meter", I argued. "I can't think straight without it."

But neither could I remember the first time I had met my wife Natalya in that lifetime, or what my parents' faces were like, or even what their names were! My memory was selective, and that truly scared me. I could get a mental image picture of my lumber mill in Cadavice, Poland, and of my 1939 burgundy- colored Mercedes Benz. But I recalled those items from my auditing sessions, so they were easy. Still, why couldn't I remember the names of my own parents? In my mind, they were just the anonymous "Mr. and Mrs. Kusvitz", and they should have meant a lot more to me than that!

"How could that be?", I shuddered. "How could I have forgotten my own mother and father so easily?"

Dr. Aksu smiled as if a light bulb had turned on in his head.

"They suggested those things to you which they wanted you to remember", he gloated, pointing his finger at the hermetically sealed asylum window.

"They who?", I inquired, utterly baffled by his non-sequitur statement.

"Your auditors, of course!", he laughed. "They're the ones who installed those negative suggestions!"

"You are a liar!", I yelled. "That is a direct violation of the Auditor's Code! Point One is "I promise not to evaluate for the preclear or tell him what he should think about his case in session!"176 My auditors used Standard Tech! They would never create false pictures and deliberately tell me that they were real! That is tantamount to committing the High Crime of hypnosis!"

"Yes, that is what I think actually happened", he maintained.

"You are crazy!", I scowled. "All you psychs are crazy!"

"Well, we shall see", he smiled. "Think about it", he commanded as he walked out of our session without even saying good-bye.

At four o'clock on the 17th of February, 1989, the troops arrived.

Marc Nurik showed up with the reluctant Richard Ofshe, followed by the damnable Dr. Geertz. Of the three musketeers, Richard was the most angry. He had come all the way from California just to hiss at me.

"Are you still a double agent?", he asked me as if I were under fire.

"Why?", I answered. "I was never on your side."

"That's a typical thoughtless response from a sick G. O. Agent", he muttered.

"What are you so angry about?", I challenged pejoratively.

"Why am I angry?", he growled. "You wasted six months of my valuable time; you made a fool out of Margaret, Mark, and Uwe; you flushed your own legal fees down the toilet, and you have nerve enough to ask why I am angry? Where the hell is your conscience?"

"I could not help myself", I uttered in my own defense. "I was in Treason with the Org, and I had to do whatever I could to creep out of it."

Richard turned a rancid shade of phlegm green.

"As far as I am concerned, you are in Treason with me!", he rebuked.

How do you explain to an enemy of the Church why it was worthwhile and necessary to destroy him? "He might not understand, being such a sick son-of-a-bitch and all", I thought. True enough, I wanted Richard Ofshe to drop dead for the sake of Scientology, but it was nothing personal. I liked the guy, and I never intended to hurt his feelings, not that a social psychologist has any to begin with.

"You have to understand that Frank Thompson promised me unconditionally that this criminal case would never come to trial!", I argued. "Not only that, Jan Logan offered me a respectable job in Archives at Johannesburg, and she even assured me that I would be "properly married within a month's time", since there were a lot of girls in South Africa that were just dying to meet me."

"And you really believed that?", Marc scoffed.

"Of course", I cried. "She is my Other Mother! A relationship like that is sacred in Ron's eyes!"

But Richard Ofshe was not moved by my show of filial loyalty toward the Senior Sea Org Recruiter. If looks could kill, I would have already had a beige identification tag on my toe, and I would have been resting comfortably on a nice cold slab in the city morgue, forever exteriorizing madly in front of the coroner.

Not wanting to be the forlorn object of a squirrel's scorn, I asked Richard how I could climb into a higher Ethics Condition with him. That turned out to be his cue to lace his wrath into me real good!

"You are going to face trial, no matter what Frank Thompson promised!", he insisted. "Frank Thompson is a sadistic bastard and he lied to you! I think you'd better start accepting that. Another thing -- there is a good possibility that you will be found guilty and you will be sent away to a Federal prison for a very long time. That means you are never going back to Flag. You are absolutely never going on the Freewinds. And you are positively not going to be working in Archives at Johannesburg. You have screwed up your own defense royally, and if you are convicted, you will have nobody to blame but yourself!"

For the first time in my life, the realization sunk in that Richard Ofshe might be telling the truth. A paralysis of fear swept over me. Marc was virtually astounded that the implications of Richard's warnings had never occurred to me before.

Still, I was adamant.

"When Frank said that I wouldn't have to go to trial, he meant it!", I objected. "You are all wasting your time here, because no matter what you say, Ivy Kimmich is going to postulate my death with a massive heart attack. She is a New OT Eight Completion, and if you don't watch out and start making amends yourselves, she is going to kill you all too!"

Hearing that bit of bad news, Uwe did a little hypnosis in order to alleviate the threat of my impending arterial thrombosis at the hands of "Poison Ivy" and her heart-rendering, pistol-popping postulates.

The session turned out to be a "catharsis", which according to Webster's New World Dictionary of American English, means "The alleviation of fear, problems and complexes by bringing them to consciousness or giving them expression."177

With no disrespect intended to Mr. Webster, his definition sounded like a shitload of psychiatric crap.

So what was this big-deal catharsis all about?

Well, I discovered that some false data had been given to me by my auditors while I was in the unconscious state of "boil-off", as well as the semi-conscious state of reverie.

To prove this, Dr. Geertz took me back along the time track to the exact auditing session where Nancy Witkowski had suggested that Dr. Geertz was the Nazi Secret Service Medical Officer who killed my precious daughter Rivkalleh.

"This can't be true!", I trembled to myself. "Dr. Geertz is just trying to confuse the issue in order to save his own ass!"

But there was no ass to save.

Uwe Geertz simply didn't do it.

Slowly, like the unwrapping of a delicate bandage, I peeled off the implanted layers of mental image pictures and visual commands which Nancy Witkowski had used to place Uwe Geertz at the scene of the crime.

The truth be told, Uwe Geertz was nothing more than a junior officer in the German Navy, and was only eighteen years old when the Second World War ended. He wasn't the villain who gassed all those mental patients either, or who conducted medical experiments on concentration camp victims without anesthesia. Nancy Witkowski just enjoyed making him the fall guy for the entire German people. Although her intentions were noble and good, the data was groundless.

My other auditor, Leah Abady, had reinforced Nancy's suggestion by permitting me to "recall" the gruesome blood dripping from the saliva of those two infamous German Shepherds, Rhinebourgen and Besieschtigen, who were about as fierce and ruthless as Nazi dogs go.

In another auditing session, Leah directed me to "see" Dr. Geertz's military uniform. I remembered Uwe's shiny patent leather boots with the silver "SS" insignias pasted to the back of his heels like Gestapo cowboy spurs.

Suddenly, Dr. Geertz burst out laughing.

"Leah didn't bother to research her history books too well!", he exclaimed. "Only sissies, pansies and fairies wore patent leather boots! The SS had only the finest cowhide, but never patent leather!"

There was no getting away from it. My auditors wanted to instill a touch of hate for Dr. Geertz within me because, like any other capitalistic endeavor, he represented the "competition" in the field of mental healing. He also stood as a formidable barrier to my income production, and for that reason alone he had to be stopped.

But an even greater piece of the puzzle was still missing.

How did my auditors ever get me to forget that they implanted all of those negative suggestions in the first place?

Now that was the horror to end all horrors.

It was an ominous technique known as the installation of Occlusions.

Ron defines an Occlusion as "Something hidden; an occlusion of memory is something forgotten, and not available to conscious recall. Occlusion is simply using remote viewpoints and then having the remote viewpoints go blank."178 Furthermore, an "Occlusion Type of Circuit" is defined by the Admiral as "The circuit which drops curtains across certain pieces of information or may mask the "I" or thetan from contact with the standard bank (the analytical mind) or the reactive bank (reactive mind). This circuit might be worded, "For your own good I have to protect you from yourself."179

I soon discovered through Dr. Geertz's hypnotic catharsis that my auditors used to play a game with me. It was called "Let's Make a Deal", like the old television game show which starred Monty Hall. The game was played by reaching and withdrawing from a mustard-colored curtain, behind which there was a memory of pain and unconsciousness.

I couldn't remember the implanted suggestions hidden behind the ugly curtains, such as when my auditors created Dr. Geertz as the Nazi monster who killed my beautiful two year-old daughter, because the occlusions were reinforced with a variety of effective routines involving the appropriate techniques of sadism and torture.

For example, an eye-dropper containing Hydrogen Sulfide was squirted up my nose to simulate the smell of rotten eggs, and every time that my analytical mind or standard memory bank would try to remember an installed suggestion such as Dr. Geertz being a Nazi Medical Officer, then the reactive mind or reactive memory bank would resurrect the smell of the rotten eggs, and I would actively suppress both the aroma and the truth!

Not only rotten eggs were used, of course. Fred Hare was a lot more creative than that. He once had Nancy order me to stick my pinky in his mascot Jasper's dogshit, and to shove it up my nose in order to reinforce the occlusion. Leah was a bit more Freudian in her preferences. Let me assure you that there is nothing more painfully workable than a tight clothespin attached to an un-erect penis to get you to forget something.

For my own good, my auditors had to protect me from myself.

Monty Hall never had booby prizes like that behind his curtains.

Of course, that was his loss.

In all fairness, not all of the occlusions were physical.

Nancy and Leah were excellent at creating mental occlusions, limited only by their creativity and experience. In further therapy sessions, I discovered a pungent occlusion where I was directed to mock-up a mental image picture of sticking my nose into my mother's vagina, and I recalled breathing in the foulest smells of vomit and revulsion. Needless to say, that was no reflection on my mother's personal hygiene. As far as I could remember, she always smelled very clean and fresh. Perhaps my auditors were thinking of Jan Logan, my Other Mother, when they came up with the idea.

There were additional sequences of having my penis chopped up by a meat cutter in a Jewish delicatessen, as well as that famous mock-up of being given a hydrosulfuric acid colonic by Dr. Ofshe. The rape of my two daughters by Marc Nurik was, of course, old news.

The reactive mind, I learned, could be added to or subtracted from, merely by the installation or the erasure of either existing or created mental image pictures. But it was not all crime and punishment. On the contrary, when my stats were up, I was rewarded with a plethora of positive pleasure moments which demonstrated what life would be like when I climbed up to the top of the Bridge. Now of all the installed suggestions, I liked those happy ones the most.

I finally knew the real reason for all my seizures, my nightmares, and my endless Free Wheeling, and for that I was forever thankful. At least it was reassuring to learn that it was not my fault for feeling weird. Being rotten and evil was enough of an albatross for me to carry around anyway.

There was some very good news too.

The suggestion that the world was going to end on September the 9th of 1997 was also an installed occlusion. As a sad joke, the time when the destruction of the planet was scheduled to occur on that day was 2:42 P.M. According to my birth certificate, which had been a part of my Preclear File at the Org, that was the time of day when I was born.

But my troubles were not completely over.

The matter of Ivy Kimmich postulating my death via a massive heart attack was still an unresolved issue.

Dr. Aksu made a comment about it which made quite a lot of sense, even for a psychiatrist.

"If Ivy wanted to kill you by merely thinking about it, you would be dead already!", he grinned with glee. "Maybe she doesn't have that kind of power after all!"

He had a point. I was still alive.

"Furthermore, if Ivy Kimmich can give you a heart attack by just folding her arms and blinking a few times like Barbara Eden used to do on "I Dream of Jeannie", then how come Larry Wollersheim is still alive? Why didn't Ivy or one of those other "super-thetans" from the Freewinds simply kill him? How come they told you that you were the one who was supposed to destroy him? Maybe they wanted you to go to jail for murder in addition to securities fraud!"

"That is a difficult question!", I remarked. "I don't know what the answer is. Perhaps I was expected to take some responsibility for the damage that I caused by bringing him into the world. Then again, maybe we are both being kept alive to suffer!"

"Really? And expose the Church of Scientology to further lawsuits? I don't think so, Steven!", he stated persuasively. "No, it's definitely to their advantage if you were both dead. I just don't believe that they have the power to kill you -- in fact, if they did, they would never have ordered you to kill yourself!"

Philosophical arguments aside, I was still living in mortal terror of the Irrevocable Ethics Order. That was what faced me after death, and nothing that I could say or do would take that dreaded prophecy away.

"It doesn't matter what happens to me during this fleeting flash of insignificance known as the life of Steven Fishman", I admitted to Dr. Aksu, although I think it was actually Harry Sebakovitch who was doing most of the talking. "After this body dies, my beingness will be terminated. I'll be rendered inert and forced to spend the rest of eternity within a forgotten rock, far out in space!"

"Yes, that is "far out" all right", Dr. Aksu interrupted. "But it is also entirely illogical."

"Why?", I inquired, not relishing the prospect of a new onslaught of further invalidation.

"Because if you didn't think that the Scientologists were capable of guaranteeing you safe passage through the Between Lives Area due to the arbitrary time shifts between the dropping of your current body and the picking up of your next one, then how can you be so sure that they will have the power to put you inside some rock until the end of time? If they are powerless to do Item A, then ergo and for the very same reason they are precluded from carrying out Item B!"

"I'll have to ask Ron about that", I replied, although I must admit that he gave me food for thought, despite the fact that it tasted pretty terrible.

Interestingly enough, when my father brought all of my mail from my apartment to the Hollywood Pavilion, I found an answer to another mystery.

There, within Flag's Source Magazine was a gripping picture of my former dead body's ex-wife, Gabrielle Kusvitz Johannes! Who could ever forget a face like that -- a face that launched a thousand trips to my own personal hell of poisoned milk? However, I was stunned to discover that the old lady's name was really Julia Dimmock, and she was the Director of Certificates and Awards at Flag! The whole thing in Tahiti had been a set-up! Having believed with all of my thetan guts that I was living proof of a miracle, there was nothing that I wouldn't have done for Scientology!

So where does all this lead to?

Just don't jump to any wrong conclusions!

If you're thinking that these startling revelations of abuse, deception and torture turned me against my auditors, L. Ron Hubbard, or Scientology, then you are a bigger fool than I ever gave you credit for!

If you were looking for a nice, pat, happy ending where I became a flaming anti-Scientologist, then you have read the wrong damn book!

So what if Dr. Geertz didn't kill my daughter Rivkalleh. So what if Rivkalleh didn't even exist! Other children got slaughtered in the German concentration camps at the hands of Nazi psychiatry.

Okay, so I treated Dr. Geertz badly. I behaved like a raving zealot toward him and for that I am truly sorry. But somewhere in the world, there are Gestapo Medical Officers that are walking around unpunished, and when it comes to suppressives, it is always better to be on the safe side of life.

All right, so Gabrielle Kusvitz Johannes was just a fraud. Perhaps she never existed in the first place. After all, the sight of milk still makes me sick, and the effects of the poisoning should have worn off by now. So what?

True, I messed up Lavenda's life. But she tried to sue the Church. Did you expect me to feel sorry for her?

Oh, yes -- I'm glad that the world isn't going to end in 1997. But every Scientologist should push forward with the ferocity and the urgency as if we only have seven years left to go, because, who knows? We might actually have a lot less than that. I certainly wouldn't trust a wog to run a government, would you?

True, the occlusions were painful. The torture was hard to confront. But damn it -- I deserved every bit of that and a hell of a lot more! Frank Thompson could have shit on my face and he would have been far too merciful in light of what was really warranted.

I am one of the most degraded beings that has ever walked the face of the earth. I came to realize that Jesus was just a chip off the old block. There were moments in the hospital when I even had my doubts about being his father, fearing that those mental image pictures were part of occlusions as well. But I remember those events far too vividly for that. The best erection that I ever had was when I hammered those two rusty nails into my bastard's foot during his Crucifixion. You don't get shit like that from hypnosis!

Even Dr. Aksu said, "If you weren't his father, then someone else had to be, but it certainly wasn't God." That's the advantage of having a crazy psychiatrist who was raised as a Moslem.

Anyway, we all know who God is, and there is no way that Christ's birth is going to be blamed on my darling Ron!

Believe me, if these facts weren't true, I'd be the first one to give up all my horrible responsibilities. Fathering Jesus was an event in my shadowy past that I am most ashamed of, and one that I would much rather forget. Bringing the evil embodiment of death and fear into the world of the insane is sure nothing to brag about.

Some of my fellow patients didn't see it that way. Upon leaving the Hollywood Pavilion, that three hundred and fifteen pound elephant Jeffrey Meffen said, "You're not the Antichrist -- L. Ron Hubbard is!"

Then again, Dr. Aksu was also treating a guy named Tony who thought he was John the Baptist.

So, am I sorry for what I have done? Do I have any regrets?

Not as far as any of the criminal charges are concerned. I wore my hat effectively, I functioned well on post, and I carried the torch for Scientology with its eternal flame pointing toward Total Freedom. If what I did brought us a little closer to a world of sanity and Ethics, then it was all worth it.

Would I do it all again if I had the chance?

No, not at all.

I always wanted to work in Archives, putting Ron's data in order, and somehow, if I could turn back time, that's exactly what I would have done.

Fortunately, now that we have a slew of New OT Eight Completions on the planet, it is no longer necessary to create income through the securities class action claims anymore. Scientologists win 17% of state lotteries all over the country, even though we comprise less than 1% of the population. Our technology has provided the most effective way to create income as a Valuable Final Product. Of course, it is real easy to be successful at Lotto when you can postulate the winning numbers. Our New OT Eights are like little elves, busy at work creating upstats. Check the statistics -- you will see that I am right. In any case, my old job became obsolete. I am just one of the forgotten casualties of the wog war. Of course, if anyone deserved to suffer, it was me, and for that I am eternally grateful. There is no better way to get your Ethics in than to confront a little pain.

For what it's worth, I offered to plead guilty to all of the wog criminal charges, if the United States Government would allow me to serve my sentence at Happy Valley, or any of the numerous Rehabilitation Project Force Orgs of the Church of Scientology. It was my last-ditch effort to make amends for not following Paul Laquerre's orders, but the wog Government of psychiatric suppression flatly turned me down.

I hate to make Frank Thompson wrong, but it looks like I really will have to go to trial in San Francisco. Then again, maybe we will have another earthquake. In any case, L. Ron Hubbard will select my fate. The jury of puppets and robots will convey whatever the Admiral decides is in the best interests of Scientology, so I leave myself entirely in Ron's hands.

Then again, perhaps Ivy Kimmich will stop farting around and give me that long-awaited heart attack which I was faithfully promised, so that Ron wouldn't have to be bothered wasting his time with scum like me. Of course, a lot of exciting things can happen when you are Malchoot the Antichrist, so I've learned not to predict the future or anticipate the outcome.

So, between now and the next seventy-six trillion years, if you should happen to cruise by my rock on your travels through space, don't hesitate to drop by so we can have ourselves a nice little chat. You can even cast the first stone.

But for now, don't miss your chance to fly up the Bridge and go free. Scientology is your only road out. Take full advantage of the opportunity. Don't blow it like I did. Kiss your Ethics Officer on all four cheeks if you have to, but whatever you do, stay in the game.

The sun never sets on Scientology, so don't get caught in the dark without an E-Meter. Clearing the planet and fighting psychiatry is the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics. If you won't do it for the Admiral, then do it for me!

The life of a lonesome squirrel is no picnic, because after every one of the nuts are gone, all you have left is yourself.

Then again, "You can always write to Ron."180

There's just one catch.

Where he is, they never pick up the mail.

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