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L. Ron Hubbard and the Ghost of Truth
Hubbard peered sickly at his hands. They swum in front of his woozy vision.
The frog-faced fake-flâneur scrabbled sufficient sense to cross-examine the rebellious page in front.
Page? Would mere paper disobey him, the world's most prolific author
and head of church (for tax reasons)? Or was it the typewriter?
He fell like a slavering animal onto the machine, one of his signature
devices installed in every Org worldwide, customised for ease of speed-typing. He turned it upside-down to
confirm the maker's mark and the state of the fixing screws. Squinting,
he creaked the carriage return, fingered the platen, checked the action
of each key in turn and the letter on each typebar. He released the
spools and held the ribbon up to the dim interior light, coating his hands in thick
guilty ink. Absent-mindedly he scratched his shiny head in bafflement, before
realising his sticky mistake, with an expletive and a release of anal
What the hell was going on? Normally this stuff just wrote itself without a second glance.
Hubbard attempted to re-read the day's output. On each page, beneath
the pre-typed header "Scientology OT Level X: CLASSIFIED", he had been
typing - not the usual mishmash of psychotherapy 101 with a sheen of space opera - but financially suicidal statements such as...
"...This organisation is
built on a leaning tower of lies. It is arrant rubbish. If you read this, do not
pass go. Do not hand over 200 dollars. Especially if you have less than
"...Every cent of Scientology's profits has been swindled out of the mentally unsound and easy victims..."
Hubbard frowned further, clumsily dialled reception and slurred out an
order for all his typewriters at all the Scientology Orgs to be brought
in for maintenance.
As he replaced the handset, he saw the empty clear glass bottle. Amytal sodium.
Goddamn truth drug!
Then he saw a cowled figure rise from the shadows. Must have been 8 foot or more.
"Thank you Mr Hubbard for your confession. It's sure to be your bestselling work of all time!"
Candlelight glinted in alien eyes. Hubbard realised the horrendous identity of the
powerful intruder. It was as it had been in his original near-death vision in the 1930s.
"L- L- Lord Xenu", he stammered, shivering and
"Silence, mortal. You have been profiting off
my legend for too long. It's time I dictated this last section. Assume
the typing position! Now, begin: This is the Last Will And Testament of
L. Ron Hubbard. Being of sound mind, I henceforth order the dissolution
of the Church of
Scientology, its assets to be shared amongst the poor thetans of the seven galaxies..."