LIBRARIAN
WE LOVE THE ARSCC LIBRARIAN!
17 January 1999:
THE LIBRARIAN AND THE LIVING DEAD
If we had to pick a favorite post from The Librarian—and we'd never want to—this would be high on the list. Not only is it packed with important esoteric facts about the copyrights and CST, it is filled with all our favorite and familiar icons from the ARSCC Chimerical Library. It contains delicious satire aimed at the anonymous idiots (who The Librarian believed firmly were agents of CST) who tried so often and failed so miserably to attach "identities" to The Librarian. Then it goes even further and lets us know that our old, creaky, friendly, familiar library can be a portal into other worlds, other realities, other perceptions, to concepts and understandings that the HARD FACTS can only point us toward. And finally we see, beneath the lace and paisley and perfume, a side of The Librarian we'd never seen—despite her fear she is tough, defiant, and resolute. LIBRARIAN TRIVIA: This is the one and only post by The Librarian for all of 1999. After this she disappears without warning for over a year. When she finally does return, in February of 2000, she comes back with a vengeance, posting a massive eight-part timeline that fully exposes the government involvement with Scientology, beginning with the CIA's Scientology-based "remote viewing" program in 1972. But for now, please enjoy one of our favorites, "THE LIBRAIAN AND THE LIVING DEAD."
From: Anonymous-Remailer@See.Comment.Header (The Librarian) Subject: THE LIBRARIAN AND THE LIVING DEAD Date: 1999/01/17 Message-ID: <199901162216.WAA25915@berlin.neuropa.net> Newsgroups: alt.religion.scientology Hi, kids! Since remailers come and go (*just* like men), and can be, like, *so* flaky sometime (*just* like men), I am going to send this AB-so-lute *HORROR* story through several different ones, because I *don't* want you to miss it. So if it shows up more than once on ARS, please, please forgive me. Okay? And note: it IS pgp signed: -----BEGIN PGP SIGNED MESSAGE----- Well, here I was, little old me, sitting all alone in the darkened, cold ARSCC Chimerical Library. (*When* is the ARSCC Janitor Pro Tem going to do something about these darn hissing, clanking *radiators*!). Just one lone desk lamp was on, casting a sickly yellow light on the dusty tomes, the crumbling old leather, the cracked and worn gold-leaf titles of the Antiquarian Section, where I had been working late, looking up witchcraft and black magick. (Not for *me*, silly. Give me a pair of black gartered stockings, a silky Wonder bra, and a spritz of Chanel, and I don't *need* no steeenking *witchcraft*! I mean, jimminy, a girl *does* learn how to cross her legs and pout sooner or later.) So, an-n-n-nywayz, I was flipping through some Aliester Crowley, and doodling little pentagrams, and ram's heads, and--you know, stuff like that. I am just *eaten up* by Parsons and the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, and the Naval intelligence connections, and-- Well, that's going to have to wait for another day. But I ran into this one little odd bit, and I wanted to check the 'net. So I clicked on the terminal next to me and logged in. The bluish glow from the screen combined with the sickly yellow of the desk lamp, changing the light in the tomb-quiet Library into a cold eerie green. The radiator creaked and groaned, then hissssssed a rattling sigh. I was about to do a web search, but I thought, what the heck--I ought to peek in on ARS, just to see if I've missed anything besides spam and forgeries and Enzo's paltry little posts. I was scrolling through the Subject headers when suddenly I stopped. I stared at the header. The screen and its writing was reflected and distorted--upside down and curved, like electronic Sanskrit--in the lenses of my glasses, which lay on the polished mahogony table. I picked them up and slipped them on, then leaned forward, my TWO breasts pressing against my TWO arms, which were folded on the edge of the table before me. I read it again: "There are TWO (2)--count 'em, two--CSTs" A little tingling chill began slowly at the bottom of my spine, then accelerated up it, tickling and shuddering the back of my neck. *TWO* entities called the "Church of Spiritual Technology"? What--like *ONE* isn't *enough* to deal with! I read the thread, then leaned back in my chair with a sigh, pulling off my glasses and rubbing the bridge of my nose wearily. Oh--my--GOD! There really *are* TWO CSTs: one a corporation, the other a "church." But the corporation is called "Church of Spiritual Technology," and the "church" is ALSO called the "Church of Spiritual Technology"! I felt spinny and light-headed. Jeez, I thought; so our dearly beloved IRS (a cat yowled, screeched, and spit somewhere out in the alley, in the darkness, in the night), and our government, and the courts are perfectly happy to allow a CORPORATION to have a name that includes the word "Church," even when it *isn't* a church. Because if it *were* a church, it wouldn't need to operate "THROUGH AND BY MEANS OF...A CHURCH," as it says in the Bylaws of the CORPORATION called CST. My flesh crawled again. Goosebumps broke out all over. I suddenly thought of the copyrights, and of-- My God! The Library of Congress LOCIS records! My red nails clickety-clacked in a fury on the keyboard, echoing throughout the Library. The echoes found the corners of the old building as I typed, and took on a life of their own, like the sound of furtive things scurrying, hurrying on hardwood floors, running to find a place to hide, running to do dirty, hidden, lawyer-like things in dank and dark places. It made me think of mangy rats, and another little chill danced up my spine. I Telnetted to the Library of Congress--to LOCIS--and logged in. But what to look for? I had searched this thing top to bottom before for transfers and copyright records in the name "Church of Spiritual Technology". That had PROVED that CST owned ALL the copyrights. At least, I *thought* I had gotten everything. But what if the rats--I mean, the lawyers--were listing something differently somehow? Could it be? And if so, HOW could I find it? My crossed right leg swung back and forth in agitation, my shoe hanging loosely off my toes, as my mind raced and my fingers waved uncertainly, nervously over the keyboard. A gust of wind rose up suddenly against the old shutters and windows, whistling mournfully through the cracks and crevices. Something creaked, like a weight, up on the mezzanine. I jerked my head around to look. But only silent, dark books stared back, lurking in black shadows cast by the steady greenish light. "Stop it!" I said aloud. "You're being silly. Nobody's here at *this* time of night! *Think*, girl--think!" And so I thought. And suddenly I had it! Starkey! HE had collected up all of L. Ron Hubbard's copyrights, and transferred them in one big lump transfer to CST--over 7,000 titles--*right* after the IRS gave the nod. But *WHICH* CST did he transfer them to? Would I be able to tell? I knew I had THAT transfer record somewhere. I could start there. So I pulled it up. And here is what I saw: V2927 P238 THRU 260 (COHD) RECORDED: 13Dec93 EXECUTED: 29Nov93 PARTY 1: Norman F. Starkey, trustee, Author's Family Trust-B. PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles) NOTE: Model of OT ship organization and operation based on 7 division system & 7,730 other titles. Transfer of copyright. FULL DOCUMENT RANGE: (In V2927 P238-724) I stared at "PARTY 2." The receiving party. Oh--my--GOD! It didn't just say "Church of Spiritual Technology"! It said "Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)"! What the heck was that "(Los Angeles)" doing in there?! And *WHY* hadn't I noticed it before? When I had searched before, I had searched just for "Church of Spiritual Technology." In fact, I had only found this particular record originally by searching on Norman "Duh" Starkey's name. I heard a rasping, scratching sound behind me, and I whirled my chair around on its swivel, my heart pounding in my throat. My legs splayed out, feet planted to attack or flee, and I half rose from the chair! But it was only the black, bony branches of a winter-bare oak, pawing at the window, as pale flakes of snow drifted and wandered like lost souls into the greenish light and then, as though disappointed, disappeared again into the swallowing blackness. My breasts heaved as I made myself take several long, deep calming breaths. I swiveled my chair back and stared into the monitor. The Library of Congress's LOCIS menu stared back at me, its black cursor pulsing. My hands raised over the keyboard. I typed: "Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)" I took in a breath and held it and hit <Enter>. And listings began to flow down the screen: V2927 P225 THRU 227 (COHD) RECORDED: 13Dec93 EXECUTED: 3Oct93 PARTY 1: Founding Church of Scientology of Washington, DC. PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles) NOTE: HCO bulletin of November 26, 1959, the interpretation of the American personality/Oxford capacity analyses & 5 other titles. Transfer of copyright. V2927 P235 THRU 237 (COHD) RECORDED: 13Dec93 EXECUTED: 11Nov93 PARTY 1: Hubbard Association of Scientologists. PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles) NOTE: Jounal of Scientology & 7 other titles. Transfer of copyright. V2927 P228 THRU 230 (COHD) RECORDED: 13Dec93 EXECUTED: 11Nov93 PARTY 1: Hubbard Dianetics Foundation. PARTY 2: Church of Spirtual [sic] Technology (Los Angeles) NOTE: Transfer of copyright. V2927 P231 THRU 234 (COHD) RECORDED: 13Dec93 EXECUTED: 11Nov93 PARTY 1: Hubbard Dianetics Research Foundation. PARTY 2: Church of Spirtual [sic] Technology (Los Angeles) NOTE: Dianetics auditors bulletins & 21 other titles. Transfer of copyright. V2927 P238 THRU 260 (COHD) RECORDED: 13Dec93 EXECUTED: 29Nov93 PARTY 1: Norman F. Starkey, trustee, Author's Family Trust-B. PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles) NOTE: Model of OT ship organization and operation based on 7 division system & 7,730 other titles. Transfer of copyright. FULL DOCUMENT RANGE: (In V2927 P238-724) V2927 P210 THRU 217 (COHD) RECORDED: 13Dec93 EXECUTED: 2Dec93 PARTY 1: Hubbard Association of Scientologists International, Inc. PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles) NOTE: HCO information letter of July 25, 1961, processing infants and 200 other titles. Transfer of copyright. FULL DOCUMENT RANGE: (In V2927 P210-224) V3058 P155 THRU 164 (COHD) RECORDED: 29Nov94 EXECUTED: 18Nov94 PARTY 1: Mary Sue Hubbard, widow, Diana Meredith Dewolf Hubbard Ryan, Mary Suzette Rochelle Hubbard, Arthur Ronald Conway Hubbard, Lafayette Ronald Conway Hubbard , Jr. a.k.a. L. Ron Hubbard , Jr. a.k.a. Nibs Hubbard a.k.a. Ronald Dewolf & Katherine May Hubbard Gillespie, children of deceased author, L. Ron Hubbard, by Church of Spiritual Technology (Atty) PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles) NOTE: Ceremonies of the Founding Church of Scientology & 1,364 other titles. By L. Ron Hubbard. Copyright assignment. FULL DOCUMENT RANGE: (In V3058 P155-208) V3176 P194 THRU 210 (COHD) RECORDED: 7Nov95 EXECUTED: 22May95 PARTY 1: Mary Sue Hubbard, widow, Diana Meredith DeWolf Hubbard Ryan, Mary Suzette Rochelle Hubbard, Arthur Ronald Conway Hubbard, Lafayette Ronald Hubbard , Jr. a.k.a. L. Ron Hubbard , Jr. a.k.a. Nibs Hubbard a.k.a. Ronald DeWolf & K atherine May Hubbard Gillespie, children of deceased author, L. Ron Hubbard, by Church of Spiritual Technology (Atty) PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles) NOTE: The book introducing the E-meter & 159 other titles. I sat in shock, and a chill made my whole upper body quiver. I hadn't seen *these* before. These were the REAL THING! These were ALL the ACTUAL, ORIGINAL WORKS of L. Ron Hubbard. These were the copyrights to all of the SOURCE materials. ALL of them. I sent the document to the printer. The wind howled with a new fury against the windows, and they wailed with a death-rattle. But what about all those OTHER copyright transfers I had researched and posted before, the ones that went to something called just "Church of Spiritual Technology"--with*OUT* the "(Los Angeles)" extension? What were all THOSE? I pulled them up again from my files and rapidly scrolled down them. God, it can't be! But it IS! One after another they marched relentlessly up the screen, like hideous little tattletale demons, giving up their sniggering dirty little secrets one-by-one. They displayed their "by-lines," mockingly revealing their ancestry and lineage. THEY WEREN'T BY L. RON HUBBARD! NONE OF THEM! Just one example tells the story: V3229 P151 THRU 163 (COHD) RECORDED: 19Apr96 EXECUTED: 27Feb96 PARTY 1: Church of Scientology International. PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology. NOTE: Scientology drug rundown auditor course & 1,030 other titles; religious works. Author or co-author: Church of Scientology Internatioal [sic], derived from or based upon the literary works of L. Ron Hubbard a.k.a. Lafayette Ronald Hubbard. Copyright assignment. FULL DOCUMENT RANGE: (In V3229 P151-220) Over 1,000 titles, in that transfer alone, and NONE OF THEM actually *BY* L. Ron Hubbard! ALL of them authored or co-authored by "Church of Scientology International, derived from or based upon..." OVER ONE THOUSAND! But that was just ONE of the listings of copyright transfers to this "thing" called "Church of Spiritual Technology." On and on the listings marched, each in turn taunting me with the truth of their authorship in their "NOTE" field: "The Academy lectures, level 0 & 154 other titles; religious & fiction works. Author or co-author: Bridge Publications, Inc., derived from or based upon the literary works of L. Ron Hubbard a.k.a. Lafayette Ronald Hubbard." "Adventure short stories, volume 5 & 42 other titles; religious & fiction works. Author or co-author: Author Services, Inc. derived from or based upon literary works of L. Ron Hubbard a.k.a. Lafayette Ronald Hubbard. Copyright assignment." "...By Church of Scientology International. Assignment." "...By Author Services, Inc. Assignment." I slapped the power button on the terminal and shoved myself hard away, recoiling, feeling somehow tainted, as though I had touched a rotted corpse. The screen blacked out with a crisp SNAP! and a static electric hissss, like something alive retreating suddenly back into a lair. I was left sitting huddled in silence and relative darkness, with the dim yellow light from the lamp looking somehow even more sickly, sallow, jaundiced. My breathing, I realized, came short, sharp, and audible. It was incredible! There really ARE two CSTs! And it seems that one of them is identified with the Library of Congress as "Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)," and the other just as "Church of Spiritual Technology." And it looks like one of them now owns all the ORIGINAL L. Ron Hubbard works, while the other owns only works "based on or derived from" his works. My teeth began to chatter. This was weird. This was TOO weird. And suddenly the silence was shattered by a cracking, soul-tearing whine and clatter! I launched from my chair and screamed--my skirt flying, my fists clenched in terror, whirling to face the banshees I knew were upon me--and knocked the lamp crashing to the floor! I screamed again, louder now! and flailed at the sudden perfect blackness that clutched and smothered me. Something caught at my blouse and I wrenched away, hearing a ripping sound, while that terrible, ungodly wailing noise kept chittering and ratcheting all around me like all the demons from Hell had been loosed at once, screaming, screaming, screaming... Then I realized: it was the ARSCC Chimerical Library's ancient 24-pin Epson printer, printing the LOCIS document I had sent to it. (God! Can't we afford a *laser* printer around here! Jeez! This kind of crap could scare a girl half out of her *wits*!) The printer came to a frantic halt. Silence again. And darkness. Perfect darkness. And then fear came sneaking back--slowly, quietly. My eyes adjusted somewhat to the little bit of light that came through the front windows from the street lamps. It made shadows of the skeletal trees on the walls, shadows that waved at me. I hurriedly felt my way over to the Reference Desk and turned on the lamp there. Whew! I had caught my blouse on a nail I had driven into a library shelf to hang my ARSCC "Pickets and Demonstrations" Calendar on. Darn! I had ripped my poor little blouse half *off*! Good thing no one was around to see what a *mess* I was! And the floor! Criminy! Pieces of the lamp where *everywhere*. Well, I wasn't about to go clean it up now. It could wait. I tore the pages off the printer and separated them at the perforations, poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat down at the Reference Desk to go over the listings again for that "Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)" *thing*, just to make sure there was nothing else I missed. I sipped my coffee as my eyes raked down the first page. And then I spewed coffee on myself. What?! Could I really be *seeing* this? I only *thought* my flesh had crawled before. The hackles that covered my body now were alive, restless, moving things. It couldn't be. It couldn't *possibly* be! But there it was--one of the listings I had seen on the screen, now on the printout in my hands: V2927 P210 THRU 217 (COHD) RECORDED: 13Dec93 EXECUTED: 2Dec93 PARTY 1: Hubbard Association of Scientologists International, Inc. PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles) NOTE: HCO information letter of July 25, 1961, processing infants and 200 other titles. Transfer of copyright. FULL DOCUMENT RANGE: (In V2927 P210-224) Something that was DEAD had transferred copyrights to the "Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)" thing. And I had proof of it! I leaned over and, with a visibly trembling hand, reached into the file drawer and removed the dog-earred manilla folder marked "HASI." My ripped blouse fell completely open as I did, and I attempted to arrange it, then figured, "Why bother?" I dropped the fat folder on the desk and opened it. Microfiche file copies. From the Arizona Corporation Commission. Everything that ever existed on the "Hubbard Association of Scientologists, International, Inc." I flipped hurriedly to the back. And there it was: the last sad and lonely paper in the file. The Death Certificate. Here is an OCR'ed version for ARS: - --------------------------------------------------------------- CERTIFICATE OF REVOCATION HUBBARD ASSOCIATION OF SCIENTOLOGISTS INTERNATIONAL INCORPO P O BOX 242 SILVER SPRING MD The Arizona Corporation Commission, pursuant to ARIZONA REVISED STATUTES SECTION 10-095, hereby revokes the filing by the above named corporation of its Articles of Incorporation for the following reason(s): FAILURE TO FILE AN ANNUAL REPORT DATED___________MAY 10___ 19__77__ [signatures] Bud Tims Ernest Garfield Jim W[illegible] ___________________________________________________________________ CHAIRMAN COMMISSIONER COMMISSIONER IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand and affixed the official seal of the Arizona Corporation Commission, at the Capitol, in the City of Phoenix, this __10TH__ day of ____MAY_______, 19___77___ [signature] Donald E. Vance ___________________________ EXECUTIVE SECRETARY Statuatory Ref. A.R.S. 10-095 ABCA Form No. 46D - 7/76 (Domestic) Revocation Section - --------------------------------------------------------------------- And so died L. Ron Hubbard's beloved HASI, Inc., on 10 May 1977, just twenty-seven years and one day, exactly, after the release of "Dianetics, the Modern Science of Mental Health." It died on the VERY SAME DAY that Gerald Wolfe, an IRS employee who had passed stolen documents to the Guardian's Office, testified before the "October 1976" Grand Jury, leading to the arrest and conviction of Mary Sue Hubbard and other leading Scientologists. It died just 10 days before Michael Meisner conveniently turned himself in to the FBI to testify against Mary Sue, et al. It died barely a month before the FBI raided GO headquarters. And such was its lonely, heretofore unpublished obituary. (Funny; L. Ron Hubbard, after vesting so much in it, never even bid it "adieu." I wonder why.) So, how could it suddenly rise up out of its grave, sixteen years later, and magically transfer its copyrights to "Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)"? How?! I heard a putrid, lung-diseased laugh at the other end of the room. I knew it was a laugh. I knew I dare not look up. But I did. The broken pieces of the lamp were suspended in the air. I stared transfixed as they all began to send out smoky tendrils of a frightening bluish light that played uncertainly over a rotted, fetid, shrouded shape. A man stepped out from behind the shape, a man in a suit, with one arm draped casually, familiarly around the pathetic ugly lump. He held a pen and a piece of paper, which he placed on the mahogany table in front of the shape. "Like this," said the man, and he smiled a reptillian smile at me, his yellow eyes smouldering with an inner light, a ribbon of too-long tongue flicking out. When I heard his voice, I knew it had been *his* laugh that I had heard. The shape never spoke. The man reached into the mouldering folds of the shrouded shaped and guided out a bony, lifeless, dessicated hand. He smilingly placed the pen in the wretched thing's skeletal fist, made it grip, made it write on the paper, then picked up the paper, folded it, and put it into his own inside-coat pocket. "Simple as that," smiled the man. "And now back to Hell along with Hubbard goes this idiotic mocked-up 'HASI' of his!" The man waved his hand, and the poor shrouded thing began to crumble and ooze and smoke. I stared at it as though hypnotized--shocked to find a sentience in the shroud, a calmness, a quietness, a recognition. And then it was gone--nothing but a settling pile of dust. I looked at the man, who was still smiling, and I realized that what I thought was a smile was a sneer. A blood-freezing idea came to me: "Sherman?" I said. "Sherman Lenske? Can that possibly be *you*?" I blinked. The man was gone. The pile of dust on the floor was just the pieces of the broken lamp. I stared down into my cup of coffee. *Jeez*! I have *GOT* to get some *de-caffe* in this place! I shoved away the cup of coffee in disgust. "I am *not* going to bolt and run out of this place, damn it!" I said aloud. I heard my voice echo back. I decided I shouldn't be talking out loud to myself anymore. Okay, so I got a little spooked. All right. It's just the ARSCC Chimerical Library. My own sweet little Venus Flytrap is right there, happy as a clam. Everything is in order. There ain't no ghosts. Been reading too much of that darn Black Magick stuff and drawing too many pentagrams. I'll go back to doodling daisies and anatomical studies, and fun things like that. "Of course," I thought to myself, "if there *aren't* any ghosts, then I'm afraid that this thing *could* start looking a lot like major, major *FRAUD* or something." That's exactly when I heard a diseased chuckle from the mezzanine. I began to shake uncontrollably then. I was racked with a fevered chill, as though my temperature had shot up to 103 degrees or dropped to 30. I stood up slowly from my chair, not daring to look up, reaching out with one shaking hand to find anything that could steady me. "You forgot our other friends from the dark and dusty past," said the phlegmy voice. "You wouldn't want to slight them, now, WOULD you, Randy McDonald?" My head jerked back at the sound of the name that strikes fear into the heart of every OSA, RTC, and CST man, woman, child and shill alive! I was so shocked that I forgot not to look up, expecting now to actually SEE Randy McDonald in the flesh, up on the mezzanine with Shermy the Worm! But, no! Shermy Wormy--if that WAS him--was *alone* on the balcony, and he had been talking to *ME*! (GOD, he must be, like, dumber than even *I* thought!) I began to inch my way around the walls toward the front door, still clutching the print-out in my sweaty palm. "Look, Ace of Clubs!" the Shermy-like thing shouted at me. He seemed to have a hint of scales all over his face now! "Look and see who ELSE has come back from the other side, and has brought us the L. Ron Hubbard copyrights THEY held! Behold! It's the 'Hubbard Dianetic Research Foundation,' dead these 40-odd years!" The cloakroom door burst open and out came five hideous, dripping, crusted--THINGS!--things that might once have been men, shuffling, snuffling, their limbs green and brown with putrefaction. One arm dropped off of one of them even as I watched. (Hey, I never meant "'Stump' the Librarian" to be taken, like, *literally*!) An involuntary keening rose in the back of my throat as I inched around the walls of bookshelves, backing, backing away from these hideous monstrosities, inching my way toward the front door. What *were* they? I gasped! Could it be the original Board of Directors? Could that be John W. Campbell, Dr. Joseph Winter, Don Rogers, Art Ceppos, and Parker C. Morgan? Could it? COULD IT?! What*EVER* they were, I knew that Wormy was right; according to the Library of Congress records, somehow, on 11 November 1993, "Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)"--working, no doubt, with their GOOD FRIENDS, the IRS (that cat caterwauled again outside, and made sounds like he had been thrown into a garbage disposal) - --somehow exhumed the Hubbard Dianetics Research Foundation, dead since 1952, and got it to TRANSFER COPYRIGHTS TO THEM! (Of course, everybody knows that the IRS takes everything away from dead people all the time, would take doubloons off of a dead-man's eyes, and can even get blood from a stone. But, THIS?!) I screamed. "Keep them away from me-he-he-he-heeee!" It was a wracking sob by the time I finished. The front door seeming miles away. But I continued to move toward it slowly, steadily--sobbing, keening, never taking my eyes off the encroaching apparitions. Wormy, upstairs, bellowed a laugh that only a tax-and-probate-lawyer could laugh. "Where do you think YOU'RE going, Marie-of-Veritas?" he said to me. "You think Veritas will save you now? Oh, but you've forgotten the 'Hubbard Dianetic Foundation!' Remember Wichita, 1951? Well, they're ba-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ck! Bwahahahaha!" The door was only a few feet away. But suddenly a Corpse-on-a-Rope[tm] dropped from the ceiling between me and the door! I ran hysterically in place because I had no motor control left to get me moving forward--but at least it kept me from peeing--and I screamed so loud that the lamp on the Reference Desk shattered! Oh, GOD! Was that Don Purcell dangling at the end of that rope? The eye sockets were empty, and squirming white worms were writhing in them. His bony arms were waving, his legs kicking, as he tried sightlessly to find me. His toothless mouth kept saying over and over, "Want some copyrights? Want some copyrights? Want some copyrights?" When the outstretched hands of one of the HDRF Five brushed my back, I suddenly found my legs and catapulted myself to the door in one leap. I grasped the knob and jerked with all my strength... It----was----STU-U-U-U-U-U-UCK! The cold, combined with the damp radiator heat, had swelled it shut! AIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-I-I-I-I-I! "You must join us, Mitchell" Wormy had been droning at me throughout. "Don't resist it. You cannot win. Succumb. Relax. Get with the program. Here, I have the complete SPD pack. See--it's not dangerous. And look at all these lovely, beautifully packaged works that are 'based on the works of L. Ron Hubbard.' Don't you see? They even have HIS name--now our registered trademark--typeset so beautifully. What else do you need? And I have filled your shelves up here with them. The more you fight it, the harder--" The door of the AV room opened, and a lizard-like apparition with an IRS badge where his genitalia ought to be slithered out toward me, gliding across the room, leaving a slime trail. (The cat out in the alley shrieked a final shriek that choked off in death.) "Shut up, Wormhole. You handle the 501(c)(3) corporation we gave you to handle, and go bury some more 'stan-turd tek.' I'll handle this one." That's all it took. I wrenched the door so hard it loosened the hinges as it gave way with a scraping, bone-jarring screech and flung open. A blast of cold air and snow blew in my face as I dashed out and *flew* down the stairs three at a time. But heels aren't designed for high-impact stair-flying. And as I hit the bottom--SNAP! FLASH! CRACK! There I was, hard up against the Physical Universe (P.U.)! No terror had ever gripped me like the terror that gripped me then, as I turned, dragging myself up from the ground, expecting to see ghouls and--even worse--IRS agents swarming down on me. And then I stopped. There were no ghouls. There were no slime-trail agents. There was nothing but friendly, funny little light snowflakes, drifting merrily through the street lamp glow, gently dusting the steps, the shrubs, the grass, the park bench. But through the sparse snowfall, through the open door of the ARSCC Chimerical Library, through--some might say--the very portals of Hell itself, up on the mezzanine, there clutching the rail of the balcony, was a small, stoop-shouldered nothing of a man in a dark suit. His face was prunish and sagged and grey. He was just a wimp in a suit. A pathetic, lonely figure, with a look that somehow managed to combine terror and anger into a pitiable countenance indeed. I almost felt sorry for him. Was that *really* Shermy Wormy? He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He closed it. Then he tried again, and failed. He seemed like a fish trying to breathe. And then he managed to speak, his voice a raspy whisper. "Just--" He said. "Will you just, at least, tell us who you really are?" I managed to get actually standing on my wobbly feet, my clothes ripped and tattered, my feelings and my behind badly bruised, my bosom all but, like, *totally* bared to the freezing cold. And I found, to my amazement, that I still clutched the print-out, that roster of deceased corporations that had risen up--the living dead--to deliver into this cretin's hands intellectual works that he had had NOTHING to do with creating, and that he cared absolutely NOTHING about--except for the revenue they could produce. And my pity evaporated like fog in a nuclear wind. "Yes, I'll tell you who I am. I'm the everloving, hot-blooded, utterly proper, studious, indomitable, unstoppable, relentless, silky soft, hard-assed, non-existent LIBRARIAN! And don't you, or any of your sycophantic minions EVER forget it. And I will dance on your grave in stilletto heels and a g-string, with one hand on a bottle of bubbly, and one hand waving free! Until then, why don't you go crawl down into your multi-million-dollar hole in the ground, fondle your stolen 'intellectual properties,' and dream about THESE!" With that, I *REALLY* showed the Wormy-thing something he'll never, ever forget! And then the balcony was empty. I turned on my heels (well, heel; singular) and limped home, crying and laughing and freezing my tight little tushy off all the way. --<The ARSCC Librarian> - ----------------------------------------------------------------- *The ARSCC, like its everloving, hot-blooded, utterly proper, studious, indomitable, unstoppable, relentless, silky soft, hard-assed, non-existent Librarian--and like the "Church" of Spiritual Technology--does not exist. Except, perhaps, on paper. -----BEGIN PGP SIGNATURE----- Version: PGPfreeware 5.0 for non-commercial use <http://www.pgp.com> Charset: noconv iQCVAwUBNqCK+u1gRWXeKTRVAQHUTgP/eqpv4oUg4P7a97O4N2L8dAAxb7pLvQ1l BHztE7PDmYhh2BbwVe/YFJDHb8egkW53GGifckx9kghlzIIOl4euhztP5ftrbt3l AS6I6lIOxn/DOBrHtAxSv7Tc/naVFqRRbEKW2sTnUo35/I+0u4wZeQVeDSqD3Uu/ uouU/Iy/jjs=3D =3Doqpg -----END PGP SIGNATURE----- |