Travels In Scientology - Part Two - Page 3

The Duke mumbles something, words dissolving on the journey to my ears. I fear at any moment I will turn to him to be met with a face howling in venomous rapture, an accusatory finger aimed right at me, ala Donald Sutherland in the ‘78 Invasion of the Body Snatchers. To what intense glow of subliminal imagery have we thus far been subjected? Is that my spinal cord fraying at the edges, or just wind?

The introductory puzzlement progresses to something more compatible with words, a linear series of events, such as would follow Dolph Lundgren on a trip to Menarys.

The protagonist, jumping over clutches and avoiding slams, playing football, hurtling to and fro to wrench a ball from its spinning serenity, but then: a horribly debilitating accident. Upon taking possession of the ball, he is driven down to the ground, pummeled by fellow players, helmets cracking femurs and fibulas, a kneecapping homage to C Company, the glint of Johnny Adair shining through every spasm.

Hospital awaits. Broken legs, that’s the diagnosis. Terror and bewilderment, depression and self-loathing, all fissures pockmarking his existence. Feverish flashes of our hero’s beau come to console, only to be banished by dejection. Medical staff torture him, surgery teased in haunting melodies, unsettling ambiance fed through a reverse-catheter.
A sinister psychoanalyst arrives, news of “you’ll never walk again” still ringing in his ears. The beardy visitor, tall and ominous, recommends many years of psychoanalysis – the only course of action available in such an instance of trauma.

“But, doctor,” cries the fellow, “how will that cure my legs, my goddamn legs!”

“Cure?” bellows the shrink, with a smirk to his colleagues, “How naïve! Ha! There is no cure, don’t be so foolish.”

The psychoanalyst and his entourage proceed to taunt the patient’s naivety.

It’s not until he’s at his lowest – a nadir spotlighting suicide, heroin, and other escapes – that mercy sees fit to concede him a redemption. Waking up one morning, expecting to be met with maniacal surgeons, he finds a copy of Dianetics on his bed. Lounging supine, he examines said booklet. The marvels and revelations come quickly. Pages flicker in the light of his fingers, mesmerised eyes flex over the contents: memories in the head, retained and locked away, the awful truth about psychiatry, those damn pesky reactive minds.

Digested, the protagonist sets to work transforming theory into practice. Toes come into focus, dead appendages detached from life.

Tension – what could possibly happen here?

I momentarily glance at the Duke, him recoiling in disgust at such a vulgar close-up of toes.

Article Author: Duke De Mondo

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