Travels In Scientology - Part Two - Page 6

For these reasons, aye, Scientology makes perfect sense. It’s a religion for the Pharaohs, not the fuckers who clean the Pharaohs’ stables or cook their haddock of an evening.

It’s about personal gain, it’s about money, it’s about power.

By cloaking itself in the colours of science, it appeals to a culture fed up with superstition, yet it retains enough of the reek of the mystical to play on nostalgia for those very same beliefs, and its own beliefs it has the good sense to hide till such times as folks are financially and mentally invested enough to approach without erupting in a thousand chards of delirious laugh-laugh.

It is genius.

“Maybe we should see what’s in there?” Sir Fleming suggests, startling me some, gesturing to the door up ahead.

I cough in the affirmative, saying then about I hope to fuck it’s a toilet. “The wild need for to dangle o’er the porcelain a time, I have. At the very least I hope there’s some machine that’ll rid me of the desire to shit by fixing what the aliens did or freeing me from stuff I heard one time before my ears had developed.”

Sir Fleming considers this. Then - “Dear God, maybe the Knowledge Machine is in there.”

A glance over the shoulder - shadows on the lower floor… footfalls. Sir Fleming tries the handle. It’s locked. “We best go back down,” I say, panicked some. “If they find us up here who knows what they’ll do.”

“Kill us, maybe.”

“Stone dead. To within an inch of our very lives…” Grimacing some then. “Christ, I really could do with a crap.”

Aaron Fleming

We shimmy down the stairs, loading screens from Resident Evil commandeering the mind’s eye. Posters crawl up the walls, propaganda articles, sowers of seeds pulsating with self-help strength, gestating a rebirth for subjects coiled 'round outdated philosophies and theologies. The stench of Tony Robbins, of charlatan healers, sapphire remedies devised by scoundrels bewitched by the dollar – transitory pecuniary harvests belying a carnivorous rampage that casts the vulnerable into pits of poverty. Outward charisma masks the revolting truth: how an industry built upon the idea of helping people inevitably only aids the perpetrators in amassing vast fortunes.

As the table proffering copies of Dianetics ascends out of view, Scientology’s kinship with the gargoyles of self-help is clear. Monies crisscrossing hands seems the only way for mental satisfaction, for fulfillment, to attain a contented mind and live a life not weighed down by melancholy. All are equal…in the eyes of the market – a monstrous entity bolstered by parasitic agents like Hubbard’s child, polluting the public space with its injunction to cleanse the mind of ills that are probably not there, and if there are, certainly some shite about thetans isn’t the cure.

Article Author: Duke De Mondo

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