Many hundreds of years ago, and even in some modern cases, banishment from the church
of your choice (whether you chose it or not), was the most severe punishment said member could suffer. And after the excommunicated member suffered the shock of having had their humanity restored to them, their self-awareness would begin to reassert itself as if to say You Stupid Jackass, I Told You They Were Fucking Crazy And You Didn't Listen.
To which the restored individual would say You're Right, Self. I Don't Know What I Was Thinking.
And the inevitable reply was You Weren't Thinking. Now Let's Tell The World That Those Nut Cases Like Raping Children, Among Other Odd Things Like Worshipping Lowercase T's.
Joe Wazinski, also known as The Grand High Mystic, also known as The Great And
Powerful Waz*, never should've let Susan The Receptionist go.
*Also known, privately, to himself as Cheryl.
The instant she crossed through threshold out the front doors, the carefully concealed link between various spaced based communications satellites, terrestrial towers, and the receiver planted in Susan's head short circuited, and she fell to the gum and grime covered concrete sidewalk and immediately lost consciousness.
The last thing she heard in this imitation of life was a loud ARF! from a very small dog.
When she awoke again, she was in the bed surrounded by her loving family and all were happy to see Susan had suffered no physical or mental strain. They never realized, let alone were told, all forms of stress, cerebral manipulation, and the Conversation-Makey that had been implanted into her head by the cruel and corrupt Adolph Industries had been carefully removed, thanks be to a fast thinking member of the original Cheewahwah race outside the Temple of Scienceology as it was making routine inspections of their Evolved Ones that were still forcibly employed inside the temple they had been forced to construct for the descendents of Almighty Steve.
Admittedly free of the loving, soulless grip of the gifts Adolph Industries had blessed two worlds with, Susan soon took refuge in another damned cult -- the same one that worshipped The
Lowercase T and had a tendency to go on and on about how their messiah was resurrected on the
exact same day another religion** celebrated.
**One that was incorrect and had to be replaced because it wasn't worshipping a lowercase T.
On this day The Cult of the Lowercase T would state "He Is Risen" on their signage, which would lead those still capable of intelligent thought why these Lowercase T people would get so damned excited about their messiah's lack of Erectile dysfunction. Said holiday's original purpose was one dedicated to fertility, after all, but you try to remind the Lowercase T's that and they simply excommunicate you from their circle, which worked out fine for at least two individuals -- one didn't have to have the horror of having to deal with the restoration of both their humanity and mental acumen, and the other had a good laugh and a bit of revenge to boot.
* * * * *
The inner workings of the Temple of Scienceology were quite busy with lockdown procedures. Igor had heard the call come from intercom system; then came the hurried, worried
movements of the maintenance staff. Igor waited patiently in the same room, just as he was told,
as the head of the maintenance staff summoned his work staff and led them through the halls
carrying large rolls of what appeared to be aluminum foil and duct tape. Two of the work staff,
Pedro and Manuel, stepped in and set to work.
"'Scuze mee, seenyore," said Pedro.
"No problem," Igor replied.
The Grand High Mystic stepped back into the room to look for Igor and immediately found Pedro and Manuel finishing up their task.
"All feeneeshed, seenyore."
"Very good, on with you to the next corridor." said the Mystic, as he eyed their very low cost handiwork. Pedro and Manuel stepped past and continued onwards to the next section of the temple.
"Igor have question, master."
"Yes?"
"Why Mexicans cover window with aluminum foil?"
"It's just a precaution, Igor."
"From what?"
"Oh, you know, chemical bombs, radioactive fallout, the ghost of Bin-Laden, mental disrupting rays from outer space. The usual stuff, really. We can't be too cautious these days, right?"
"Igor understand, master."
"Good, and now we must set you to work, Igor. Come with me."
It hadn't been a very long time since Igor had first caught the attention of the Mystic at the science fair. In fact it had been little more than two weeks, and still fresh out of high school, Igor was amazed that his natural achievements with electricity and reanimation could lead him to a position of such importance in so short a time. Of course Igor had placed upon his employment application all he was familiar with in the matters of science, technology, biology and cerebral experimentation, which had only accelerated his acceptance into the Temple's employment. And now here he was being given what would most likely be his very own workspace and who knows what else.
The Mystic, stopping at an elevator, pushed the down button and waited patiently. When the hum of the lift had arrived at their location, the doors pulled aside gently and the Mystic beckoned Igor forward.
"After you, young man."
"Okay."
Igor stepped in, and noticed a wide range of buttons on the internal panel, and noticed that the Mystic pressed the button marked B as he entered.
"What B stand for, master?"
"It's the basement, Igor, and it's where you will be working."
"What in basement?"
"Ahh, something very special. You'll fit in quite well. What do you know about the brain Igor?"
"Igor know lots about brains. Igor made Uncle Joe think he chicken."
The Mystic, having studied Igor's application to the point where he could recite it from memory, smiled an internal smile that was so bright it was knocking on his lips from the inside demanding out. "Really? A chicken, you say. Good gracious me, how did you manage that? Hypnotism?"
"Hypnosis? No. Igor have no need for hypnosis. Igor put brain of chicken in Uncle Joe. It funny. There also time Igor put another brain in upside down. It was accident."
"What happened then?"
"Uncle Joe believed he was truck driving lesbian."
Inside him, the smile of the Mystic had transformed into a full on celebration, with streamers, cake, and the possibilities -- oh the possibilities and promises the future could hold with someone as capable as this. The Descendants of Steve, led by the Great and Powerful Waz, would once again achieve the greatest heights and possibly, it could very well be possible to achieve, The Restoration of Almighty Steve. With our advances, and the potential wonders Igor could give us, Steve might just be given back to us once more. It was a bodily noise, of seemingly nature, that brought the Mystic's attention back to the here and now.
"Dear god, what's that smell?"
Igor, sheepishly, held his head in shame in much the same way conservative politicians do when their constituents find out said politician, often times a noted champion for Heterosexual
Supremacy, had divorced his wife and made many payments for secretive encounters with a
fifteen year old boy for oral sex in the congressional gym.
"Sorry" Igor apologized simply as he realized a bodily concoction of formaldehyde, alcohol, and other fluids started seeping through a loosed bit of flesh that Igor was now repairing with a bit of surgical stitching. He then took a medium sized vial of the same fluids and rubbed it into the now resealed wound, looked up into the face of the Mystic and explained the situation.
"Igor have to carry formaldehyde just in case arm or hand fall off. It no big deal."
"I see."
With that, and the slowing of the elevator and the eventual ding of the bell, the conversation was brought to a close. The doors swept aside and the two stepped into a large cavernous room that was fairly dark and filled with lots of chairs like you'd find in a barber shop. Over along one wall rested various mops, what seemed to be cleaning products, and such. Along another wall were shelves as far as one could behold, and what appeared to be crystal clear jars will with a clear
liquid, most with a brain floating inside.
"Where Igor?"
"Igor, this will be your personal work space."
"What those?" He indicated the rows of jars. Here, the Mystic stumbled, but only for half a moment.
"Those are the brains of those who are...uh...members of our organization."
"What Igor do with them?"
"Simple. You keep them clean."
"How?"
"With these."
Half unseen in the darkness, the Mystic turned to the wall covered in mops and cleaning substances. He gathered up a fresh mop, picked up an unopened bottle of cleaner marked
BRAIN-O, set it in a fresh bucket and carried them to one of the vacant chairs.
"Igor, I now present to you the tools of your trade and officially give unto you the rank and position you have so rightly earned Head Brainwasher of the Temple of Scienceology. If you
need anything, just buzz me via the intercom. See you at the company picnic."
And with that, the Mystic stepped back towards the elevator and rode it upwards, leaving Igor alone in the half darkness.
* * * * *
As the Descendants of Steve often recall, it was the unholy combination of Movie-
Watchy's and Ringy-Dingy-Conversation-Makey's that was the beginning of the end of the
civilization Almighty Steve was a part of, helped undermine, and served as the primary destruction of said civilization.
So when The Jhew Alliance apparently forced Adolph Industries from their planet to ours, the Adolph Intelligence systems of the carrier ships focused their scanning equipment at strategic
locations mere hundreds of miles from the western coast of the North American continent, to be in easy reach of both the inland territories while still having reasonably easy access to the that tarnished golden region known as Hollywood. In this city of dreams came the prospect of said dreams coming true, you only had to sacrifice any and all ambitions of creativity, originality, sensibility, and any imperfections*** in body structure in order to succeed.
*** Imperfections such as not having big enough chest humps.
Often enough at the various awards ceremonies that were held yearly, the vain, overly
manicured and plastic enhanced would tearfully thank their preferred messiah, who, it must be
stated had nothing to do with their career advancement or the fact they'd just won a shiny trophy
which had a shelf life shorter than the length of the ceremonies at which it had been awarded.
The time of reassignment came almost immediately after the Cheewahwah's had finished
constructing the Temple of Scienceology that the Grand High Mystic, The Great And Powerful
Waz, was just another loony spouting religious bullshit without any of the validation that comes
with being an "honest" and legitimate tax-exempt religion. Just because you've got a building, a
feeling, and you're too busy believing and converting doesn't make you worth a damned dime,
especially in this area.
So Wazinski approached those that were standing center spotlight everyday of their lives, convinced them the messiah of the Cult of the Lowercase T had nothing to do with their
blossoming careers, then Wazinski would take them away from their champagne and sex soaked
high class parties and show them the truths of his promises as the provider of the gifts of Almighty Steve.
It started with the first generation Conversation-Makey that had been adapted for use on planet Earth. When the electronic screen activated, it proudly displayed the corporate logo for Adolph Industries, then the image would scatter a bit, and a second display for the product logo would come through: iDumb.
"What's an iDumb," the high profile movie star would ask, then Wazinski would turn away, curse the Jhews loudly for their remote tampering, and immediately the local population went quiet.
A man named Shapiro, who represented many of those who had made it in the film business, stepped up to challenge Wazinksi. In the race to be face to face with the offending Wazinksi, Shapiro's nose beat the rest of his face.
"It's the Jhews. They're tampering with my equipment."
Wazinksi later found himself hooked up to various life monitoring equipment in a sterile
white room with a broken nose, a punctured lung, and a few broken limbs. The very small and
square movie-watchy device permanently attached to the opposite wall switched on briefly,
flickered a silent, visual message of HA HA HA, Love, The Jhew Alliance.
After returning to the freshly constructed temple on the site of where their population had immigrated to from the southern regions, Wazinski turned his attention away from converting the visible talent, to pitching the love and joys of watching the forms of entertainment Hollywood produced on his tiny little screen you could take anywhere. Interestingly enough, these screens would become most visible in the first run theaters on the opening nights of Hollywood's latest mass produced concepts, which were rigorously itemized characteristics to X demographic, and had painfully over cooked storylines with the help of seventeen writers all scrambling for credit because, as we all know, no solitary writer can create anything of value, or so was the opinion of the movie making elite.
As for opening night, and admittedly the nights that followed, movie going experience was often wrecked because the Conversation-Makey's demanded attention because they're more important than what you actually came there for. Besides, that movie will be on your Conversation-Makey in six months so what's the point seeing it on a proper screen when you could watch it on your cute, aesthetically pleasing Conversation-Makey?
The pencil pushing dollar jockeys in suits soon discovered the joys of watching their products on Conversation-Makey's, because it was one more outlet they could make money AND screw those who created said product out of their royalties.****
**** Especially their screenwriters. Seventeen of them, in fact, to come up with one lousy sentence.
And as Conversation-Makey's became more prevalent in the business, those that starred in
the entertainment programs started taking note of them -- firstly because they weren't being paid
properly, but primarily because it was a shiny gadget that seemed to whisper the promises
Almighty Steve could grant, if only they would leave the Cult of the Lowercase T.
The first of this legion was a man who wanted to go far in life, but knew he wouldn't
because he was only three feet tall and was unnaturally bitchy for the male of the native species.
His Conversation-Makey, using the latest in four wheeled, Get-Aroundy technology, led him to
the front steps of the Temple of Scienceology. By now Wazinksi was simply the Grand High
Mystic, and he took this short, angry man within his organization, stuck him with the S-Meter,
and taught him the ways of Almighty Steve, the dangers of certain particles, and why the Terror
Of The Solar Lizard King wasn't just a cautionary tale on his home planet.
The short angry man only remembered the bits that didn't include Almighty Steve, thanks
to a quick incision here, a bit of gray matter shuffling there, and a minty fresh splash of Brain-O
and another round with the S-Meter. Now serves a dual role as Grand Lesser Mystic, and Really
Straight And Tall Action Hero Movie Guy, or simply "Tommy" for short.
And this partnership between the Descendents of Steve, Hollywood, and Tommy became
the early days of Scienceology. One after another the Lowercase T's suffered losses in their
attendance while Scienceology temples flourished like the plague. Now everyone knows if you
want to be part of the film business and you're on the west coast, you need to have an S-Meter
shoved up your ass, then report to the basement for cerebral enhancement by means of a mop, a
highly specialized cleaning product, and a visit to the Head Brainwasher.
* * * * *
It was an afternoon dedicated to relaxation as all scheduled circus performances had been
completed, and the time was approaching for the circus to pack its tents and head out on the open road again, but seeing as how Dr. Flappy would remain out of commission for quite awhile still, there was an ever present uncertainty of how to proceed next. Everyone was just doing their best to fill the empty hours until a consensus of what should come next was reached, and by the looks of it such a decision would not be given life anytime soon.
So, while the circus waited to find its footing again, everyone took to trying out new acts,
attending to the animals, looking for temp jobs in town, or just sitting back breathing in the air
that came with a calm sense of relaxation.
Young Victor, feeling a need to enhance his coordination, took up juggling as of this morning and could handle three air-borne spheres with a relative ease and was getting better and better with each hour.
With most of the circus grounds empty, the paths going and coming from the various attractions, tents, and animal enclosures were relatively empty so Victor took the opportunity to
stretch his legs around the area while tossing the balls around in ever increasing patterns, turned a corner, and damn near walked collided with the wooden bench at which Bertha and Sally were
sitting at, having lunch.
"Good morning, Victor," said the scantily clad, yet still transparent form of Sally as she bit down onto her sandwich. Across from her was Bertha, a blushing behemoth that choked down
her embarrassment and whispered "Hi" as well.
Being a cunning lover boy, Victor placed his juggling implements into his pockets, and made an overly dramatic romantic motion of sitting down next to Sally and leaned his head upon what he estimated was her shoulder and let the fake charm flow.
"Hey, what are you ladies talking about? Me I hope. Oh Sally, you saucy vixen, when will you come back to my tent for snuggling? You know I'm lonely. After all, I don't get to SEE you
enough, now do I?" By now, Victor was stroking where he hoped Sally's long hair was laying
upon her shoulders.
"No Victor."
"Oh! You tease. How you wound me!" Victor exclaimed, but expected as much, so he stood up, offered "Have a good day ladies," and resumed his juggling exercises as he got up and slowly walked away. When the ladies felt Victor was no longer within earshot, the girl talk resumed with a new topic at hand.
"You dating funny clown?"
Sally nearly choked on her sandwich at the thought of Bertha's question.
"Oh god no. He's nice, but no."
"Why not? He handsome."
"Bertha, do you have a soft spot for young Victor?"
"I would cuddle Victor. But he'd never let me."
To herself, Sally considered the possibilities.
"Maybe I can arrange that."
Having come across a dead end in his path, Victor turned on the spot and felt an electric chill, light headedness, and his knees gave out underneath him. A soft echo of some malevolent
thought was caught in the wind which carried it down the same path Victor had started down, and
the thought then caught the side of a flapping tent wall which kicked it down the dead end from
which Victor was about to emerge from. The sensation, in the eventual days ahead, a random
assemblage of body parts will explain as that feeling as having had someone just step across their grave.
Victor gathered his strength, picked himself up, and happened to look upon the table
where Bertha and Sally sat. An odd smile and a suspicious wave from Bertha sent another spooky shudder into Victor's mind.
"Just dropped my balls!" he shouted at them, smiled half-heartedly, then turned away quickly as he descended into manic paranoia.
"Oh dear god, they're plotting together."
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