The Art of Deception

A true life novel.

Awakening 1992

There were five of us on the platform at the top of the storage tank. I had just been given a list of parts to retrieve. A ramp sloped down into a pool of murky light pink liquid. I took a breath through my skin suit, to ensure I could breath and walked down the ramp, entering a nightmare.

As a "go for" my job was to fetch. On this evening's list were: two elbow joints, one shoulder socket, two hip joints and a dozen fingers.. I walked along the bottom of the pit, grabbing the body parts I needed, bagging them and clipping the bagged parts to my belt. I could

see four or five feet through the murk, the occasional pieces of flesh and skin floated in a slow macabre dance, in the dim reddish glow of the tanks.

Completing my assignment I walked slowing up the ramp, with the partially gelatinized soup sloughing off me. I shook myself, jiggling the bags of body parts. I saw the boss - the foreman of this tank's crew, a man whose expressionless eyes made you feel him think..

This was not going to be a good day. He was about to make his last reprimand. He thought I was too slow. We could all talk without words, thus planning required great discipline of mind. Three of us on the crew had further developed our ability to hear each other without anyone else reading us. In unison, with in the speed of the flash of a single will, we charged him, knocking him down, and began pounding our hard heels into his his body fluids began seeping into the tank, then I awoke...

Whoa. I poked my mate in the ribs. "Vicky wake up. I just had the strangest dream, I want to remember it. about a vat filled with body parts". Vicky opened one eye and mumbled "Yeah a vat filled with body parts, that's really weird Arnie, You are very strange, tell me about it later, and she rolled over and went back to sleep.

Three days later, I was sitting at the card table with Helen & Tory, friends of Vicky's who lived nearby. We were playing Hearts. I told the story about this strange dream, about the vats filled with body parts and soon they were looked at me, eyebrows raised, and said "That's very strange Arnie".

After about an hour playing cards the mail came. I tossed the junk mail in the trash and noticed one large brown envelope, postmarked from somewhere in New Mexico. "The Communion Letter", it said... I thought, "Hmm, I did NOT order this". I walked back to the card table and opened it..

The front page was a long narrative, about aliens and UFO's... but half way down the page I gasped. There was one line that shook me up as I read it.. "However, I find the reports of vats filled with body parts to be too outrageous to be believe" I placed the page face up on the card table, and while pointing at the line with my finger said, "Read this, right there..."

After reading it, it grew very quiet and not much was said for the remainder of the afternoon. That was, also, last time they came over to play cards with us.

Now dear reader, you must understand that long ago I had ceased my youthful quest for the TRUTH. After the sad disappointment of spending ten years in a trance called Scientology, I had decided that some questions were better off not asked, as there were too many snake oil salesman crooning that they had the real answer. In Scientology, I became convinced, that I had access to all the answers of the universe. And every one you meet today is sure they know the truth, with such self assurance that will not even look at evidence to the contrary.

I was sure that everything I needed was there, that all I had to do was work very hard, study very hard, and someday I'd attain some super-duper state of consciousness. The realization that I had been betrayed - and had been betrayed for the money, and to make me a willing slave to the technology that was presented as a Bridge to Total Freedom - left a very bitter taste in my mouth. So much so that I gave up all spiritual quests, and was trying to be just a regular guy, living in his little hut, around a clearing called a cul-de-sac in the lovely rolling hills of Virginia.

We can debate chance and odds, with all due respect to my friends at Skeptic Magazine, but at this instant, this serendipitous happening, as I read that extraordinary line about "vats filled with body parts" , I was shaken.

I was still fresh from dreaming it, with a witness I told about the dream, and witnesses who saw me open the envelope, because I wouldn't have believed this happened today, without the witnesses who there listening that day..

It was at that moment, that I felt a tap on my shoulder. An invisible light tap. Saying, "Hey you, yeah you... you're up, you're at bat, it's time for you" And I thought, "To what?". Okay, maybe I hadn't been sleeping well, but I started at this time to consider that perhaps there was something out there. That I was more than just a body. I felt an inner surge, a reawakening of something that I'd tried long ago to forget. That there is more going on than just what is visible to the eye of man.


When Perot first started he had some great one liners. Seemed like a lot of folks had been going through life with politics permanently ignored. Humanity was marching in lockstep through each day, looking down, ignoring hopes and dreams of positive change. But then along came Perot, waving some great one liners at the crowd, some people raised their heads, and we saw each other. The Perot movement was born. But the devil was in the details, though festooned with grassroots trappings, his organization turned out to be totalitarian.

In hindsight, Perot and his machinations appeared to be but a plot to break the hearts of those who could still be moved to action, ensuring that those who might raise their voices, would have their hearts broken so thoroughly they would be forever silent lest risk being broken again.

After working so hard in the beginnings of the movement I soon joined up with the disaffected from every state, fighting to expose him. This was my exposure to information warfare.

The Net

In the spring of 1994 AOL opened up it's gateway to the internet, I purchased a copy of the "The Internet Directory" by Eric Braun, and came upon two entries for newsgroups. One was which had a descriptor that said "Renegades from the Church of Scientology", the other was "alt.religion.scientology" which said simply, "He's dead, Jim".

I logged onto them and posted a hello my name is Arnie Lerma, I used to be in Scientology, in the Sea Organization, and I wonder if anyone that knows me is online here... I got one reply, from a Joe Harrington.

Joe showed me around, introduced me to some other ex-Scientologists and I got on a few mailing lists for same.

Then I read Andre Tabayoyan's story.

And I knew I had to do something.

My lady ran a desktop publishing business, and had a scanner and software to turn documents into text, suitable for posting. I was familiar with how to do desk top publishing as I acted as her systems manager. In 1992 we actually had my IBM PC's hard disk showing up on the desktop of her Mac II CX. So I knew how to do this.

After doing a number a number of documents, and posting them to the newsgroup, I was sent a copy of the Spanish Criminal Indictment of Scientology in Spain. They had been indicted for, among other things, inducement to suicide and simulation of a felony.

After posting that to the newsgroup, on Nov 4 1994, two Scientologists showed up on my doorstep.

I refused to talk to them, but found, wedged in my , an unsigned Declaration of Arnaldo Lerma, that contained, derogatory, false assertions, which they no doubt planned to induce me to sign.

I felt so outraged that they would think this was a profitable course that I wrote a letter expressing my outrage, closing it with the question, This is America, isn't it?. I mailed out 6 copies of this letter.

I got a phone call from the Washington Post, that resulted in an interview and the article that appeared on Christmas Day 1994:

[ insert article here ]

The Raid

Take the High Ground

The day after the Scientologists raided my home, Lawrence Wollersheim, at FACTNet headquarters in Colorado told me to "Take the high ground". He meant, I knew, to hold the moral principle that what was done was right, and for the good of the people, in order to protect them from a fraud of unprecedented magnitude.(1)

However, it struck me at that time to take it

literally, also, and what unfolds turned out to be another extraordinary event.

Being a native Washingtonian, I was intimately familiar with this city, and knew that the highest ground happened to be the land upon which the National Cathedral had been built. In high school we found one set of stained glass windows in an anteroom on the south side, where we used to take our girlfriends, before dawn, to sit and watch the sunrise. This one small alcove is perhaps the most beautiful single place in the world in the early morning hours. To watch in silence as the dawn cuts the darkness, as the changing hues of the advancing dawn, dance majestically through the kaleidoscope of extraordinary inspirational stained glass to build, into a crescendo of life itself, as the sun rises into view.

So, after my conversation with Lawrence, and after 30 years, I went back to our National Cathedral. Arriving at about 11 am I walked up to the main doors where I saw a sign that read, "Tours start here" with an arrow pointing to the right "No, this is not what I want", I thought, as I

walked around the left side of this magnificent piece of art, meant to inspire, attract, and direct the attention of the beholder upwards towards God.

Another sign pointed to the "Office", and I thought "ok, perhaps this is what I want". I went through the heavy, dark, hardwood doors, and there was a gentle lady of calm demeanor, sitting at a desk, who seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see her, alone, under one set of overhead lights, in the dimly lit office space, with an elevator across from her.

I said, "I'd like to speak with a priest", and she replied "well, this is an Episcopalian Church, and we have "Ministers". I blinked, then said: "Yes, that will work just fine. Her directions were to take the elevator to the 2nd floor, turn right and go through the doors that said "Pastoral Counseling". I thanked the lady and entered the elevator. I puzzled about this distinction between a Minister and a Priest but my thoughts were interrupted when the doors of the elevator opened.

Walking down the dark corridor, I saw a banner, over a set of double doors, saying "Pastoral Counseling", and I entered a dark meeting room. A door was ajar with a light on inside. I walked by and looked in, and saw the computer systems administrator for the National Cathedral's network. The fellow looked quite surprised to see anyone at all, and asked if he could help me. I told him, I told him that I didn't know where I was going, and described briefly the recent raid by the cult called Scientology, after I placed the secret story of Xenu on the Internet," he interrupted me and exclaimed,"Oh, you're the guy! I read about you on the net, What can I do for you?" I told him that I'd come up there to speak with a minister..And his eyes sort of lit up and he said, "Well, come along, I'll take you there, myself!" And he led me through the bowels of the back of the National Cathedral, which looked a bit like an enormous stage set, with ropes and

pulleys and folks pulling on vestments. He led me to a stone bench and directed me to sit, saying simply, "I'll tell the Minister you are here".. And off he went.

After just enough time to look over the area I was seated in, a very tall, very thin, very old, man approached silently. Under his robes I could not see his feet moving, and he carried

himself as if he was floating across the stone floor. It was somewhat unsettling. I felt that if I were to cough, he might blow over, like a leaf in a breeze. And then he spoke. And in a soft, soothing, gentle voice, he asked, "Are you the man waiting to see a minister?" I nodded, he said,

very slowly, very softly, and very clearly "Well, the Minister is a woman, is that a problem?"

I replied "No", somewhat struck that anyone might consider this a problem. He continued, is his clear, calm, tempered, voice, "The Minister is giving Noon Communion in the Chapel, would you mind waiting, or," and he paused, "would you care to take Communion and she will speak to you after?" I said "That will be fine".

So I made way to the small Chapel on the north side of the main hall, and took a seat in a pew on the south side down at the front. The pews were arranged facing each other, with a polished floor, in between. To the east was the brightly lit altar, ornate with gold, and a podium with a microphone. After a few minutes tourists began to come in, seems this is a big tourist spot; and I found myself sharing the bench in my little pew with a little old lady from Indiana. And we made some pleasantries, I asked how long she was in Washington for, what had she seen so far, that sort of thing, and then in a white robe with a long purple vestment, a diminutive reddish haired woman emerged from a side door off the Altar area, and started the sermon.

Now, I had not attended a sermon, let alone a "Communion" in decades.

I had been an Acolyte for Christmas services at the red English brick Presbyterian Church on 'O' Street in Georgetown. Built of that kind of brick that used to be stowed in the hold as ballast for the ships returning from England to the Port of Georgetown. I took the part, because I liked having access to the wooden plank ways that wound their way through the back rooms behind the Altar, where all the pipes for the organ stood, like so many devote followers of an ancient dead Emperor.

As I listened to the sermon, my stomach began to knot up. I realized that what was being read was a passage from the Bible, a moving eulogy of thanks to all those who stand up for the rights of others, for those who speak out against injustice, for those who give voices to those

who cannot speak. And I began to get choked up, tears began to well in my eyes,

I tried to control it, but lost the battle with my emotions. Tears began to fall as I fought back sobbing. Shaking with emotion, I looked down to see teardrops on the polished stone floor and felt a gentle hand touch then hold mine, it was the little lady from Indiana. Together we had more strength than two.

[end of edited part ]

The minister walked from her podium and stood on the floor between the pews on

each side of the room, and she continued, talking toward the pews on the north wall. Then she turned around, to look at those of us in the pews on the south wall. She looked familiar to me, I knew I had seen her before. Our eyes locked, and she stopped her sermon, and looking straight at

me walked over and said, "Arnie? Is that you?" I looked at her and said, "Yes, Eleanor?", and we embraced across the railing of the pew, and neck to neck whispered the following: "yes, what are you doing here? I'd like to talk to you, its been many years, but I have someone I have to

speak with after the sermon". I said "I'm the guy waiting to speak to a Minister" she said, incredulously, stepping back, as if struck by the words ,"YOU are the one who is waiting to see a minister???" I nodded, she looked dumbfounded, and with wide eyes, she stepped back and finished her sermon.

Eleanor was the wife of a client of mine, for whom I'd built an exquisite sound system in the great room of the mansion. I had asked her back then, after I learned that she had chosen to attend the Seminary, if there was a good book that discussed the philosophic differences between various religions, so that the lay person might, in a more informed manner, be able to pick one which most closely resembled his own core beliefs. She said at that time, it would be great if there was such a book..

When it was over, I thanked the lady from Indiana for comforting me, and wished her a pleasant journey. Eleanor asked me to follow her, and once again I was walking through the back passageways of a Church. She led me to a small office, which was her office that day, at the south east corner of the Cathedral, where I perched on a huge antique overstuffed red leather couch, gazing out at puffy white clouds in a bright blue sky on an August afternoon.

The first thing I asked Eleanor was "How did you come to be here, giving noon communion?" Eleanor explained that all the Episcopalian Churches in the area, provided were asked to send their Minister to the National Cathedral one day a year, to hold the High Communion. She said she didn't actually work there, but had her own church in Potomac Maryland. And today just happened to be her church's day to hold the Noon Communion at the

National Cathedral. So I told her the events leading up to and including the raid, of which you, daring reader, have already been told.

I then told her how I had given the original Fishman document to Richard

Leiby at the Washington Post, where it was placed in their main vault , on the same shelf, as the Watergate Papers. I described the pressure the cult was putting on the Washington Post, threatening to get a court order to "turn the Washington Post's offices "upside down" if they did not relinquish the copy of the Fishman filing which I had scanned and posted to the net. I felt convinced that the cult would obfuscate the fact that it was merely a copy of an unsealed public court record in the Central District of California. Judge Brinkema commented in my case, that in 6" of ex-parte filings to get the raid on my home, the cult never mentioned that the alleged 'stolen property' was in fact just an unsealed court record.

I then came to one of the reasons of my visit and I asked her if the National Cathedral would accept this document, grant it Sanctuary and turn it over, only directly to Judge Brinkema, if ordered to do so, giving me the assurance of being able to prove that what in fact I did have

was a copy of an unsealed public court record. She said that she would have to put my request to the Board, and as it turned out, this sanctuary was not in fact needed.

After telling Eleanor this whole story, including the dream of the struggle with the dagger in the shape of the cross, she told me that I was engaged in a battle with the forces of evil, with the devil, and that I must have faith.

I then said this:

"Eleanor, I have never had Faith, and I will never have Faith. When I

drove here, I had no Faith that my hands were holding the steering wheel of

the old 73' Chevy Malibu. And I told Eleanor the following incident that

occurred during a series of meditations.

When I first started meditation, back in 1994, I experienced what some folks

describe as 'Seeing the Light', a blue white light of unparalleled intensity that yields no sensation of heat. Some time thereafter, I was instructed in a technique of meditation that includes extending a band of light from the base of one's spine to the center of "Mother" earth, and then reaching skywards from between ones eyes as far up as one can reach. It was during this exercise that I had an extraordinary experience. It was this experience that I described to Eleanor.

I came to what appeared to be a wall. A glowing white wall. It took me many trips back to this place, in repeated meditations, before I gained the courage to touch the wall. When I finally touched it, it had no sensation, I just felt calm. Shortly thereafter, I moved through the white wall, and entered whatever it was that I had spent so much time musing upon. It was as if the space itself glowed, with a white light across the entire spectrum, like the purest essence of creation. When I describe this event I begin to float away like a feather on a breeze.

After becoming at ease with this place. I asked a question.


And I got back a conceptual answer that took a bit of time to translate

into words. The words I chose to use were "CB Talk" - Citizens Band Radio type lingo still popular with 'just folks'. And the words I used to describe the answer were "He who has no handle". "Handle" being the moniker that a user of CB radio might use to identify himself , analogous to the 'nickname' used by folks on the Internet. On the Internet Relay Chat ,

"IRC", channel #Scientology ,on "EFnet", back in 1994 I described this event to my old friend

Joe Harrington, and he said simply , "oh, that's Yahweh ,the God of the Old Testament, Yahweh meaning literally in old Hebrew, "he who has no name" Now I listened this, and I had never read the Bible in any version at this time, but was reminded of that old Bill Cosby comedy routine from an old album from perhaps the 1960's, where Bill Cosby describes the story of

Noah.. Noah is there, being a carpenter... cutting some wood...

Sound: Rooobah, Roobah... Roobah {that's Bill Cosby's version of a saw

cutting wood sound)

suddenly he hears a booming voice..

The Lord: "NOAH"

Noah: "Who's that?"

The Lord: "This is the Lord, Noah" - booming voice

Noah: "Riiiiggght"

Rooobah, Roobah... Roobah [ Noah returns to cutting wood...]

Lord: I want you to build an Ark.

Noah: "Riiiiggght"

Noah: What's an Ark?

It was a very funny routine.

It was at this point that I thought, wait, is this some amazing delusion?

Why would I be granted this seeming interview..

You must all understand the stress I was under, you see Scientology was trying to "destroy me utterly" - and instead of bullets these days, they use stress to accomplish this. All within the acceptable legal limits of the law, no doubt...including those actions for which they either are never caught, or are so outrageous that no one would believe anyone would do them, much less a mind control cult cloaked as a "church".

Now whether this was real or imagined is not the issue. What is the issue is that this experience gave me the strength to carry on.

Now, no one can dispute the value of that, especially me, as when I look back at all the improbable circumstance and happenstance I should be dead. So, if one is already in complete acceptance of death, that death is nothing, a transition, and every day thereafter is free.

Now that is freedom.

After recounting this entire story to Eleanor in response to her urging that I have faith, she paused just for an instant, and said the following: "Well, Arnie, we tell people to have faith, who have yet to commune"

More messages from my meeting

At one point I asked, if there was anything you wanted me to tell people, and I was told the following : "let no man interpret my word"

If this were considered the 11th commandment it would end many wars. Tribes that clash based on interpretations of God's word - that is, if one considers Truth to be God's word, be it Judaism, Christianity, Mohammedism, or Pakistan versus India, - what is manifest here are clashes of interpretations made by the various prophets.

If each man were encouraged to commune, himself with what is true, he would be his own prophet, and I assure you that from my experiences here, I am convinced that communion is meant for all, not just a chosen few.

Another message was "To each man his own path" [ toward communion ]. Each of us in uniquely different in our life experiences. And as each is completely unique, there exists for each a completely unique path toward the realization of the truth. Scientology's one-size-fits-all standard technology is just so much dreck, optimized with intent to extract the most money while effectively suppressing all ability to seek the remedy of civil fraud within the time limitations of the statutes.

Most people don't wake up for many years, and for those that do there are no lawyers willing to take them on, in the United States, anyway.

The Lessons Begin

Society has become organized as a group of massive corporations, whose intent seems to be to plan for what is best for profitability before the next quarterly earnings report. What is best for the life system we inhabit is ignored if the consequences of our actions fall outside of the quarterly window.

The original inhabitants of the America would plan based on what is best for the seventh son. The seventh son being the seventh generation of the tribe ahead.

I suppose this would be between 70 and 140 years.

While Scientology plans for next Thursday at two o'clock.

Suzette Hubbard

It was 1976, I was in Scientology, working at a management office in New York City, on West 72nd Street between Columbus and Central Park West. There was another office in Brooklyn, called RONY for Relay Office New York. There used to be daily courier runs from our office in Manhattan to RONY. On day the fellow that made that run came to me and said, "I have a messege from Suzette Hubbard". Well that got my attention, "She wants to ask you a question about a letter that you wrote to her dad". I said, tell her fine, and ask when...

The Meeting at Hogan and Hartson, L.L.P.

I had been trying to find a law firm to represent me, the insurance had not

kicked in, the Cult's raid and the Motion for Accelerated Deposition were a

tremendous burden, on Monday in the Offices of Hogan and Hartson there was a

meeting. They wanted to do the case, but Media Professional Insurance

Corporation was dragging their feet, they were not working fast enough to get

things going to deal with the landslide of litigation perpetrated by the cult.

Hogan and Hartson said they would help me out a bit, pending Media

Professional's deciding what [ and when] they were going to do, [ anything]

There was a meeting with Judge Brinkema, 'In chambers', by phone, and a series of

phone calls with Earle C Cooley and his law firm, and the Chief internal counsel for the Washington Post , VP Mary Ann Werner This was before the Post published its story about the raid, this was on Monday after the raid.

During that meeting, Scientology was putting great pressure on judge Brinkema to order the Washington post to give them the Fishman affidavit. I had mailed this document, the original to the Washington Post, on one condition, that they would not release it without my authorization. But the Post was being threatened with "having their offices turned upside down" by a search and seizure warrant, and they did not want to deal with that.

In that conversation, at approximately 2:30 in the afternoon, Chief internal counsel at the Washington post Mary Ann Werner was on the phone, she described the situation regarding the imminent issuance of a search order from the Eastern District Court in response to a motion from Earle Cooly's firm for it, she also said, that they had just received, and had in

hand, a copy of the same document, from the central District Court, which they had a correspondent get the previous day at closing time. Apparently there were, in fact, Scientologists, at a table monopolizing the one copy of the Fishman Affidavit, but the court clerk fetched it, and made a copy for the Post's correspondent.. I asked Mary Ann Werner to examine the "bates" stamps on the pages.. And determined that in fact they did have an actual copy of the same document. The numbers were identical, It was truly the same document! So I then gave

the Washington post permission to hand my copy to Earle Cooley so they would not be searched and have their offices turned upside down.

Months later Richard Leiby, asked me, How did I know that there were Scientologists trying to keep that document checked out in that court at that time. He jocularly asked whether I had used remote viewing. I said perhaps but maybe it was just a good guess as I knew the pattern of the beast.

The Dark Dream

As the knife clattered to the floor I woke up in a cold sweat.

The scene opened in a 18th century setting, a well to do street, very wide, with white houses on each side. The street was paved in yellow brown stones, square cut, and laid out in fan patterns about the size of a grown mans reach.

In the center, the wide street was filled with carriages, and wagons - the horses were kept inside the houses. My attention was drawn toward two small windows at ground level. The doorways were all round on the top.

The next scene was a room, the room - that I had been looking at from the outside, a basement room, dimly lit with only two candles in wall holders. A huge dark wood chest covered the wall at the street side with the windows up high. The chest stood belly high, and was on stonework that raised its bottom six inches from the floor.

There was a podium in the room, at the right side of the chest, a few feet from it, also of dark reddish wood. It had ornate carvings in its surface. I stood to one side of the podium, facing the huge chest, with dim light coming in through the small windows at street level.. There was dagger in the air, just slightly above eye height, and its tip was pointed down, inclined directly at my heart.

This dagger, however, was in the shape of the Christian cross, the handle was the head of Christ, his arms were twisted points with razor edges, his legs were the dagger point, and with ferocious intent, the dagger was being forced at my heart.

I stood, and gripped the invisible hands that seemed to hold it - using all of my strength, and will, to protect myself from the thrust of its point. The struggle continued for many minutes, as I watched the glint of the candles behind me dance in the polished blades edge inches from my eyes, as the dagger with its invisible hands ebbed to and fro.

I grew fearful as I lightly touched doubt. "Would succeed to summon the strength to defeat this alien will?" And I called out with my mind to the Author of the Universe for the strength. And I was granted for a brief moment the strength to break the demon's grasp...

As the dagger clattered to the floor.

The sound of it striking, and bouncing on the polished stone, awoke me with a start, and I wrote down the some scribbles, in the dark, that became this page.

A week later, with this vision still haunting me, i was driving eat on North 16th Street in Arlington, up to the intersection by the Baptist Church at Glebe Road.

As I approached the intersection, which has a traffic light, this vision flashed in my mind, right at the time I should have looked at the traffic light.

I almost ran a foot into the intersection as a massive orange Allied Van Lines truck came roaring by, missing the front of my car by inches, and scaring me into a cold sweat.

I pulled over shortly after this, and thought about life for a while.

Data Compression

In the world of computers there are many extraordinary ways to compress data.

But the very best way is trust.

If you trust someone's judgement you don't need to know the details.

If you trust someone's judgement you won't need to know the details because someone you TRUST does know them

You can depend upon their judgement and willingness to do the right thing, and if there is something you need to know you can depend upon them, without prompting.

Unlike organizations based upon fraud, which have to know everything. They

must know what everyone is thinking and doing, lest the realization that it is just a fraud, spread like wildfire through it.

The most dangerous ideas are those that cause a participant to stop running a contrived program just for a second, just enough time to see outside of their contrived world.

And see that their world is contrived.


1 You see, in Scientology, there is a trade marked slogan, The Bridge to Total Freedom, not unlike that famous con, of selling the naive the Brooklyn Bridge. You see if you don't achieve whatever you thought you would on whatever step of this bridge you just took, you are assured you will on the next expensive step. The fact is, no one ever gets across this bridge of lies, those that do, except for a few exceptions, stand mute, unwilling to give up the admiration of the dumbstruck deluded, for the harsh reality of hundred's of thousands of dollars wasted for false promises.