Book of Xenu (anti-dianetics)
This text is long. You may want to cut and paste it to a word processing
operation and print out a hard copy to read on pages, to avoid eyestrain.
Also then, you may leave a copy on the doorstep or desktop of your local
Church of Scientology or Dianetics Foundation bookstore.
All material herein, under the title "Booklet Zero: Xenu", is copyrighted
Feburary 1996 by Lloyd Warren Ravlin, the third son in a direct line of
male children named Lloyd Warren Ravlin. This man calls himself September
on the internet, specifically that domain of usenet news known as
alt.religion.scientology. The below is his work and his alone, with only
a little help from a Marcabian Agent. None are allowed to copy for use of
financial profit, even the author, however you are free to distribute the
entire work or quote portions, so long as it's attributed as the private
creation of the author, whether he be identified as Lloyd Warren Ravlin
III or September (email@example.com).
Xenu - The Anti-Dianetics
"Humanity, I love you! Be vigilant!" - Eric Fuchs
dedicated with fond affection to TAP and Lady Ada and Tarla,
with comiseration to all who have suffered Scientology,
and to Lafayette Ron Hubbard, pawn of himself,
may he exist in peace despite himself, the naughty boy.
Hello, my name is Xenu! This booklet is designed to destroy you utterly
and irrevokably. I hope it causes you great suffering and allows you to
bring even greater harm into the world and the infinite expanse beyond
worlds. If this is what you want, keep reading, I'll teach you how to
lose everything, even if it belongs to someone else.
Before we begin, I want you to remember the worst thing that ever happened
to you, even if you're just making it up. Got it? Do you remember who
engineered that event? It was me. I'm still amused by that occurance and
will continue telling everyone about it, til everyone wishes you didn't
exist, including you. Now that we've got our relationship straight, let's
begin. Now forget everything you've ever known, even the above
First, you probably think you're somewhere alive, reading text. You're
wrong, you git, you're dying and I'm whispering these words into your ear
as you die. Seriously, I want you to imagine that, because it's really
happening. Let's try some experiments to prove that I'm right. Read down
to Experiment 1.
Experiment 1: Stare at any object, let yourself relax (it's okay, you're
dying), and don't blink for fear you'll lose your concentration. Before
long, the object you're looking at will fade away and be replaced by a
colored blur. Also, your eyes will begin to hurt and tears will form:
this is because in reality, you cannot see and blood is coming out of your
eyesockets. You'll only notice it once you've tried this experiment. Now
close your eyes. That's what everything really looks like: nothing but
little sparks and fizz. You're in big trouble, you git.
It may be a little far fetched to base any further discourse on the fact
(and it is a fact) that you've lost your eyes and are deluding yourself
otherwise. So if you don't believe it, take it as a bad joke and continue
reading. I don't really care if you understand, so if something seems
really weird or you get confused, just keep on going until you're turning
pages without really making sense out anything. It doesn't matter to me.
You might say, I can see fine! I'm reading this, aren't I? You are
forgetting that I'm really just whispering this into your ear. You're
lying down, blind, and that's not all that is wrong with you.
You might say, I don't remember losing my eyes! That's because your brain
is damaged and all your memories are replaced with anything you want to
invent. But don't you worry. I am taking care of your brain. In fact, I
just touched your brain. Did you feel it? Of course not. But something
happened around you, didn't it. If you didn't notice it that time,
examine your surroundings carefully. Something is going on around you,
you've just got to pay close attention. There. I poked your brain
enough. If you didn't notice anything, it's your own fault. Whenever I
poke your brain, you begin to hallucinate something happening around you.
Actually, it's just me in control. You're no longer in the pilot's chair.
Try Experiment 2 now.
Experiment 2: Touch any object and keep touching it. Think about the
problems in your life, hum a song that's been stuck in your head, tap your
foot impatiently, scratch yourself, or engage in one of the many
nonessential redundancies that fill your life with meaning and vigour.
This experiment takes awhile but has valuable results. Eventually you
won't be able to tell that you're touching the object; it will seem as if
your hand is simply resting on a surface. You might even lose track of
the fact you have a hand. This shows that you really don't have any
hands. You can do this experiment with any limb or extension of your body
except your head, because although you've lost almost all of your body,
your head is still there. Sorry, git.
If you don't notice any part of your body, an earlobe perhaps, it's
because you don't have that part still. Normally you'll lie to yourself
about having a whole body, but you're missing so much. I just had you
think about your earlobe, and lo, you had an earlobe. I bet you don't
normally notice the space behind your left knee. Now you do, because you
want to keep lying to yourself, you want to have your body forever. You
can't. I'm afraid your body is gone, most of it anyway. I won't be so
vulgar as to describe what's left. Let's say you were injured in war.
The year is 1945 and you're in a specialized Naval hospital. I'm your
doctor and my name, again, is Xenu. You're not allowed to remember your
name, but I'm sure you can guess. I won't tell you til later.
You probably still don't believe you're in the predicament that I'm
telling you about. You're still harbouring illusions that it's a sick
joke. I'm sorry, it's not. You're costing the Navy a fortune to keep
alive, but I told them, "Keep this creature alive, we might learn
something." They're about to destroy you, but before they do, I wanted to
talk to you. I've learned alot about your brain since I began whispering
to you, three years ago, in 1945. It's probably seemed like a single
paragraph has passed, but your mind is playing tricks on you: it's been
three years. We can try another experiment now that I've been tampering
with your greymatter; Experiment 3 to be precise.
Experiment 3: Try going to a video store and renting the film Jacob's
Ladder. Perhaps you think you've already seen it? Watch it again or
remember it. First of all, you didn't see it, you dreamed it after I
began whispering to you. Also watch the films Total Recall, Brazil, Siesta, Company of Wolves, and Johnny Got His Gun (also a fine book by
Dalton Trumbo). Does this begin to give you an idea? Why are there so
many films about daydreaming the Ideal while the nightmarish is going on?
It's because we've made all the films in the universe together, you and I.
I was trying to tell you what's going on, and you keep believing that it's
just a film, it's just fantasy. It's really happening, you're in Hell,
but don't worry, you'll die soon.
Remember your life. Imprison time in your skull. Go ahead. Think about
your days, all of your days, at once. As you suck in the told and
unexpressed portions of your internal autobiography, know this: your life
didn't happen that way. It turns out you were an imaginative creature
before you were injured. Everything that's occured within your life is a
dream. Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.
Everything is permitted, my dying friend, in the world you are imagining.
Do as you wish. Get in trouble, get others in trouble, suffer, torture,
kill. Destroy the infinite, so long as you do not escape the
I can tell you now that you were a sailor fighting in a great war and
during the course of a battle you were injured. Does the idea of drowning
frighten you? It should.
All throughout your day, you must imagine you've spoken with people, that
you're surrounded by people who are alive and thriving and trying to
survive. This is not the case. All of them are you, part of you,
constructed out of memory and your desire for company; every person you
meet is you -- all one, no enemies, no friends, just you. I suppose you
could say that you're God and what's ironic is that not only are you the
creator of all you see, you're dying and it's all dying. Everything you
see is disintegrating. When you finally cease existence, so will the
whole universe you've known. Everything will be over forever, pending
your termination in this hospital; and I'll have you know the Navy has
given up on you. We don't have much time to talk. I'm the last person
you'll ever hear and I despise you.
Now that I've told you this, you'll begin to notice that the citizens of
your imaginary landscape will treat you differently. A little boy will
make fun of you on the street, if you'll let him. Animals will growl at
you. Your own pets and friends, family even, will treat you as usual;
those you believe to be on good terms with you are not going to act any
differently yet. Some may seem a fair bit nicer. It's all a trick; if
you observe their behaviour more intently, you'll realize they all want
something from you. Earlier, you may have understood this to be true, but
now they've become beasts who will eat your brain if there's no peanut
butter and jelly in the refrigerator. Soon household appliances will
malfunction, not only that but your home will appear less attractive to
anyone so blighted as to encounter the interior of your dwelling, and the
world around you will begin to look fake, like a movie. Everyone will act
as if they're characters in a film. People will say the same things over
and over without realizing it. No variation. Nothing new. Everything
old, everything dying, as you die.
You are fairly alone -- just you and I and a single bunk next to you, with
an elderly cat in it: she's drooling and panting, breathing her last.
Envy her, at least she can drool and pant. At this point, you lack the
capacity to do either. I'm indifferent towards the cat, although I find
cats as a species to be vile and stupid. My attention and hate is devoted
entirely to you, in the last few hours you have left to live. Let's
conduct another experiment, shall we? I hope you enjoyed the last few.
The rest of the experiments aren't going to be numbered. I grew tired of
the earlier format and decided to sow these little efforts towards
wakefulness into the text itself. We must make progress, so continue
reading. I don't care if you think your eyes hurt, you have no eyes.
Hey. Did you see that? Of course you didn't. I forgot, you're eyeless.
The old cat in the bunk next to yours just moved its paws like it was
turning pages or doing something. I hear this foul beast is a castaway
from an old laboratory experiment conducted for the purpose of increasing
animal intelligence. The experiment failed, of course. Most of the
animals so tampered with by the unique surgical and chemical treatments
were slain after the process was declared a failure. Every caged animal
was murdered except for one cat, this cat, a handesome little mouser.
One of the researchers, a midget named David Miscaviage, took the cat home
and fed it. You see, he believed the experiment worked. I'm told he had
sex with the cat, too. They became lovers in a way. One day the cat
scratched his eye; he forgave her of course, after alot of shouting and
cussing, however the wound was less forgiving. The eyescratch waxed
gangrenous and a week later, the midget David Miscaviage was dead. Koos,
the janitor, had to remove the corpse and cared for the cat since. Now
the ragged feline is dying so Koos brought it back to the hospital where
he works, and our nurses lay rotten clams beside its foam streaked maw.
It sups on the stinking green molluscs.
The cat isn't your problem, your insanity is.
To make any progress, we must build your self control in any way we can.
First, we'll stop you from pretending to eat and drink. Such delusive
acts represent your will to stay in the illusion you've generated. I know
that you're too weakwilled to avoid sustenance for too long, so this won't
Skip a day of food until dinner and at dinner, eat a lot, filling yourself.
Remember to drink alot of water; it's filled with lead and mercury, which
will serve to make you stupid and spiteful -- moreso than usual, I mean to
say. On the weekend after that, if you think you have nothing better to
do, don't sleep then the evening of the next day, sleep until you wake up.
Turgid. Very turgid indeed.
Wait a week.
Now starve again, only this time, when you finally repast, eat a normal
dinner and when you manage to make it through one day without sleep, the
following evening, sleep until 6 AM or whenever you normally wake up for
work. Do this every other day now. And keep watching those films.
Speaking of which, you should avoid working -- your life is an artificial
inferno and why work if you're going to die anyway? It isn't as if you're
helping anyone with your job. They're all figments of your mind anyway.
You can steal, lie, argue as much as you like with anyone -- no one
matters except you. Humankind is a mass of sparkling stars in your skull,
blazing synapses in your brain.
That's pretty much all you are anyway: a brain. Look in a mirror, focus
on your eyes or even draw them further open with a finger on each lid.
Imagine your skin gone, the outline of flesh removed from bone. Just a
skull. Nifty. Behind your eyes is a brain, suspended on a bone stem
called your spine. A grey flower. That's all that remains: one grey
flower on a stem of bone with two flabby petals sticking out -- your ears.
Did I tell you that's what remains of you? It's true. Your ship was
blown to smithereens by a torpedo. You may remember the experience as
tiny snapping sounds followed by a curtain of fire. You were buried alive
in iron, you couldn't breathe. Fire everywhere, your flesh shimmering
with immense agony, bubbling and boiling away -- your flesh! Your
Lieutenant Meitreya found you floating in the sea, floating in a toilet.
Evidently, you were on the toilet when the torpedo hit. The toilet was
your boat, and there you were, your dog tags, your brain, your spine, and
two ears -- all connected except for the tags of course, which we removed
in order to read your name. Meitreya was surprised. He'd read one of your
books before. He said, "My God, this is crazy. We've got the brain of L.
Ron Hubbard! This guy wrote the novel The Dianetic Scientologists."
I have opportuned to read that book since. It was about a collection of
geniuses who could create any situation they wished; their ghosts could
travel outside their bodies, and the world feared and despised them all.
Finally, they were outlawed, their beliefs mocked throughout all lands and
forgotten afterwards, until only one of these psychic geniuses was left.
The last Dianetic Scientologist was named Mee. Mee discovered that the
world was just in his imagination, and so he committed suicide.
The book doesn't stop there. The narrative continues on, relating how Mee
awokens postmortem in a straw bed to the realization that he was asleep
and in reality was a magician in a world where the sky was aflame. Mee
would summon demons and have them do his bidding, call up spirits of the
dead and converse with them, ask them to perform simple chores, even
One day, the wizard found a blue marble in a corner of his kitchen. Such
marbles were used by the children in his kingdom (for Mee was the
wizard-king of a mighty land) in games called Mest. The marble was
ingraved with three letters: TGH and inside appeared to be a minute
spinning planet, resembling somewhat the planet he dreamed he was born a
Scientologist on, a planet called Earth. From then on, Mee referred to
his dream as Tee-gee-aitch, the phoenetic pronunciation of TGH, The Great
The book summarizes his marriage to a woman named Leery, and her pregnancy
that results in twins named Willson and Dobbs, and does not dwell for long
on his death as an old man. At no point in the story does he or the
reader discover what his dream meant or why the marble was in the kitchen.
Quite a fantastic book to end on such a note of confusion. Too bad you
aren't going to be writing anything ever again, except through your
ghost-writer, who has just released an awful book under your name called
The cat is making odd choking noises; ah, a hairball covered in blood and
green bile. How beautiful. If only you were capable of vision.
So that's who you are, Lafayette. It's your choice to become sane, to
understand yourself before you die, to make peace with the real universe.
I will give you time to imagine your life, if you desire, or to come to
grips with your situation. You've eight minutes left before I turn off
life support. I won't poke your brain anymore. Just pretend I'm still
whispering to you, pretend you're rereading words that say what I said,
pretend to conduct the experiments over and over until it all makes sense.
Then you can pretend to kill yourself. Put the gun in your mouth.
The cat is up to its tricks again, playing at motion. Its eyes are glued
shut. I glued its eyes shut. I thought it might be fun, you understand.
Were the cat intelligent, during its death throes I'd guess it might
hallucinate that I was talking to it, that it was Hubbard, and it's just a
dying cat, hearing me talk to the freak in the bed beside it.
Hey, cat, is that what you're thinking?
I'm going to whisper in the cat's ear. One moment.
Cat, if those experiments really increased your intelligence and you
really understand what I'm saying, I just want you to know something.
After Hubbard dies, I'm going to butcher you, removing one piece of your
body at a time, slicing you into a thousand pieces and then let a mouse
devour your still quivering, dying body.
Okay, back to sailor boy. Time to turn off the life support. Wow, you're
dying for sure now. There. All dead. Goodbye Lafayette Ron Hubbard.
Good riddance; you cost the Navy millions of dollars in brain surgery and
raygun experiments, but at least we figured out how to trigger orgasm and
defecation in the human brain using microwaves at a distance of two miles.
So it goes, such beautiful sorrow.
Time to play with the cat. Kitty, kitty. Sharp scalpel. Kitty kitty.
I've brought you a mouse...
- written by September / Lloyd Warren Ravlin,
copyright March 5, 1996