By: Micah True, The Masked Writer
Every great voyage is in some ways destined to fail. Did the ill-fated explorer Ernest Shackleton ever expect to return? What about Chris McCandless? Or even the indomitable George Mallory? Each of these geographically challenged men ventured into the void, never to return, and such was the fate I anticipated when I stood shaking with nervous anticipation on the corner of Hastings and Homer last Saturday afternoon.
Standing before me, in all of its glory, stood my Everest, the Church of Scientology of Vancouver.
On the outside, the building strangely resembles the 4th and Arbutus CIBC branch, but on the inside, I expected to find vaults full of secrets that only those in a secret society would ever dare to hold.
Dressed in my sister’s gymnastics leotard and wearing a makeshift mask made out of a comforter I’d found in the basement, I blended in perfectly with the pulsating hooded and masked masses who were quickly emerging from every sidestreet and corner to join the growing crowd.
Having started the day feeling so fearful at the thought of the challenge ahead of me, a sudden calmness descended over me as our planned meeting time ticked closer. I heard of the rendezvous via Craigslist (I was looking for a new fish tank) and was unsurprised to find that this ragtag group of basement dwellers and layabouts weren’t prepared to start our speedrun until a tawdry 3:00 p.m. Don’t the youth of today, and by that I mean anyone outside of my school year, not realize that some of us have errands to run? Truthfully, the later start just left me with more time to turn my nerves to shreds, but I let everyone within earshot know that the old adage “the early bird catches the worm” carries weight for a reason! One scrawny attendee with a really bad perm stifled a yawn and told me to zip it, and coincidentally ended up being the only member of our crew to find himself in cuffs at the end of the day. Funny how the world works when your brother is a police officer . . .
As I not so subtly alluded to, our dreams of tearing through the Church were short-lived. With 10 minutes to go until tee time, our growing congregation had caught the attention of a number of elderly bystanders. Sensing our excitement, and noting that the current cost of living crisis offers no reason for anyone without a trust fund to break into a smile, suspicions were raised and the police were called. Most fled the scene, but a few of the hardiest folks, including myself, stood our ground. Slowly, a strikingly handsome man emerged from a squad car, and as he cautiously approached, he started whispering indecipherably in tongues. Step-by-step, he inched closer, until standing mere meters away from me, he took off his hat and looked straight into my eyes. Stretching out his hand as if he was taming a lion, he purred softly, “I’m Operating Thetan Cruise, but you can call me Tom.” Then, he kicked me in the balls.
Sorry folks, no look inside the Church of Scientology. This was all clickbait.
