Two middle-aged women were the first to notice Clinch Smith. They looked at the kris in disapproval..."He's not allowed to carry that." She didn't have time to scream. He ripped her stomach open, striking from near the ground. The other looked at him, her face flapping in silent terror. He swung his arm and cut her throat.
He turned to face the crowd. Electric menace blazing from his kris, which vibrated with a life of its own, pulling him down a funnel of screaming, running figures. And there, at the end of the funnel, is the Sea Org, Lord Westfield, and Olga.
The Sea Org has something eccentric and puritanical in their dress, like MRA personnel. They placed themselves in ineffectual karate stance.
When Lord Westfield saw Clinch Smith's face, he knew he was a dead man. He had studied karate, Chinese boxing, judo, aikido. He was giving the orders to his hand, but a numbing paralysis clutched him. Suddenly he broke through, his limbs stiff with panic, brought the cane seat up in a clumsy stab to the groin.
Clinch seemed to undulate aside, as if the ground had moved under his feet, straightened his bent arm, rippling the kris along the side of Lord Westfield's throat. He straightened his arm and shoved the kris right into Olga's open mouth and out the back of her neck. He placed his left hand on her face and shoved, snapping the kris in an arc that nearly decapitated a Sea Org member.
Whirling, dancing, shifting...he slashed and stabbed.
Crack.
Colonel Wentworth stood there with a sporting rifle. Born Marvin Weinstein he sported a dubious military title from World War II. His first shot killed Lord Westfield's chauffeur. He moved closer.
Crack.
Clinch Smith fell under a pile of dead Sea Org uniforms. Meanwhile, a rumor has flashed through the town that the Home Secretary has ordered a massacre of hippies and militants. Now they come out in droves, all marching towards the scene of battle just ahead. This is it. They glimpse a slender, young Malay boy, a Negro, a Mexican, a Chinese, perhaps, crushed under a pile of cops.
Pulling baseball bats and bicycle chains, they charge. Many of the opposition fainted at the sight; and the weaker ones had heart attacks.
What remained summoned something so ugly that several hippies with Zen leanings faltered and said, "Let's talk this over." But the stronger hippies were strengthened and their eyes blazed while the embattled police and landed gentry flung themselves forward.
"You filthy bastards are asking for it!"
And now the two hosts are approaching each other. Then a sound like falling mountains...
"The Tip! The Tip! The Tip!"
A wall of gray mud, twenty feet tall, is sweeping into the valley. Next shot shows a lunar landscape of fluid slag.
Against the icy blackness of space, the ghost face of Ali smiles.
Document Outline
Cover
Title Page
Copyrights
Contents
Burroughs On Scientology
The East Village Other - Introduction
Open Letter to Mr. Gorden Mustain
Inside Scientology by Robert Kaufman
Church of Scientology Letter to rolling Stone
William Burroughs Answer to R.Sorrell's Letter
Ali's Smile