Marty Rathbun - Journey to Nowhere (continued) - Hallmarks of a Guru

Hallmarks of a Guru 

In an Internet posting that he would not make until five years later, Rathbun told of a bizarre incident—one that has all the hallmarks of a zealot who claims to have had a vision—a harbinger, perhaps, of his real-life mental state and his perception of self as a cult leader. 

It was a day in the spring of 2006 when Rathbun said that he lay seriously ill—even dying—in bed. 

He claimed that he hadn’t gotten out of bed in a week and, when he tried to rise the whole room swayed. 

Rathbun said the cause later became clear—that he was “dying of a broken heart and spirit.” 

He said he was living in a “surrealistic haze” and, suddenly, he sensed an urgency and Monique appeared in the doorway and said, “Mark, don’t leave me.” 

Rathbun said he came out of his near-death experience and attributes his recovery to then girlfriend—and future wife—Monique.  

As for the “surrealistic haze,”  that goes unexplained—but the type of phrasing is symptomatic of Rathbun’s obsession with self and unbridled grandiosity. 

For what sounds like a bad case of the flu is twisted into a zealot’s vision, one that would morph into a mission of hate. 

Or revenge. 

By the summer of 2006, Rathbun had sold his Seabrook home and moved to another in Ingleside on the Bay, Texas, ostensibly to be closer to “Mosey’s”  job. 

And while his bedmate Mosey took home the bacon, one can only imagine what went on as her man barely eked out a living, writing for a paper along with doing his shifts at the convenience store. 

But, while banging out tedious articles on subjects as disparate as “Tips for Aerobic Beginners” to “Tips for Safe Driving,” the disgraced former Scientologist had plenty of time to troll the underbelly of the Internet to meet up with a handful of disaffected former Church members. 

They are apostates. 

The virtual meetings made perfect sense to Rathbun. Always planted at the center of his own universe, no matter how small, the vitriolic cyber chatter and chat room rants he found a salve to his bruised ego—and gave new understanding to that strange “surrealistic haze” he underwent. 

Now, alone at a computer terminal, stroked by a handful of apostates, Rathbun wallowed again in self-pity, blaming former friends and associates of his former faith for his own transgressions. 

The apostates compose the world that finally came to him. 

By the spring of 2008, Rathbun—casting himself as the impoverished writer—made email contact with a woman who had Hollywood experience. 

He was now, in his grandiosity, planning on writing a screenplay. Again, like the failed coffee business, the experiment was short-lived. 

There were no takers. 

Struggling to bring a paycheck home, he became a “news editor” at a Gulf Coast Internet site. 

It was barely a subsistence wage but so deluded had Rathbun become that, to get the job, he hoodwinked the editor of the site into believing that he is an accomplished author—of books that he hadn’t written. 

Then, finally, with no other visible means of support, one day in February 2009 Marty Rathbun, practically broke and having failed at every one of his attempts to start a new life—and with none of his former friends to rescue him—he decided to throw away his entire life and violate every religious precept he was taught by the Founder of the Scientology religion that he once practiced. 

Rathbun turned to the Internet classified site craigslist and began advertising a paid counseling service. 

He was now an apostate.  He had become a full-fledged heretic or what the Church of Scientology calls a squirrel. 

Rathbun took on the nickname “Kingpin,” surrounding himself with the same small band of apostates and ax-grinders he had met on the Internet. 

They slavishly fawned on his every word and he, in turn, called them his “Posse.”  All disaffected liars and reprobates, they shared something in common: None of them would ever be allowed into a Church of Scientology again. 

One of the posse—in an astounding breach of civil law—presided at the wedding of Rathbun and his trusty Mosey, though he was no licensed minister or officer of the court. 

Instead, and as is always the case with Rathbun—where logic does not apply—he is Kingpin’s “best good buddy,”  someone  who Rathbun once almost killed with his bare hands in a volcanic fit of rage.     

True to form, the “marriage” did not exactly get off to a good start. 

On their so-called honeymoon to New Orleans, Rathbun and Mosey set up court in a foul-smelling bar at the corner of Toulouse and Bourbon Streets, in the heart of the Big Easy’s notorious French Quarter. 

After Rathbun left the tavern to play basketball with a street hustler on the vomit-coated street outside, a bouncer denied him re-admittance. 

Rathbun’s response was to explode in rage. Meanwhile, inside the bar an inebriated Mosey was being groped by fellow drunks and, by all accounts, was loving every minute of it. 

Outside, a bellowing and shirtless Rathbun attracted the attention of two mounted police officers who pinned him up against the wall. 

He was handcuffed and arrested for drunken and disorderly conduct. 

And true to a now established pattern of behavior, Rathbun’s bravado dissolved into pitiful sobbing in the back of the police cruiser as it sped to the drunk tank. 

Rathbun’s long, slow fall from grace was now complete. 

Booked and photographed by the New Orleans Police Department, he was officially a criminal. 

But, he is more than that. 

Rathbun is a loser—one who has destroyed and perverted everything he has come into contact with. When Church members came to visit him, simply to ask why he had misappropriated Church beliefs for his own material gain, the blustering “free-speech” advocate lapsed into silence. 

He had no answers or explanations for them. 

The next several years saw Rathbun becoming increasingly violent and erratic, lashing out at the Church of Scientology in ever-increasing fits of rage.  People who know him recognized his familiar pattern of seeking out conflicts and, where none existed, inventing them.  Many rejected him for his arrogance and obvious disdain for people. And as his rants grew more and more irrational, people knew it was only a matter of time. 

Rathbun has a very long history of making false claims about the Church and he is totally unreliable. His descent to nowhere was complete when, on 4 June 2013, he posted the his latest guru missive: “The core ideas I propose and what I do cannot be accepted under the title ‘Scientology.’ I accept that. So, there is no more reason to discuss the chapter of trying to win folk over to my ideas to the contrary. It is history.” 

Given this, his journey has reached its inevitable conclusion. 

Because of his attacks on the Church of Scientology and his alteration of the Church’s teachings, Marty Rathbun is nothing more and nothing less than a squirrel.