Scientology's Florida kingdom like something out of a Stephen King novel

Clearwaater -- Uniformity of look: Navy trousers, navy vest, white shirt. Ties for men, neck kerchiefs for women. Could pass for an airline crew.

Uniformity of expression: Engaging smiles.

Uniformity of thought: The journey to enlightenment. Also, something about being descended from extraterrestrials brought to Planet Earth by an intergalactic despot 75 million years ago. Although the core credo — the gospels according to the Church of Scientology — are revealed only to members who have reached the highest level of purification and “auditing,” doctrine counselling that can cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. The loftiest of echelons purportedly achieved by Tom Cruise.

Is it a religion? Is it a cult? Is it the faith equivalent of a Ponzi scheme?

In this down-on-its-heels resort town, one thing is for sure: It’s an occupying power and avaricious property-gobbling enterprise.

Since arriving in Clearwater in 1975 — founder L. Ron Hubbard, a sci-fi shlock writer, had earlier been commanding his made-up religion from four ships wandering the oceans, forbidden to dock at port after port — and establishing here its international spiritual headquarters, the “Church” has acquired more than $260 million in property, essentially commandeering the city’s downtown area as a nonincorporated Dianetics township.

Its real estate kingdom, most of which is tax exempt for religious purposes, includes the signature Fort Harrison, a hotel turned into housing for visiting Scientology adherents; the Super Powers Building (church HQ, formally called The Flag Building, Clearwater’s largest structure with a construction cost of $50 million (U.S.) when it opened four years ago); Clearwater Academy, an exclusive school for the children of Sea Org (top tier, see naval fleet original) members; The Coachman (largest Scientology library in the world, the city’s first highrise building, built in 1916); the former Clearwater Bank Building (administration offices and staff dining); Station Square (146-unit condominium); a drug rehab facility (actually a 10-minute drive from downtown, and drug-rehab means not professionally recognized counselling, mostly just mind-numbing immersion in Hubbard doorstoppers); and a colonnaded information centre where those aforementioned books and DVDs are stacked tall on tables.

Scientology-ville, the town has been called, inhabited as it is by some 2,500 church employees — the men and women identified by their uniform, few other non-aligned civvies visible on the downtown streets — and, the church claims, 10,000 parishioners who permanently reside locally.

Creepy, like stepping into a Stephen King novel or an Attack of the Zombies movie. Everybody so damned pleasant, until an interloper tries entering the flagship “Church” and is firmly led away by a security guard, deposited on the street alongside a gaggle of anti-Scientology demonstrators. (Who turned out to be Jesus-freak proselytizers, so not that different.) The church, topped with a pseudo-cross, and sitting opposite the road from the overwhelmed Peace Memorial Presbyterian Church, is where members go for advanced courses, climbing the rungs of Scientology orthodoxy — a how-to for controlling thought processes in that (alleged) part of the brain where, adherents profess, emotional problems and psychosomatic illnesses are born. Junk science and quackery, say the guys in the white coats, with the degree parchments on their office walls.

(Scientology is aggressively anti-pharmaceuticals, including antidepressants. No painkillers during labour and childbirth should be borne in silence.)

Now, most of this basic info comes via a crash course in Scientology this week, meandering around the church’s properties and watching instructional videos at the welcome centre as a potential convert.

An alien in Emerald City, me. Or the Scientology version of Vatican City, in terms of bricks and mortar holdings, and arguably even more secretive in its operations than the Holy See. But putting its photo-op celebrity devotees front and centre. Media-savvy.

And, channelling the spirit of its money-grubbing founder — “You don’t get rich writing science fiction. If you want to get rich, you start a religion,” he reportedly said — the church wants more, more, more. Because it can well afford more, more, more.

As the Tampa Bay Times reported this week, the church, which already owns 22 buildings downtown, has been manoeuvring to buy huge swathes of Clearwater real estate, pretty much the entire inner city, with the aim of creating a “master retail district” that would operate under Scientology management and oversight — a cross between Scientology theme park and commercial empire, anchored by the usual high-end shops.

David Miscavige, Scientology leader since Hubbard bit the bullet in 1986 — at which point he was being investigated for violation of federal tax laws and other statutes (his wife among 11 senior Scientologists earlier convicted of conspiracy over covert infiltration of government agencies and . . . oh hell, too much sinister history to wedge into a column) — is scheduled to meet individually with Clearwater councillors next week because few, to this point, have any idea what the church has in mind. Nor do the church’s ambitious plans require approve from council.

Some on council insist Miscavige should make his case in public, with residents attending an open meeting. But of course the church does almost nothing openly, except advocate itself — and note here that Scientology has expanded to 184 nations around the globe, claiming 260 million people have gone through its Foundation for a Drug-Free World program, and active in global emergency relief programs in 120 countries.

Since Jan. 31, the Times reported, businesses registered to a Scientology attorney bought two vacant lots on one street for $9 million, three buildings on another, totalling $11 million. Through companies registered to an Ybor City real estate broker, the church scooped up a landmark all-glass officer tower ($13 million), a nearby auto garage for $1.7 million, and through a private limited company, the Clearwater Mortgage building.

The church boasts that it has renovated, restored or newly built 1.2 million square feet of property in the city.

The Scientologists have accomplished all this, if often clandestinely, while the city flails away in its attempts to revitalize the city — though a 10-year $55-million play to reshape the waterfront and upgrade a concert venue was adopted last month.

Clearwater seems torn about between those who, however warily, are willing to pass the development (private) buck to the church and those appalled by the Scientologist big-footing. They’re in no mood for a big leap of faith with a pseudo-church widely assailed with allegations (increasingly in documentaries and reality series by members who’ve gone AWOL) of brainwashing, abuse and fraud.

In Clearwater, it’s almost impossible to avoid the chattel tentacles of Scientology. Is that Starbucks on church property? How about the cinema? Dare I eat a peach ice cream from that stand?

Sitting at a counter stool at Emily’s Diner, near the bus station — leafing through a pile of literature from the welcome centre, including back issues of the church’s official magazine — feels like clinging to a toehold of un-Scientology reality.

“What’ll you have, honey?” asks the waitress.

Unlike the Scientology bots, her geniality sounds genuine.