Tom Cruise is driving down the freeway in a black BMW.

His Sciento-sense starts to tingle as he sees a four car pile up just ahead. He skids to a halt and leaps through the roof of his sedan, flying high in the air and landing in the middle of the twisted wreckage rippling asphalt beneath him. He is calm.

“Stand back, emergency workers,” he announces. “Put down your jaws-of-life and crowbars. I am a Scientologist.”

A collective gasp is audible as the gathered crowd of firemen, paramedics and onlookers collectively take three steps back.

“Give him room,” a fireman says, “Let him do his work.”

Tom Cruise makes his way through the wreckage to the first vehicle. The smoke is thick and parching, but he can sense a woman, mid-thirties, is still alive. He claps his hands together once then parts them as if brushing back curtains. The smoke lifts. He is using his mind to keep the woman’s vitals stable. Her blood pressure and heart rate are approaching normal. She is experiencing his mixture of science and love. His Scientology.

He closes his eyes and takes two handfuls of the twisted metal encasing the woman. Anne is her name. She isn’t afraid. She is in the most capable hands in the world. The hands of a Scientologist. The hands of Tom Cruise. The car wrenches and shrieks as he cleaves the metal husk in twain. As if cracking an egg he deposits Anne safely on the ground, holding two halves of an automobile above his head. Tom Cruise heaves the vehicle skyward and it disappears; a speck over the horizon.

“How can I than…” Anne begins as a well manicured finger is pressed to her lips.

“Your thanks isn’t necessary. I’m a Scientologist. This is what we do.”