The Cult

By C.R. Jacobs

Years ago, I decided to try my hand at writing, which resulted in a plethora of novels. Incomprehensible to the likes of all beginning novelists.
This body of work shows that even a person with no formal education, nor the intro to the trade can accomplish the achievement of having a book published. I hope that you will see the basis of my writing comes from the knowledge of life and not from mass media. I had no idea the gift was in my hands, but here we are, the finished work of a high school graduatewith one class in creative writing that produced 13 novels, which I hope to have all published one day.
Please follow the incredible journey to its finish to show that the hopes and dreams of an inspired writer can come true.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503570832

C.R. Jacobs

As a human Ken Sherman seemed normal. His demeanor, the same as any other rich entrepreneur, but underneath lurked a far more sinister human being. The monster that lived within, concealed a demon, one that could devour the very souls of the stars he prayed upon. For this was his livelihood, the thing that made him the only trillionaire in history. He had a gift to make Hollywood Superstars and to propel them to fame and fortune, and to make himself rich beyond comprehension. A gift or a curse, Ken becomes the richest and smartest man on earth, all at the cost of the superstars fame and fortune.

Book preview

Chapter 1

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"C ut, cut, cut!", Jorge Woodward screamed. Usually the calmest of Hollywood directors, today, he was going hoarse. What was it with this bitch Mica? For wholesale acting, few could touch her. She hit her marks, spoke her line and almost floated around the stage. She was what all the writers and producers wanted in an actress, at least when it came to the total dollar. Mistakes, she rarely made. The space on the cutting room-floor after one of her scenes was immaculate. Thus her nickname, ‘The Immaculate Performer’. She was sweet, witty and funny, a joy to work with and the very meaning of the word ‘Star’. Yet today, she was distracted, lethargic in her movements. Failing in her recitals and even haggard looking. He would have to pounce on that new make-up crew. If this was how they worked, sloppy and inept, he’d have to replace them yet again.

As sad as it was about what happened to Ms Long, he wished he had her back. At least she could make a woman look real. He took out his wrath on Mica, Mrs. Zorn Irving. It’s that ‘X’ there Mica, not the ‘O’, not the line. The ‘X’, you stop on. Do you understand? He was out of his chair and pointing a decrepit finger at a red ‘X’ taped to the hardwood floor. The whole set crew was staring at it. Grips, the Assistant Producer, setup men and gafter alike, all were staring, all were embarrassed. None said a word.

Mica didn’t say anything either. She just moved to the mark and smiled at the raging little jew so bent on his production schedules. She’d worked with the arrogant man long enough to know silence would make him angrier than rebuttal. Besides, she had more on her mind than this stupid scene. Her husband Clint Irving was gone again. M.I.A. He had these perverse tangents he went on running around the globe saving children or feeding Chinese refugees. It made her want to puke. The sheer hypocritical thought of it all. Only this time he wasn’t jet-setting, not even close.

He’d hastily packed an overnight bag and left Mica a short note, Trouble again. was all it said. But that was enough. This situation was getting wearisome. What the coded message meant was, ‘I’ve gotten blood on my hands again’. She couldn’t count the times this had happened starting on the very day she’d converted. What a glorious beginning that had been. Fearful at once of the consequences of selling your soul, her doubts were laid to rest the moment she accepted. Just the feeling that had engulfed her, the pleasure, ease and relief from all pain and worry. It was like taking a precise pill. One specifically designed to service all those people who had grown in the religious cults worldwide. To take away all the ill preconceived notions of good and bad, heaven and hell, what was right and what was wonderfully wrong. For the world, Mica Zorn (then soon to be Mrs. Clint Irving) knew revolved around money. To her, there had never really been a God, a true religion, money controlled everything. The food one ate, or the clothes a person wore, who lived and who died, lay irreversibly tied to the cash. Whole nations perished without it. Others, like America, thrived because of it. Mica planned to never be without it again and when fame came attached, Mica was all in.

She could not believe her luck (in meeting Irving) or the fact that this bevy of soulless people roamed the earth without anyone of power knowing a thing about it. That every top star in show-business had signed on, startled even more. Then as she thought about it, how else could the magnitude of fame come along? Who had created these superstars and the media giant that propelled them forward. They were in fact, just people, flesh and blood like everyone else. Why was the allure so high and better yet, why had Mica not put this thought to mind before she’d sold her very soul?

The communication industry was an unstoppable juggernaught, driven by greed, sexual perversions and those at the top. The ‘Soul Brokers’. What a fabulous group they were. Zorn had thought after meeting them. Well, she’d just met the one in the beginning but he’d been enough to dazzle her and Mica was not easily bedazzled. Born and raised in New York, transposed to L.A. through the most prestigious of channels (starting at the bottom of course) she’d seen it all. Nothing startled or even surprised her. Meeting that one man, had changed all that. Pushing away the rapes, murders, drug addicts, child porn stars and teenagers, who’d do anything to get to the top, hell, or simply out of New York. All those terrible tragedies she’d witnessed year after horrible tear-wrenching year. Yes, and then she’d meet Ken Sherman. His friends called him Kit. He told her, instructing her, that while the name was synonymous with the famous civil war general Kit-patrick, he would be more than pleased if Mica would call him just that. She’d accepted his hand in greeting and the indulgence to call him by the general’s nickname.

Are you a general?, she asked. In a manner of speaking., he answered. She would learn of the legions he did command. But that would come later, long after the prescience feelings had made her whole, new and ready to conquer the entire west coast. She would also watch his rise to power. A behind the curtain, gradual assent, in the manner of a brain trust to the most powerful people in the nation. But, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. For when Mica had acquiesced giving in to both the wishes of her lover Clint Irving and to the always enduring promise of ‘Kit’, she began her amazing climb to fame.

There were no blood oaths, no satanic rituals, she signed no pledge. She’d simply smiled at Ken Sherman, nodded her head and said ‘by all means, she’d like to become an A-list celebrity’. Then that’s what you are., was all Kit said before leaving Mica with Clint, to enjoy the rush. When the prescience feeling abated she tried to analyze it. Compare the high with the other more notable blasts of pleasure she’d experienced. Sex wasn’t even on the table. That tired long ago, used standard, might have been as simple in comparison as a cool drink of water on a hot and thirsty day. There were the drugs, those omnipotent devices she’d tried in various quantities in L.A., New York, Mexico, while their rush, or at least the first ‘hit’ of coke or meth did have power, (you simply chased that one hit for the next day or two) those still could not compare. Not even the ‘H’ met the magnitude of relinquishing one’s ‘afterlife’ for the here and now. The trade for power, wealth and success. No, it was unique and a feeling Mica surely regretted losing.

What followed came not as individual highs. She came back to ‘normal’ or at least physically her old self. She was once again the strapping beauty she’d always been. Her fire red hair, the subject of longing from many competing actresses. She was pale white and rail thin, a force unto herself. The one thing that truly changed was that she’d didn’t have to compete anymore. No longer were there script readings, long lines at auditions or the agent who told her nothing but bad news about her future acting career. Now her agent had become a close friend, telling her on the sly that any idiot could act. Who the hell can’t memorize a line or two? She went to the top of the A-list in 6-months.

The release of a major blockbuster catapulted her to stardom. But Mica knew in her mind the agent’s words were correct. Who couldn’t do those simple shoots, hit those marks and say 30 or 40 words in tight monotones bunches. There was some power behind the success, the stardom. Besides, the action packed hit movie and Kit had introduced her to that magic. She’d made so much money so fast, it almost became mind-boggling. Before Clint Irving and his mentor Sherman came along, Mica’s checkbook read like a disaster film’s script. The red pen hash marks blotting out all cognitive tally’s of numbers. She was broke more than in the black and hungry for more than replete. Her tiny studio apartment was an embarrassment to friends and family alike and when she married Clint and moved into that sprawling mansion, she became the envy of everyone who’d shunned her. Gone were the shut off-notices replaced with 5-star invitations to red carpet affairs. Suddenly, no one could get enough of Mica Zorn Irving. A whirlwind of events all happened so fast she actually lost track of where she was suppose to go next, what party or show, what set the next performance was scheduled at. She had to hire aids to aim her in the right direction. To track her life minute by minute, to squeeze in all the glamour, the allure.

The feeling was magnificent. That was all years ago in a younger life. When such a style of living suited her best. But, as all things of want and greed do, the luster of these happy times faded, giving way to commitment, contract and production. It was a job she’d sold her soul for and that job had demands. Just like now with the small Jewish man, hands on hips spittle foaming from his lips, telling her what mark to hit. It was still work and the job had to be done before the play began. Only the play had turned deadly and Clint was gone again. Her worry showed in her performance but, more than that, it weighed heavily on her mind. There were things bigger than stardom and one of them was society in general. These killings and flagrant disregard for Law and Justice could very well be their downfall, not Ken Sherman, for all his worth, he was untouchable. It was herself and her husband she worried about. Why so many deaths? How had that become part of the deal, the commitment, the sole of the soul?

She was mulling all this over in her mind when Jorge Woodward took his seat. Action!, she heard him cry. Mechanically and without thought she went thru the motions, reciting her lines, hitting the different colored duct tapes as if she were a programmed robot. Her mind kept searching for Clint, what had gone so wrong this time? He was in counsel with Kit, of this she was sure. It would become the usual process, throwing piles of money at police, judges and politicians. Keeping the ones in the know separate from the nonbelievers, covering evidence with misdirection and dirt. There would be plenty of that, she was sure, even down to burning a body if needed. In the end, the trouble would go away, it always did. These were powerful people and money spoke volumes when it came to convincing the authorities that they had to look elsewhere to concentrate on other problems. How long could they keep this charade going? She’d heard this group went all the way back to Chaplin, Betty Boop and Laural and Hardy. How deeply had those jokers gotten involved? She found herself almost laughing at the comedy of it all. That characters, that far back could have done what she and Clint had done. How much further might it have gone? The playhouses of the civil war, had President Lincoln watched the troupe of monsters that were no different than herself and Clint? What about the Roman’s or the Greek drama teams, had toga party’s been laced with the soulless monsters that today Cruz Broadway, Soho and Hollywood boulevard? Had Christ seen these demons? Are they the ones he drove out of the two men at Gergesenes when he forced them into the pigs and sent them to their deaths on the sharp rocks at the base of the cliff?

This time she did laugh, just as she heard the spiteful jew bellow, Cut, it’s a wrap! The laughter was only a girlish giggle she knew this was deadly serious and whatever was happening with her husband. She had better keep herself informed. Jorge frowned at her as she exited the stage. Actors. He said under his breath. Who can figure them out?

Chapter 2

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A cold wind blew on the backs of the two men. Only one had his collar turned high against the chill. It was the only defense the sun was losing a battle with the iron gray-clouds slipping in and out of the dark thunderheads in the last moments of daylight. The man on the right shivered. He wasn’t sure if the goose-bumps were the product of the cold or the gravesite they stood examining. A headstone, like a thousand others surrounding them, told a name and a date, that was all. No wife had proclaimed her love for the unturned, nor children expressing the robust and joyous times spent in the now decayed arms of their father or whoever lay buried down below. Clint Irving had never been privy to that information and what did it matter anyhow? The uncelebrated father, the husband who no wife cheered, stood next to him graveside staring just as Clint was at the rotting leaves and unkempt grass that covered the site.

They’d been standing here over 5-minutes in silence. Irving cleared his throat to get the conversation going. More problems I suppose?, Ken ‘Kit’ Sherman answered. He was certain Irving was in trouble, wallowing in quagmires was what the man did when he wasn’t being unfaithful to his wife. If ever a man pushed the limits of anger in him, it was the one shivering next to him now. He almost felt like adding Irving to the ground, soft and waiting at his feet. Then, quickly pushed such foolish notions away. That was exactly why Clint was here no doubt. To beg for help, poor planning and untidy deposits. He would address the problem and be done with it. There was no choice now. He heard Irving’s feeble answer. Nothing serious., he hesitated, as if embarrassed by what he was about to reveal. It was another make-up girl. Now, Kit did turn. He bore down on Irving whom he towered over at 6′ foot 6″. Kit hovered above most men. Another one!, his voice deep in bass sounded frightening in the venue where they stood. Darkness was coming fast. Halloween had just passed and if an angry black cat had run from behind the gravestone, Clint would not have flinched one bit. The whole charade was frightening. Nothing could scare him more than he was at this moment. He tried to stop his knees from knocking but that was impossible. Between the cold and ‘Lon Chaney’ here, he had plenty to shake about. What are you doing, trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for who can kill the most cosmetologists in one year? On a normal day, this might have been funny to Irving. He’d become so numb to death and deception to hide the secrets, his secrets as well as Kit’s, that he’d lost all sense of morality. The right and wrong factor were gone from the equation. But, there would be no laughing here, no, not now and definitely not in front of this grave.

She saw the marks, there was nothing else I could do. Sherman angrily waved a dismissive hand at Irving, Ahh! The marks, I’m sick of hearing about the them. The big hand clenched into an angry fist as Sherman brought it back to his side. He turned his face back to the grave as if solace resided in the crypt below. He was thinking hard. This transparency might yet be the undoing of them all. There had to be a way to get control of it. To stop the ‘normal’ humans from feeling, touching or even seeing the small windows into his charges mind. That opening, no matter how small had to be closed. There fading, Sherman knew that part of the price paid for stardom was this gradual decline. A thinning process that ate away bone and flesh. It caused no health concern’s this he knew for a fact. For there were pro-athletes who’d transferred their souls to his domain. Football players, basketball and baseball. All stars, even boxers, although there life expectancy wasn’t nearly as long as a Hollywood icon, they lived glory-and productive lives. Only now, was the concussion, obstacle, starting to interfere in the N.F.L.. Too many players were getting their brains rattled. Suicides had come into the equation and one or two top stars had specifically asked for in-depth autopsies. The one’s who’d sold Kit their souls had a big surprise coming on the other side. An agreement was an agreement. There was no rising to the top of the heap, raking in the hundreds of millions of dollars in pro-contracts, endorsements and fame, then changing your mind. Oh no, this, to coin a phrase was the big leagues.

There was no turning back. The only way out was the inevitable box 6' below the cold wet earth. Even that was no out, only the beginning of a new set of down’s. With all his power in government, the upper echelon of society, Kit wished he could resolve this one lone flaw to the system. Divert a billion dollars and a full team of M.I.T. scientists to fix the problem. To research and correct this fading of the flesh. For Sherman knew that’s what was truly occurring with the absence of the soul. The body was slowly, ever so slowly deteriorating. Becoming a thing, rather than a person. For no one could hope to survive without his spirit, his aura. The only thing that kept them going was the promise Sherman himself gave them. A personal clock he didn’t necessarily control, but activated a temporary time frame, allotted to each star. That gave them the chance at years of a spectacular lifestyle. No more no less. A simple exchange that’s all it was. If the subject was an atheist, the choice was simple, a real ‘no brainer’. If there was no afterlife, there was nothing to lose. Kit laughed the hardest when their souls were taken. What type of childish mind could ignore history. All the way back to the very original texts, the writings have explained of ‘other’ beings presence on the earth. Gods, aliens and avatars. All claimed a spiritual connection to man, earth and the sky’s. Yet, some people, the non-believers discredited these scripts. The old ones he couldn’t understand the traditions, Bibles and legacies.

The new one, he controlled there, the media. That idiot box that the other mortals invested so much time in watching hypnotized day and night by the very doctrine Sherman hose to implant in their minds, their beings, their souls. He could never understand how he got away with it all. The brain washing. Oh there been that time decades ago, when his subliminal messaging had been discovered. That was almost real trouble but, he’d made billions selling the ads to Coke, the tobacco companies and pharmaceuticals that he managed to cover it over. Hide it in the blink of an eye so to speak. It had taken all his media and political influence to pull off that farce. He’d done it though and learned from the experience.

That he had bluffed a large portion of the nation was irrelevant, what was important came in the fact that he’d learned mass media Broadcasting reached further than any off-air system ever created. People were addicted to the television. That color, (after the 50’s) the brilliance, it was a hypnotic medium that if used correctly, could guide Presidents to office. Convict adversaries who were all but innocent and topple figureheads in scandal, seduction and adultery. He loved every blessed millivolt of the machine. He began his campaign early to push his minions into power. The higher seats of movie, T.V. and Broadcasting were what he needed. But there was competition for those slots. Other people, not of his guild (guild, get it?) also saw the enormous power potential of the market. Gangsters, politicians, entrepreneurs, all soothsayers in their own rights knew that this signal controlled device was the future. As all good investors knew, seeing what was to come long before it happened was the key to success. To beat the competition by any means possible, to create, develop and market a product. To get your proverbial foot in the door.

Ken Sherman knew this better than anyone and he attacked with a solution none of the other moguls could hope to contend with. He had trade. The exchange of souls, so to speak, for he was the broker. The buyer and the seller. His people would rise to the top. Engulf the industry, build it with his bare hands from the cutting room floor up. His men, the Jews who survived the Nazis, the concentration camps and sure death in Europe. They were the ones he approached for they had already given up on God and the higher powers. They wanted salvation. A new and rewarding start in the country dreams were made of. They’d give anything to get away from what they’d left behind across the ocean. To use their talents as thrifts, penny pinchers and accounts for the good of their loved ones, the families who’d lost everything. Yes, they were done with the Hebrew God who’d left them to perish under Hitler. They worshiped a new Lord and prayed to a symbol instead of an entity. The dollar bill became their moniker. The leader they followed and when Kit approached the highest in their clan with his proposition, he was greeted with smiles, welcomes and a sworn allegiance that would carry on to the next millennium. Yes, they sold their souls. Only the top men and women. A few handpicked representatives who could sway those others who were so desperately needed. For the elders, all saw the winning quest that Kit offered and within a few short years the industry began to flourish.

The rest was a simple task. To sway an overly eager audience with the graft and cunning of a master criminal. That was the easy part. For that is what Ken Sherman was, like all those before him in power. He was a great deceiver and he would have what he wanted. Now at his own gravesite, he spoke to the crypt below, not to Clint Irving. Kit was old and tired. He wanted this nonsense with the make-up artist resolved. I’m going to fix the marks as call them eventually. But for now, what did you do with the girl? Irving looked embarrassed. A slight pink glow forming on his already wind chapped cheeks. He’d been foolish in the way he’d dispose of Suzy Long’s body. Sherman was a cynical old man, callous and arrogant. He liked things done in a neat and orderly fashion. That Clint assumed came from old age. The boredom of life compounding itself on a person with nothing left to do.

Clint was the polar opposite. He was teaming with vigor. Held very little seriousness in anything he did and was at best, lazy. Dragging a stinking corpse around downtown L.A. that evening was not on his list of fun things to do. And the way he disposed of the corpse shown that sloth to its fullest. Kit was not going to be happy with Sherman’s next few words. I dropped her in the dumpster., he said. If he kept his answers short, that might give Kit less ammo to attack with. How original., the grizzled elderly man said. That might make it look like a mugging or a sexual assault. You didn’t rape her did you? I’m a married man!, Irving said, his voice rising in mock defiance. The Bravado was short lived, he was a known skirt chaser. The tabloids were full of articles exploiting his handiwork. Also, Sherman knew there was some perversion associated with Clint, his marriage and local call girls. It was not a good defense. Yes, I see that in the papers all the time. The statement was facetious and Irving changed his look of scorn to one of hurt. Kit brightened his demeanor by sallying the disposal, It can be worked with, the dumpster. No one else saw anything, I take it? Clint shook his head. If he said nothing, the old grouch had little to attack him with. He was cold and he needed a drink. Standing out here in a cold cemetery was beginning to take its toll. Darkness had all but set in. Off in the distance street lights on Jackson Ave fed small slivers of light in their direction. He tried not to look at Sherman who in these fluorescent beams glowed hideously in the chilled night air. It was time to wrap this thing to a close.

Clint began to shuffle his feet, hoping to show his impatience. All he got was rebuke for a reward. Stop fidgeting like a child! If you’d act like a man and think, we wouldn’t have to have these little talks. Kit was back to grave watching and Clint wondered what the tea tattler would think if he withdrew his flask of bourbon and took a swallow. Just the thought of