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Kakuzu shuts off his coupe, cutting off the preacher man ranting and raving on the radio, spewing tall tales of brimstone and hellfire and damnation. Slamming the door, adjusting the tie on his well-fitting suit, and making sure his gun is properly slung in its concealed shoulder holster, bullet in the chamber. Smoothing his hair into place in the reflection of the window, he dons his brimmed hat and starts off for the yard.
Step one: Establish an aesthetic!
Hey, looks are important after all. It doesn’t matter which one you pick—whether you choose orange robes or prairie dresses or matching sneakers—just as long as you really commit to the bit. Marketing is important, and it’s pivotal to separate yourself from all the other sects, have a gimmick, and stick to it.
Taking stock of the decrepit trailer house as he moves—chipped and fading, makeshift billboards made of weathered cardboard and stolen road signs, advertising fortune telling and palm readings and matchmaking services. The dual high peaks of the acute mountain range loom above, the first break from the flat, dry land for hours of driving, guardians over the barren landscape.
A place where the veil draws thin. Stories of the paranormal and unexplained, of unidentified flying objects and mythical creatures, blossom in the bosom's valley of the mountain pass. The only road to cross the desert, the only route to cross the mountains.
Solar panels and garden beds line the side yard, built with scrap lumber and recycled metal, full of green herbs and bountiful vegetables—they must have a decent well here—and a band of free-roaming chickens clucks about the yard pecking and preening.
Barefoot hippie-dippie late teens with waist-length hair spinning and dancing gaily in the so-called yard pay Kakuzu no mind as he approaches. Flower children, crowns of weeds and small blossoms, long flowy cotton skirts, and bare breasts bouncing in the sun. A handful of young men sitting in the meager shadow of the trailer plucking at poorly tuned guitars and off-beating-ly pounding on small drums.
Kakuzu can smell the reefer from here, but at least this group prioritizes attractiveness, pretty girls, and handsome boys. Young and free, radiating an energy of healthiness and happiness. Meticulously planned, from the looks of it. The clothing is retro—bought from thrift stores and rummage sales—carefully curated to give off that pseudo-woodstock vibe they’re clearly going for here.
It is refreshing, he supposes, compared to the years he’s spent in tents of fake gypsies in cheap chemically smelling plastic costumes they’ve bought off from the party store.
One of the young men rises, calmly taking aesthetic pictures of the group on a digital camera. A ruse, as it points for a snapshot of his license plate, and when it aims in his direction, Kakuzu pulls his cap down lower, closing the bare gap of skin between it and the bandana tied around the bottom half of his face.
As far as cults go, he’s seen worse.
Step two: Gather a following. Take their money.
Easier said than done, you say? People don’t want to just give away their hard-earned cash. But no fear, like leading a donkey with a carrot on a stick, you just have to have something people want—requited love, boundless ambition, exorbitant wealth, or hope. You don’t even have to provide it. Just keep promising that it will eventually come.
The bell dangles loose, hanging on by only the electrical wires, so Kakuzu knocks on the rusting screen door instead of ringing. He gives it a minute of rustling and shifting of blinds and curtains in the window before he pulls it open, a whiny creak escaping the hinges.
He knocks again, and a voice chimes cheerily from inside, “Coming!”
The door swings open, and a petite blonde woman, hair straight and parted down the middle, older than those dancing outside but not by much, lets him in. Dressed in the same period getup, one a little more mainstream than the exterior dancers, with a collared polo shirt, braless, nipples straining the fabric, and corduroy bell bottoms.
“Hello, stranger.” She bats her large, blue eyes up at him, a smile twitching on the corner of her lip. Yamanaka Ino, deputed to be the social media correspondent for the cult, is a familiar face, often the narrator and main focus of the vlogs they put out. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Kakuzu highly doubts that. If they'd seen him coming, they would've all been long gone by now—of course, she’s probably talking about the security cameras on the boundaries of the property and not the false premonitions this cult uses to procure wealth and social media influence.
She leads him into a living area. Bunk beds and cots and futon couches shoved against walls, new-age-y crystals and paraphernalia on every available surface, yellowed smoke curling about the corners of the room. Old rock and roll vinyls spin on a modern record player, connected to bluetooth speakers.
A gaggle of women lounge about on the crammed-in furniture and the high shag and faux fur rugs on the floor, each with a shiny silver laptop and a mic’d headset, mindfully positioned to not catch any of the others in the background of their shots. An assortment of divining tools are in use: card decks, pendulums, and tea grounds. Each has a personalized grimoire, decorated leather-bound booklets with gold-leafed edges, containing scripts for calling upon the spirits that drive the internet sucker on the other end of the video to stay on the call and spend more time racking up the pay-by-the-minute bill.
The lines stay busy. Each time one of the chatting women switches off a call, someone esle is already queued up and ready to go.
Step three: Get yourself some bad press.
Tabloids or daytime TV. Any publicity is good publicity, especially when it’s free—and even better when hungry reporters are trying to get the scoop on your trendy little cult, willing to pay through their (company’s) teeth to get a first-hand interview and give your project credibility on the streets. Everybody loves a conspiracy these days, and with the mistrust of mainstream media, well, why wouldn’t people look into this so-called cult themselves?
“Take your pick,” Ino gestures around the room, a smile glued on her face as she runs the pre-rehearsed lines for those so desperate for their fortunes they’ve braved the harsh desert or rugged mountain passes to come all the way out here. She has a talent for this, with a sharp mind for picking out a person’s weakness. “All of our certified mediums are wonderful. Able to foresee and help you with all of your problems.”
“I don’t want any part of your telemarketing phone hoax,” Kakuzu states sternly. He’s here for one thing, and one thing only. “I want an authentic psychic.”
“All our psychics—”
Her words cut abruptly off when Kakuzu pulls out an envelope stuffed with cold, hard cash. Prices have gone up as of late—he can remember when one’s future could be bought for a mere quarter. But those days have long since passed, and one in his line of work must keep up with the times.
“The real deal,” he emphasizes as she takes the thick, white envelope from him, folded in half and rubber-banded into place.
Stripping off the elastic, tossing it around her wrist, and thumbing through the bills, she nods her head with a newfound enthusiasm, “The real deal. Right this way.”
Kakuzu follows her down the narrow hall, a soft spot of rotting wooden boards beneath the carpet in the middle. A lava lamp atop a small buffet table sits between two doors, latched and padlocked shut from the outside, with new, tamper-proof combination locks.
Step four: Gather weapons.
Stockpile. Stockpile. Stockpile. There are many harrowing possibilities for the future. Take precautions and plan for them all. Seeds for sowing and shelf-stable essentials. batteries and drinking water. Guns and ammo, ranging from machine guns to pistols, and be sure you know how to use them! Set up a dedicated guard force to protect your group from outsiders. (Or more non-complying members)
Passing through two layers of beaded curtains hung on the last doorway, they make their way into the dim den. Dark wood paneling on the walls, sparkles in the ceiling, and a deep shag carpet.
A blonde man sits in an armchair facing the door. A pile of crushed beer cans sits on the floor beside him. A vintage band tee, ripped jeans, and orange aviator sunglasses with a mustache and chops worthy of a leading role in a porno, ignoring Kakuzu’s entrance to roll a fat joint. He has no visible weapons, except the biceps straining his shirt sleeves.
A handful of computer screens in the corner, flickering through a loop of cam feeds from the property, manned by a bored-looking raven-haired man, similarly dressed, although lacking the sleazy facial hair. He’s also editing video footage of staged sessions with the lesser mediums to upload to social media sites and apps, with a tray off to the side with neat little white lines, ready to be inhaled.
But the prize sits at the table in the center of the room, silhouetted, backlit by the blue hue of the computer screens, looking like a dream as squares of light reflecting off the spinning disco ball above dance over her features, just as picturesquely as depicted online. Haruno Sakura, renowned online psychic medium.
The oddest thing is, she does look like a psychic, in a strange adult cam girl sort of way. Billowy sheer pink nylon drapes elegantly on her body, down her chair, and pools on the floor below. She’s covered in the fabric, tied at the neck and gathered at the wrists. Knees pulled up and braced against the table, ankles crossed and resting on the seat of her chair.
Step five: Select a figurehead.
It can be you, it can be the smiling face of a pretty young woman, someone recognizable, someone the group will listen to. This is the voice of your truth, the shepherd calling for all the lost lambs. Well educated, well spoken, well dressed.
Pink hair spills down her back, held back from her face with a thick silk headband. Rings of gold and silver and gemstone catch in the light as her hands work diligently, flipping through an amalgamation of cards—tarot, playing, oracle, and several punch cards to restaurants in the nearby town. Kakuzu’s seen nearly all of them. Combing through still after still, video after video, a notebook full of her interpretations to cross-reference for legitimacy. He’s not been absent from a live stream of hers since stumbling upon the cult's internet presence.
Almost always, these kinds of things are shams. Charlatans and quacks like the aforementioned Ino trying to make an easy buck by being good at reading people. But once in a while, with dedicated time and searching, learning to authenticate what is fact and what is fiction, Kakuzu finds exactly what he is searching for.
The divine intuition, the sixth sense, the ability to seer. It comes from an amalgamation of sources, inherited or gifted in a will, the product of a cursed spell or haunted object. Better to get his hands on it when its welder is young, untrained, and easily malleable to his whims and desires.
The blonde woman hands Kakuzu’s money to the man at the computer, who slides it from the envelope and into a cash counter machine. Once it rolls through, he tucks it into a safe under the desk and gives a nod to the third and final man in the room, standing with his arms crossed, leaning on the wall behind the table.
Ex-military, long and lean. He's definitely packing, dressed in old fatigues—camo cargo pants with a matching jacket, fully buttoned from neck to wrists, and broken-in army boots. Looking both completely at ease and ready to pounce simultaneously. Deep silver hair spills from the bottom of a ball cap pulled low on his brow, and a cloth medical mask stretches over the bottom half of his face.
Step six: Control, Control, Control.
The more control, the better. Choose what your followers eat and what they wear. Where they live. Who they date. When they sleep, when they wake. The more of their pitiful lives that they can dedicate to your cult, the better!
Kakuzu’s not the only one with secrets to keep, it seems.
He strides across to take the empty chair across the table. Hackles raised with the mysterious soldier at his back, he drags the seat back, scraping the wood on the floor, and sits.
Sakura looks up at him through long pink lashes, repeatedly shuffling the cards in an overhand method. Two diamond studs in the lobes of each ear and a gold hoop through the cartilage of one. A thin ring looped through her septum, fitted tight to the underside of her nose, and two small studs on the side of one nostril. A purple gem is affixed to the center of her forehead, glinting when the twirling lights catch it.
She cocks her head at him, eyes roving over his form. Her face is clear and free of make-up, with a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, her skin taking on a bluish hue in the low lighting.
“Well?” Kakuzu takes off his hat, setting it down on the table, giving a direct connection to the little picture tucked into the inner band. “Go on then and tell me my future.”
“Why are you here?” Sakura laughs lightly, shaking her head a little. Her hands don’t stop moving, don’t stop shifting the energy forming in the cards. She’s talented at drawing and reading the cards—with all the various tools, really. The incredulous ability to channel through nearly anything she touches. “You seem like a man much too serious for all of this.”
“Isn’t that what you're supposed to tell me?” He counters, bracing his arms on the table and lacing his fingers together, twiddling his thumbs. The man behind him shifts closer. The man is the wrong height, the wrong build, Kakuzu reminds himself.
“One’s destiny may be vast,” she shrugs nonchalantly. “It is easier with a jumping-off point. But not necessary.”
“Whatever comes, comes,” Kakuzu states.
“You’re a skeptic.”
“I am a man of proven science.”
“Sasuke,” she calls as her shuffles slow, single cards sliding sluggishly from one hand to the other. “Will you switch the radio on?”
The man at the computer gives her a scrutinizing look before reaching over to press a button and fill the room with a quiet acoustic guitar. It's hip and folky, accompanied by banjos and steel drums and an undertone of religion, of worshiping a not-so benevolent god.
The warbling voice of the singer makes Kakuzu’s skin itch.
Or maybe it’s the suit.
Step seven: Be cautious, but not paranoid.
Don’t let paranoia be your downfall! Don’t fret. As long as your following is firmly under your thumb, there's nothing to worry about. Trust your gut. Listen to your instincts. What ever you do, don't panic, rash decisions are often poor decisions.
“Is it wealth you seek?” Sakura moves, placing her feet on the floor and holding her hands over the table, continuing her leisurely organization of the cards. One falls out face down on the table. Kakuzu keeps his eyes on her face, searching for tells as she picks up the card. It matters little to him the exact cards that get chosen, only her interpretation of the reading.
“I know how to make money,” Kakuzu states.
“So it seems. At least your ego is still intact.” She holds it between her fingers as she inspects it, a swell of energy before she slides it facedown off to the side and resumes her shuffling. “Does it come from arrogance or pride?”
“It comes with the money.”
Two cards fall out this time. Kakuzu doesn't so much as blink, looking for any indication of a lie on her pretty face. “You are searching for someone, far gone from your reach, yet closer than you think. An old friend you've fought with or a lover from the past.”
"How generic," Kakuzu says neutrally, despite the shiver that rolls down his spine. She holds two playing cards up in his line of sight, a one of hearts and a five of hearts, stuck together by a dried ring, like someone had used them as a coaster.
"Regret. Isolation. You've tried to seek them out before, but there's a block, a grievance that stands between you." She taps the five first and then the one before continuing on. "New beginnings, a revival of old relationships, a second chance at missed opportunities."
Sakura taps the edge of the deck against the table three times, trying to clear off some of the mounting energy, and does a full ruffle shuffle, bending the cards in a bridge. She pulls the top and bottom cards, a nervous frown tugs at her lips, and the music swells.
“He seeks revenge, atonement for your sins against them. He feels you have wronged him, hurt him. Abandoned and rejected, thrown away like trash.”
"He is dead."
Sakura looks at him, eye to eye for what must be minutes. The song changes, a new singer starts in on a song of infidelity. She doesn't move other than steady controlled breaths, chest rising and falling rhythmically.
The energy build and breaks and backlashes. Sakura’s nose drips three hefty drops of blood onto the next card on the deck, trance-like as she sets the pile down, pinching it between her fingers and flipping it face up on the table. Neither look at its depiction.
“Death comes.” Her head jerks back, a serious force that sends the whole chair slamming to the ground.
The room bursts into commotion, all the men jumping into action, surrounding her and administering medical attention as Kakuzu calmly rises from the table. He sweeps the various drawn cards into his hat, donning it once again, and exits the room with a “Good day, gentlemen.”
Step eight: Don’t trust the cops.
From police and local sheriff all the way up to the feds. They don’t want to get involved, nor do you want them to be. Never let any officer of the law on your property without the proper warrants. Get yourself a good lawyer on retainer.
Pacing quickly down the hall, he hastily crosses paths with Ino, rushing to assist in the commotion. Passed the locked storage rooms and out the front door. Straight to his car, he puts it in reverse, tires spinning as he cuts the wheel and guns the gas, sending the coupe in a sharp circle.
Throwing into drive, pedal to the floorboard as he takes off, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.
Kakuzu pulls off his cap, flipping through his findings. A coaster from a bar in the little town nestled in mountains nearby. He follows the winding road, switchbacks carved into the mountain face, up, up, up as the sun sinks down, down, down.
It’s dingy and dirty. A live band stands on the stage, playing enthusiastically for uninterested patrons. They sounded much better earlier, in the produced version that airs on the radio waves.
He sits at a table near the bar, the stage in full view. A bosomy waitress stops by the table, giving his mask once over and deciding it’s not her business, but takes his bottled beer order either way. He sips from the bottle, waiting and waiting.
The silver-haired lead singer avoids Kakuzu’s heady gaze but doubles down in the sensual way he grinds his pelvis against the wooden grain of the guitar as he wails into the microphone.
He heads back to the parking lot before they have finished the set.
Itachi finds him first, banjo slung around his shoulders, all the worry and anxiety of an older brother searching for answers, concerned for the safety of his younger sibling, fearing brainwashing and mind control. Conceiving no situation in which his innocent little brother could be invested in something so evil, so occult. Kakuzu reassures him of Sasuke’s rather unharmed presence.
Itachi hands Kakuzu a healthy wad of cash. He climbs into the coupe, locking the money away in the glovebox.
Sasori comes next, rhythmic steps as he approaches. He leans in through the window, hands dangling in the car’s interior, gnawing at the bit for information on his little ex-girlfriend turned internet-famous psychic. Dumped in her uprising, a scorned lover, agonizingly aching for that which he thinks was stolen from him.
Sasori hands Kakuzu a wad of cash. He tucks it away with the other.
He met the pair out East, months ago, looking to hire a person of interest. Claims of an interesting pink-haired woman capable of manipulation, coercion, and control. Before the addition of the newest member of the band and their rocket into the top-forty charts.
Step nine: Find a source of the arcane, the supernatural.
Powers of the paranormal will ensure you and your cult will outlast. True blue magic exists, if you know where to look. Collect it, make it your own.
The lead singer does not come, not until Kakuzu checks himself into the seedy pay-by-the-hour motel. He pulled the bandana from his face, stripping layers of dusty clothes and stepping into the lukewarm water running from the hard-water-clogged showerhead. He’s not inconspicuous when he finally arrives, with the rush of cool air as the steam escapes the open door. Belt clanging, the hefty sound of boots being kicked off.
A swish as the curtain parts, Hidan’s body sliding in to join Kakuzu.
“What are you doing here, you greedy motherfucker?”
The mere sound of his once friend's voice pulls at Kakuzu’s heartstrings, the urge to renounce and repent, to fall to his knees and worship. Not as a friend or pitiful lover, but as a devotee, ready to lay his sins bare at Hidan’s feet.
Hidan doesn’t touch him. Kakuzu dips his head under the running water, temped on his heated skin, mumbling, “Had a job.”
A chuckle echoes behind Kakuzu, the hot exhale of breath on his back, fingers ghosting over his skin. “Of course you did. It’s always the money with you.”
Not really, not anymore, now that he knows there’s something out there that can give him what all the money and gold and wealth in the world cannot. Now that he knows the feeling of the weight of a hefty bounty in his pocket, and the weight in his heart of his own betrayal.
“They dismembered me,” Hidan admits. The words are low, gritted through teeth. “They diced and sliced and tore me to pieces. And where the fuck were you, hmm? My most loyal little covetous fanatic ran. Draining my bank accounts and skipping town, vanishing without a trace.”
“I have found a girl—a woman.” It is not an explanation, not an excuse, not an apology. “She has great power.”
“Your sins have grown,” Hidan snorts a laugh. “A girl. Lusting, coveting, desiring that which does not belong to you. Your greed drives an ever-growing hunger inside you."
“Her skills, her talents—they could be of great use to you.”
“Did you fuck her?”
The question rolls around in Kakuzu’s head, weighing the cost of the sins, debating on which one will please Hidan the most. Adultery falls under lust, as well as a smattering of other offenses—but just as easily as he can write it off as being overtaken by sexual desire, the backlash of idolatry can come, should Hidan view it as yet another betrayal.
“There was no fornication,” Kakuzu admits, truth dripping from his tongue, no lies, no blasphemy.
“Did you want to?”
"Yes."
Step ten: Hide the bodies.
Dispose of them well. Bury them deep.
Hidan’s arms wrap around Kakuzu, one hand slipping up to cup his jaw, the other spidering lower, fingers twirling in the hair at the base of this throbbing shaft. Lower still, gripping the length tightly, a choked moan escapes Kakuzu at the pressure.
“When will you free yourself from your rapaciousness, your avariciousness?” Hidan ponders as he fists Kakuzu’s cock, too heavy-handed, the pace tortuously slow. “When will you see that materialism is no god to serve?”
“And you are?” Kakuzu bites.
“I have never led you astray.” Hidan lets go, slipping from the shower. He doesn’t bother with a towel or his clothes, drip-drying as he exits the bathroom.
Kakuzu’s hand takes its place, another sin to add to his list. Pumping hard and fast, groaning as the thought of the pretty pink psychic, blood smeared on her face, crosses his mind. He cums with a low groan, shooting his seed to be wasted and washed away down the circling drain.
He takes the time to scrub himself clean with a shabby cloth and a cheap bar of soap, shampoo and condition, taking the time to dry off his hair and body. Wrapping the towel around his waist, before exiting.
Hidan lies on the bed, hands tucked beneath his head, legs spread, erect, the thick head of his cock weeping and red. Kakuzu crawls up, settling between Hidan’s knees, bracing a hand on either side of his chest, eyes tracing the thick scars where chunks of flesh have fused back together. They did indeed cut him up good. Lines crisscross over his body, and a thick ring runs along his neck.
Kakuzu is loath to admit that he’s missed the immortal man.
“She has quite the little flock of followers,” Kakuzu holds himself up, braced so their bodies do not touch. “At least a dozen, out in the middle of the desert.”
Hidan rolls his eyes, but the majority of his wraith has ebbed away, like the little fucking hypocrite that he is, always spouting on about the dangers of such sin. Kakuzu pins Hidan to the bed by his wrists, laving his tongue over the scars they bare.
“All yours to kill, save for one.” Kakuzu whispers, tempting and taunting, lowering his body just enough for the rough texture of the towel to brush against Hidan’s throbbing dick. “Your band is already on their way. Think of your album sales, when only you and a pretty little psychic survive such a violent tragedy.”
“Pretty?” Hidan echos.
“You could feel her earlier, couldn’t you?” Kakuzu questions, letting his body weight sink onto Hidan, his own cock growing hard again, knowing just how to play him like a fiddle. Hidan's eyes are wide, pupils blown at the thought. Just another push to send him over the edge, putty in Kakuzu's hands. “Connecting us. Won’t it feel so nice–to share her in the flesh? To have her between us? She's the one who reunited us. She should get to reap the reward.”
Hidan leans forward, straining at his bonds to kiss Kakuzu. It is messy and vengeful, gnashing teeth and drool.
It is everything he's missed.