Chapter 141: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

Yoriichi Type Zero accepted the photograph with a stoic grace, his eyes scrutinizing the image with a detective's precision. The photograph depicted him, Yoriichi Type Zero, sitting in the car, his form blurred and indistinct, a victim of shoddy craftsmanship.

"This is a masterpiece, isn't it?" the man guffawed, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he thrust a greedy hand towards Yoriichi Type Zero. "Cough up the cash for this gem, will ya?"

Yoriichi Type Zero's response was nothing but a piercing silence, but the driver couldn't contain his bewilderment. "You're joking, right? Since when do we pay for unsolicited snapshots?"

"Two bucks is a steal for a piece of art like this!" the man persisted, his grin unfaltering.

Yet, Yoriichi Type Zero's eyes remained as frosty as a winter's gale. With a swift, decisive movement, he tore the photograph in two, the sound of ripping paper slicing through the tension.

The man's face contorted with rage. "What the hell, man? You destroy my work and now you owe me five bucks for the trouble!"

Without a word, Yoriichi Type Zero rolled down the window and let the fragments of the photo flutter away into the wind like leaves in a storm.

"You son of a—!" The man's insult was cut short as he whipped out a folding knife, his intentions as clear as the blade he brandished.

He lunged, aiming for Yoriichi Type Zero's neck with a wild desperation.

But let's not forget, Yoriichi Type Zero was no ordinary man. His body, a fortress of wood and iron, and his skills with the blade were legendary. He was a warrior, not a man to be trifled with by some deranged roadside thug.

In a fluid motion that seemed to defy time itself, Yoriichi Type Zero unsheathed his sword. The air hummed with the sound of steel, and with a technique both beautiful and terrible, he struck. The man's throat met the sword's edge, and in an instant, his life was severed as easily as the photograph had been.

Blood erupted in a gruesome fountain, and the man crumpled to the ground, his body still in death.

The driver's scream was a raw, primal thing. "Holy crap!"

He slammed on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt that echoed the scream. The world outside seemed to freeze, the only movement the slow spread of blood seeping into the earth.

"You killed someone in my car?! Are you out of your mind?! What the hell is wrong with you?!" the driver's voice was a cocktail of fear and fury, his eyes wide with the horror of what had unfolded in his backseat.

Yoriichi Type Zero remained silent. His back to the driver, he was an unreadable statue, his gaze hidden, but it was laden with a lethal intent that could freeze the blood of any man who witnessed it. Had the driver seen the look in Yoriichi Type Zero's eyes, he would not have dared to raise his voice, not if he had the courage of a lion.

"Get out now, and take that maniac's corpse with you, immediately!" the driver demanded, his voice quivering with a mix of authority and fear.

Without a word, Yoriichi Type Zero rose. His movements were precise, almost mechanical, as he grasped the lifeless body with one hand and dragged it from the car with an ease that belied its weight.

In the desolate quiet of the area, Yoriichi Type Zero set to work. His hands, though made of wood and iron, moved with the skill of a master surgeon, dismembering the body into countless pieces, each indistinguishable from the next. He buried them in various locations, ensuring that the remains would not be easily connected or identified.

The seclusion of the place was his ally, and the chances of discovery were slim. Even if the remains were found, Yoriichi Type Zero would have long since returned to his inanimate puppet form, safely ensconced within Jon's spatial backpack. The investigative methods of the time were not advanced enough to trace the deed back to him. And in this remote place, where the victim was a man of little consequence, Yoriichi Type Zero knew the unfortunate truth of the era's prejudices—they would likely blame an innocent person of color.

Yoriichi Type Zero had not yet been entrusted with the "Hellfire" by Jon, lacking the means to incinerate the body swiftly. This mission was a test of Yoriichi Type Zero's capabilities.

Jon's task for Yoriichi Type Zero was clear: eliminate the family of Leatherface, the notorious antagonist of the "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" series. Leatherface, known as one of America's four major killers, was a human devoid of supernatural abilities, his methods of murder as straightforward as they were savage.

Behind Leatherface was a family as deranged as he, a clan of killers, and the man Yoriichi Type Zero had just dispatched was one of them.

Jon had chosen this target for Yoriichi Type Zero as a preliminary test. Should he pass, the hellfire would be his, and with it, the responsibility to confront the myriad of malevolent entities that plagued the world.

With the body disposed of, Yoriichi Type Zero sheathed his sword and proceeded on his mission. He had information from Jon, enough to identify the members of Leatherface's family. Jon had cautioned him to be certain of his targets before striking, to avoid any unnecessary bloodshed.

Yoriichi Type Zero's journey led him to a gas station, a solitary figure against the backdrop of the mundane. He had no vehicle, an anomaly in these parts, which drew the attention of the gas station owner.

"You look unfamiliar; you're not from around here, are you? And you didn't come by car, how did you get here?!" the owner inquired, his curiosity piqued by the stranger before him.

Yoriichi Type Zero's silence was a canvas for the gas station owner's growing unease. The photograph, a simple depiction of a white house, seemed to carry a weight far beyond its physical presence. When Yoriichi Type Zero finally spoke, his voice was as cold as the steel of his swords, "Have you seen this place?"

The owner's reaction was immediate, his face a mask of poorly concealed alarm. "What... what are you going to do there?" he stammered, his eyes darting to the photo and back to the enigmatic figure before him.

"A friend of mine has vanished," Yoriichi Type Zero explained, his tone flat, betraying no hint of concern. "My search has led me to believe that his disappearance is connected to this house."

The owner's eyes flickered with a shadow of something – fear, perhaps, or guilt. "You mean... you think the criminal is in that house?" he ventured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Yoriichi Type Zero's response was not in words but in the continued, unsettling stillness of his gaze upon the photograph.

"And what do you plan to do?" the owner pressed, a tremor in his voice.

"... An eye for an eye," came the chilling reply.

The owner recoiled as if struck. The six swords at Yoriichi Type Zero's waist suddenly seemed to loom larger in his vision, and a realization dawned upon him – this was no ordinary man. This was a being of vengeance, perhaps a merciless samurai from a land steeped in the art of war.

The owner, despite his high standing within the twisted family, knew his own limitations in combat. The true muscle lay with Leatherface, the brutish enforcer of their clan, treated as nothing more than a tool due to his simple mind and grotesque appearance.

The photograph Yoriichi Type Zero held was a testament to his diligence – he had done his homework. The information from Jon had been thorough, and now he stood on the precipice of retribution.

The owner's initial fear gave way to a calculated calm as he considered the situation. Yoriichi Type Zero was but one man, and the owner's family was many. Surely, this lone avenger could not pose a significant threat to their collective might.

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