The quaint house nestled just a stone's throw from the bustling heart of Brooklyn, New York, was a mere few hours' drive away. Jon and Nancy, a duo bound by their newfound business, had been tirelessly shuttling to and from the city. Their days were consumed with the meticulous establishment of their exorcism enterprise. They had secured a modest storefront in the shadow of Brooklyn's sprawling urbanity, and there they grappled with the myriad tasks of setting up shop: negotiating contracts, overseeing renovations, and drumming up publicity. After a relentless week, their efforts began to coalesce into something resembling routine.
***
Elsewhere, the enigmatic Yoriichi Type Zero was making headway of a different kind.
On a road that seemed to stretch into oblivion, a white van ambled along at a leisurely pace. The driver, a seasoned man of the road, was accompanied by a solitary passenger. The figure was draped in a black robe, an array of six samurai swords strapped to his back, his long hair cascading down in a manner reminiscent of a warrior from Japan's storied Sengoku period.
Indeed, this was Yoriichi Type Zero.
The driver, a man of few words, steered with practiced ease. It wasn't that he was averse to conversation; on the contrary, the sight of his passenger's unusual attire and distinctly Asian features had piqued his curiosity. Yet, despite his inclination to engage, Yoriichi Type Zero remained an enigma, ensconced in silence, leaving the driver to contend with his own thoughts.
The monotony of the journey, a path well-trodden, was typically punctuated by the idle chatter of passengers. But this silent companion was as inanimate as timber, offering no such reprieve.
And yet, he did resemble timber in more ways than one.
As the van continued its journey, the driver's attention was caught by a figure ahead, gesturing eagerly for a ride. The driver's instinct was to consult his passenger, but recalling the man's reticent nature, he almost dismissed the idea.
"Let… him on," came a sudden, unexpected command.
The voice was light, tinged with a husky quality, and Yoriichi Type Zero's English was impeccably fluent. The driver, taken aback by this sudden break in silence, could only react.
With a deft motion, he applied the brakes, bringing the van to a gentle halt.
The hitchhiker, upon noticing the van's acquiescence, hastened towards them, his gait peculiar and his arms flailing with the weight of a cumbersome parcel. His movements were theatrical, betraying an oddity that did not sit well with the driver.
"My God, are you certain we should be doing this?" the driver muttered under his breath, casting a sidelong glance at Yoriichi Type Zero. The warrior, however, remained as stoic as ever, his gaze fixed ahead, betraying no hint of second thoughts.
The driver's unease was palpable as he scrutinized the hitchhiker's peculiar features through the rearview mirror. The man's sparse, long hair, crooked mouth, and the prominent birthmark marring his face painted a portrait of the atypical.
"There's a slaughterhouse not far from here," the driver ventured, his voice tinged with suspicion. "I've heard tales of a deranged family in these parts, preying on lone travelers. They say those who work at the slaughterhouse carry a certain... aura."
Yoriichi Type Zero remained an impassive sentinel in the backseat.
"...Alright, don't say I didn't warn you!" the driver added with a note of finality.
The hitchhiker, oblivious to the driver's apprehension, contorted his body into the van with an awkwardness that seemed to underscore the driver's fears.
Once the door was shut, the van resumed its journey, and the driver, seeking to pierce the silence, asked, "Where to, friend?"
The hitchhiker's speech was labored, his crooked mouth struggling with each word. "South... the South!"
"Do you work down there?" the driver probed, his curiosity piqued despite his better judgment.
"Oh, no!" came the hitchhiker's reply.
"Then what's your business on this lonely road?" the driver pressed, his need for conversation outweighing the discomfort of their strange new passenger.
Pointing out the window, the hitchhiker stuttered, "I... I've visited the slaughterhouse. My brother, he works there! Oh... and my grandfather too!"
He flashed a simple, unsettling smile. "My family, we've always been in the beef trade!"
The driver, now somewhat engaged, asked, "Ever been to the killing floor? I'm not sure if that's what they call it—the place where they use a bolt gun on the cows?"
At the mention of the bolt gun, the hitchhiker's expression darkened. "Using... using a bolt gun isn't right! The old way, with a hefty hammer, that's the way!"
He mimed a hammer blow with his fist, a macabre chuckle escaping his lips. "That's better, the cows die more peacefully!"
The driver, taken aback, countered, "Surely the bolt gun is more humane. It's quick, instantaneous."
"Oh, no..." The hitchhiker's face twisted with distaste. "With the new methods... there's been too many mistakes!"
"You've done it then?" the driver inquired, his curiosity now a mix of intrigue and dread.
The hitchhiker nodded eagerly, rummaging through his bag before producing a crumpled photograph. "Look... look!" he insisted, thrusting the photo towards the driver, who was obviously unable to take it.
Yoriichi Type Zero, silent until now, reached out with a swift motion and took the photograph, examining it with a discerning eye.
"I'm a butcher!" the hitchhiker declared proudly, his laughter echoing unsettlingly within the confines of the van.
The photograph in Yoriichi Type Zero's hands was a tableau of carnage, a grotesque still life of bovine destruction. The images were a stark testament to the brutality of the slaughterhouse: cows felled by hammers, their bodies strewn haphazardly, the ground beneath them a canvas of blood.
Yet, Yoriichi Type Zero, a marionette imbued with temporary vitality by Jon's hand, displayed no revulsion. His gaze was impassive, the horrors of the photo failing to elicit any sign of human disgust.
"What's that you're looking at?" the driver asked, his voice a mix of curiosity and trepidation.
"Massacre," Yoriichi Type Zero stated simply, his voice devoid of emotion.
The hitchhiker, undeterred by the grim turn of conversation, launched into a macabre description. "They craft head meat sausages there. Boil the heads, strip everything but the tongue. Scrape the flesh from the skull. They're thorough, you see—neck meat, muscles, even the eyes and tendons. They stew the nose and gums into a gelatinous mass. It's considered a delicacy. Do you fancy such things?"
The driver recoiled, his stomach churning. "Oh, my God! Let's not talk about this anymore. It's vile!"
Unfazed by the driver's discomfort, the hitchhiker's expression contorted into a grotesque smile as he produced an old-fashioned camera. He aimed it at Yoriichi Type Zero and the driver, and with a mechanical click and a harsh flash, he captured the moment.
"Hey, are you taking our picture?" the driver protested, his voice laced with annoyance. "Don't do that again. It's dangerous on this road. A flash in my eyes could end us both in a ditch!"
The hitchhiker, seemingly oblivious to the driver's agitation, carefully extracted an undeveloped photo from the camera and extended it towards Yoriichi Type Zero with deliberate slowness.
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