I'm building Gundams in America

Chapter 121 High-Level Paraplegia (Seeking Monthly Tickets)

Contrary to what many people had guessed, the psychological counseling ward was very quiet.

For prisoners whose mental state is unstable but who do not qualify for direct admission to a mental hospital, the prison guards in the psychological counseling ward have a simple approach.

Administer sedatives immediately.

If one injection doesn't work, try two. If two injections don't work, there are new drugs.

There's always a tranquilizer that's right for you.

Even if you're a super-strong prisoner, a few injections here will turn you into a good boy.

He was completely stunned, unable to cause any trouble even if he wanted to.

Of course, these all have strict inspection procedures and must be compliant.

In addition, there are also various medications and auxiliary treatments for prisoners who are clearly in good mental condition but insist that they have mental problems.

All of these were paid for out of pocket.

As long as you're not afraid of facing astronomical bills after being discharged from the hospital, everything is negotiable.

Wayne emerged from the treatment room, walked through the quiet corridor, and arrived at the activity area.

The recreational facilities here are also much more numerous than those in the high-risk prison wards below.

This includes televisions, record players, game consoles, and so on.

Wayne found a sofa, sat down, put on his headphones, and started listening to music.

In addition to West Coast rap and some American pop music, the recommended tracks also include overseas options.

The song ranked first is "Come Rich".

Wayne selected several pieces of classical Eastern music and immersed himself in the soothing melodies.

About half an hour later, a gasp came from the direction of the physiotherapy room.

Immediately afterwards, some prison guards and medical staff ran toward the physiotherapy room, and there were faint curses like "Fuck" being heard.

Wayne turned the music up loud, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

"Fuck! That son of a bitch!"

In the physiotherapy room, looking at Jose lying on the floor and the female prisoner who was in a coma, Parker couldn't help but curse.

As the head of the entire psychological counseling ward, he had always been very unhappy with Jose, a prisoner transferred from a serious crime prison.

This bastard is clearly a damn drug lord, yet he lives like an emperor in the psychological counseling ward.

Despite his dissatisfaction, he consistently provided the necessary services to the other party in a very thorough manner.

After all, Jose gave them too much.

Not to mention that the other party was someone that Deputy Warden Cent was particularly interested in.

Seeing his opponent lying on the ground with powder from the enhancer scattered all over his body, Parker was still burning with rage.

That bastard went too far.

He raped a female prisoner in the physiotherapy room and then, to make matters worse, she was intoxicated with a potent drug until she passed out. This put him, the warden of the prison area, in a very difficult position.

This time, we need to double the price.

Otherwise, even if the King of Heaven himself came, he would have to get out of here.

As the head of the psychological counseling ward at the King County Correctional Center in Seattle, Officer Parker wasn't there to clean up the mess for people like this.

Parker then asked the guards and nurses in front of him, "Who found out?"

A medical worker timidly raised her hand and said, "I came to get some medical equipment because it's in the physiotherapy room—I know the rules, so I knocked on the door first, and only came in when no one answered. And then I saw—"

Parker scratched his head, clicked his tongue, and said, "You did a good job, Ellie—what's his condition now?"

The second half of the sentence was addressed to the medical staff who were examining Jose.

A medical worker who had also received payment showed disgust on his face, shrugged and said, "There's no need for any blood test, one look is enough. It's a fucking OD reaction, his whole body is convulsing. I've already injected him with naloxone, who knows how many injections he gave himself—maybe he just ate it."

"You know, the dosage of those fentanyl drugs on the market these days isn't standardized. Who knows where he got his stock from? Maybe a single pill contains dozens of times more than he usually takes."

Taking money doesn't mean he doesn't hate these damn drug lord prisoners.

A prison guard nearby interjected, "It's like this, remember Harper? My neighbor, that cool young man who retired from the army? The one with the medals? He died last week from a drug overdose, it was fentanyl—"

Another prison guard exclaimed, "Damn, fentanyl is absolutely horrible—the president should teach Mexico a lesson, and that damn Venezuela too. I heard from the president that these drugs are being smuggled from Venezuela."

"Maduro of Venezuela is a damn drug dealer; he and his family are sucking the blood of the entire country!"

Parker waved his hand irritably and said, "Alright, get this damn Jose back—and this woman, Alice, you have to have a good talk with her when she wakes up. I don't care what Jose did to her, you absolutely can't let her tell anyone."

If all else fails, José will have to pay another hush money.

"Hey, buddy, can you still move?" The medic turned on his small flashlight and shone it into Jose's eyes, asking.

Jose blinked frantically, trying to speak but unable to utter a word; only saliva kept dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

The medical staff frowned and asked, "Buddy, how much did you actually inhale? Hey, lift your arm, take a deep breath, and then speak."

Jose did not react at all, and kept blinking, tears streaming down his face.

The will to survive once again triumphed over everything.

The medical staff frowned, suddenly recalling some cases they had encountered during their hospital internships.

He pressed hard on José's arm and said, "Brother, lift this up."

Seeing that the other party did not react, he pinched Jose's fingers with his fingernails again.

No response.

Moreover, he then discovered that Jose's finger joints and wrists looked as if they had suffered some serious injury many years ago, at least a comminuted fracture, and then without any surgery, these bones and joints had just haphazardly healed together.

It's like a board now, completely lifeless.

However, none of this matters compared to his conjecture.

He reached out and pressed on José's body inch by inch, all the way down to his neck, and José finally reacted.

The medic turned to Parker, frowning, and said, "Parker, this idiot seems to have gotten himself into high-level paraplegia—"

'

Parker asked, bewildered, "Hey, man, what the hell are you talking about? Don't use your damn medical jargon."

The medical staff patiently explained, "That means his entire body below the neck is paralyzed, and it seems he's even lost his speech function—abuse of enhancement drugs can indeed cause this, after all, the impact of this stuff on the central nervous system is just too strong—"

"In other words, he will spend the rest of his life in bed, relying on tubes to get through the rest of his days—of course, this period may only last for less than ten years before all his organs completely fail."

Parker cursed, "Fuck! Even Hawking has three more fingers than him! Why did that son of a bitch take so many enhancement drugs?! Can he still control his bank accounts now?"

The medical staff shrugged and said, "Who knows? Maybe Musk has a solution. I'm looking for eye-tracking input methods that might be useful."

O

Parker glanced at Jose lying on the ground with disgust and said, "Get him to the cell first."

He then went to Jose, squatted down, patted the man's face, shook his head and said, "Mr. Jose, it's a pity you can't enjoy the services of our prison area, but I will send you your bill. These are all automatically deducted by the bank, so you don't have to worry about not being able to pay."

After the men carried Jose away, Parker took a deep breath, pulled out his phone, and dialed a number: "—Mr. Cent? There's something I think you need to know—"

Wayne slept until almost noon before taking off his eye mask, stretching, and standing up.

It must be said that the environment in the psychological counseling ward is far better than that in the high-risk ward.

No wonder people bribe prison officials just to get here.

Compared to other prison wards, this place feels like a vacation.

However, holidays always come to an end.

Wayne strolled leisurely out of the break room and approached a prison guard. He said calmly, "Hello, I need to see Officer Grace. I need a test."

He was soon back in Grace's office.

However, unlike when I first saw her that morning, Grace was now constantly typing on the keyboard, seemingly filling out some form, and appeared extremely busy.

When Grace heard Wayne say that his mental health had fully recovered and that he was requesting to return to his original cell block, she looked at him with surprise: "Mr. Wayne, you can stay in the psychological counseling cell block for three days this time, and only half a day has passed. Are you sure you want to go back?"

Wayne smiled slightly and said, "Yes, ma'am, my psychological problems have been greatly alleviated. Thank you for your treatment."

"Damn rich, crazy rich bastard," Grace cursed inwardly, shrugged, and said, "Fine, if you want to go back, of course you can."

She had already violated regulations by agreeing to Bob's request to bring Wayne up, and she was secretly taking the risks herself.

Now that the other party wants to go back early, they couldn't be happier.

As for Bob, since his benefactor said he was going back, he didn't have much to say.

If this happens again, Bob will have to work twice as hard.

Moreover, she's currently overwhelmed with problems because of that Jose thing, and has countless reports to write, so she has no time to deal with Wayne's affairs.

They readily issued a new mental health certificate and arranged for someone to send Wayne back to the high-risk cell block downstairs.

After being handcuffed and re-entering the elevator, Wayne calmly returned to the high-risk cell block below.

Bob, who had come to pick up the person after receiving the news, didn't know who he was supposed to pick up at first. When he saw Wayne, he was stunned for a moment, then muttered under his breath, "Damn it, that greedy bitch Grace—"

Didn't we agree that Wayne would stay up there for three days?

He didn't even spend as much time there as he did sleeping with Grace.

He immediately went up to Wayne, patted him on the shoulder, and said in a low voice, "Mr. Wayne, I'm sorry, there might be some problem here. It should have taken three days—but don't worry, I'll try to smooth things over again today—"

Wayne shook Bob's hand and said gently, "Bob, my friend, that's enough. Thank you for your respect and your professionalism."

"Now, take me back to the friendly high-risk prison area."

3

I miss my friends.