I'm building Gundams in America

Mike fastened the top button of his collar, sprayed himself with deodorant, took a deep breath, tried to put on a standard smile, and hurried into the supermarket in front of him.

Good morning, Fiona.

"Mike, you've finally arrived. Oliver has been looking for you for three hours. You'd better be careful."

Fiona whispered to Mike while she was at the checkout.

Mike nodded, tiptoed quickly into the staff break room, opened his locker to put on an apron, and then carefully opened the door to begin his work.

But as soon as he opened the door, he saw a bald, middle-aged white man standing in the doorway; it was Oliver, the manager of the supermarket.

"Mr. Oliver, I'm sorry, there's been a bit of an emergency. I was trying to call you..."

"I don't want to hear your reasons!" Oliver said coldly. "You should understand that this supermarket is under a lot of pressure to give you this job. You should be grateful instead of skipping work without reason. You're not getting your bonus this week, and you have to make up for the hours you worked today."

Mike's expression changed. The bonus for the whole week's work was actually 40% of his salary, which meant that 40% of his salary for this week would be deducted.

His hourly wage is only $10, and he can only work 39 hours a week, which is only $390 before tax. After taxes and deducting 8%, he has almost nothing left after deducting student loans and mortgage payments.

Not to mention saving money to help Wayne pay off his debts, even his uncle's insulin is in short supply.

He was about to say something in his own defense when he heard the white manager in front of him say coldly:

"If the work pace here doesn't suit you, you can leave immediately. If it happens again, you don't need to come to work."

Mike opened his mouth, but all his words condensed into one sentence:

"Okay, thank you, Mr. Oliver."

Oliver nodded, clearly pleased with Mike's obedience, and said:

"Go and move the newly arrived batch of goods to the warehouse."

Mike walked silently to the warehouse and began moving goods.

At that moment, a short, stout middle-aged Mexican man was moving goods in the warehouse. Upon seeing Mike, he immediately greeted him.

"Mike, bro, so late tonight? Mr. Oliver's been looking for you."

Mike forced a smile and said:

"Mr. Paul, I have some things to take care of today."

Just then, he suddenly noticed that Paul seemed a little different when he was carrying goods. He would cough a few times after taking a few steps, and his steps suddenly became unsteady, and he even walked with a limp.

Mike quickly stepped forward and took the box of goods from Paul's hands, frowning as he asked:

"Mr. Paul, are you alright?"

Paul coughed violently for a moment, then rubbed his leg and said:

"It's nothing. I got caught in the rain last night when I was working as a gatekeeper at the market, and I even slipped and fell on my way home, twisting my ankle a bit. It'll be fine in a few days."

Then he lowered his voice and said in a somewhat pleading tone:

"Please don't tell Mr. Oliver that I have three more children to raise..."

Paul sighed and said:

"But your ankle is already swollen, and your cold is getting worse; it'll only get worse if this continues..."

Paul gave a wry smile and said:

"Brother, I can't afford to go to the hospital. Someone like me without medical insurance can barely scrape together three or five hundred yuan, but one trip to the hospital would bankrupt me completely, costing at least several thousand yuan! And I can't take time off work at all. Do you know how hard it is to find a job that pays eight yuan a month these days?"

As an undocumented immigrant, he was paid only $8 an hour and was working three jobs at the same time.

Mike sighed, realizing that Paul had it even harder than him.

Even if Paul did have health insurance, he wouldn't dare take time off to see a doctor, otherwise at least 40% of his salary would be deducted.

Suddenly, Mike seemed to remember something, patted Paul on the shoulder, and said:

"Bro, if you trust me, I have a friend..."

……

[Spirit Bone: A basic material for dark artifacts. It can be combined with sugared apples, evil corpses, and tendons to craft artifacts. It is the most basic of the basics.]

Inside the charred tent, Wayne carried out a jar containing a pile of bones.

This jar is made of clay and has some strange patterns painted on it.

It contained some long bones, piled up in a heap.

Bone pile ritual implements of Voodoo.

According to Voodoo doctrine, bone piles are not simply random stacks in the literal sense, but sacred spaces carrying complex religious symbolism, with their core function as a bridge for communication with ancestors through spiritual mediums.

It is somewhat similar to the Tibetan Buddhist tradition of Sizhou Zanduo, but of a much smaller scale and level.

Bone mounds are a concrete manifestation of the life cycle and the dwelling place of the souls of ancestors. Generally speaking, most voodoo bone mounds use animal bones.

However, Old John's bone pile is obviously much more authentic and has already been recognized by the dungeon system.

These bones are clearly genuine human bones.

Wayne couldn't help but wonder how this old white man, John, had managed to obtain such authentic Haitian voodoo secrets.

Unfortunately, these spirit bones, as the most basic materials for dark artifacts, must be combined with other materials to forge artifacts, so for now they have no other use besides showing off.

Wayne immediately put the jar of spirit bones into his spatial backpack.

At this point, the backpack, which had a total of five slots, contained a bag of dried-up skulls and a jar of spirit bones, leaving three slots remaining.

He then searched the tent again, but found nothing. He then wrote down some geometric patterns that Old John had drawn on the ground, intending to use them to show off later.

Only then did he leave satisfied.

He then found a budget supermarket and spent a few dozen yuan to buy a patterned blanket from Yiwu, Shandong, to drape over his body. After putting on a mask, Wayne began to stroll along the street, hoping to find something else.

Perhaps the freezing rain last night had already taken away a large amount of the chill through hypothermia, and the streets were actually much cleaner than before.

There are quite a few homeless people still alive, but we haven't been able to find any of the dead ones.

Their plan to sacrifice another skill to improve their general medical skills has failed.

At this time, he was dressed in tattered clothes and had a scruffy beard. He was just wandering around the street and looked like a homeless person. Passersby avoided him like the plague.

Before he knew it, he had arrived near the dock.

A cold, salty sea breeze blew in, carrying the smell of the sea and the aroma of roasted fruit from a roadside coffee shop, along with the melodious sound of a violin.

At the outdoor seating area of ​​a roadside café, many tourists were sitting. A man wearing a worn-out suit, holding a violin, and wearing gold-rimmed glasses placed the violin case aside and played the violin for the tourists.

A familiar Mandarin voice came through:

"Look at America! That's a true beacon of human civilization. Even homeless people can play the violin! How civilized!"

"That's right, they've been developing for so many years, and theirs is true freedom. Our Dongda University? Hey, we're miles behind."

"Just look at the place names, west, Ya, Tu, how romantic! It's like the air itself smells sweet."

"Quickly give them a tip, give them a generous one. This is much better than donating to Project Hope. They are artists."

"Son, study hard, and when you grow up, go to an American university and leave that land where evil flowers bloom forever."

You have encountered parasitic humans, a race of people from the Eastern Continent remotely controlled by the bewitching evil spirits of the Dark Court, who can be tamed into slaves.

Wayne raised an eyebrow, about to go and see what was going on, but he had only taken two steps toward the coffee shop when a sharp shout rang out:

"Sir!"

Wayne turned his head and saw a police car with flashing lights pull up beside him. The window rolled down, and a redneck policeman wearing sunglasses said to him sternly:

"Please leave here immediately!"

Wayne shrugged and turned to leave along the way he came.

Clearly, as a true part of America, he cannot be allowed to be seen at will by wealthy tourists.

However, there's no rush.

By the time Wayne retraced his steps, carrying a newly purchased makeshift tent and a large bottle of milk back to the neighborhood near Chinatown, it was already dark.

The day's wandering wasn't entirely fruitless. Although I didn't meet any valuable people, I at least got to know some of the neighborhoods in Seattle.

With the effects of the medication, Wayne's health also recovered to 25 points, making him less fragile.

Unfortunately, his previous idea of ​​making money through illegal medical practice did not yield any immediate results.

The main problem is the difficulty in finding patients and building a reputation.

If all else fails, just go all out and use your spatial backpack to become a smuggler; that's a sure way to make money.

However, it will take time to really establish connections, since he knows nothing about the existing smuggling and distribution channels, and a week is definitely not enough.

Just then, Mike's voice suddenly rang out:

"Wayne, bro, this is Paul. He's not feeling well and wants to ask you... cough cough... for help."

Wayne looked closely and saw a burly, slightly awkward-looking Mexican man standing next to Mike beside the tent.

Seeing Wayne wrapped in a blanket and wearing a mask, old Mexican Paul hesitated visibly and tentatively asked in a low voice:

"Master, my ankle is a bit sore, and I also have a cold... cough cough... could you take a look?"

Wayne's eyes lit up, and he quickly said:

"Cough cough... It works, it works!"

That's so beautiful!