I'm building Gundams in America

Chapter 382 Native American Products (Seeking Monthly Tickets)

Inside the black van, several thugs stared menacingly at Wayne, who sat in the middle, as if he were a piece of merchandise.

The man with the buzz cut said to Wayne, "Damn it, Mr. Saint, you really shouldn't be here—we warned you yesterday, but you didn't listen, and you got what you deserved—"

Wayne smiled slightly and said, "So, those gangsters from yesterday were your men?"

The man with the buzz cut narrowed his eyes, a fierce glint in them, and said, "Of course, the entire reservation is ours. These damn Indians are nothing but a flock of sheep in a pen—"

""

"As for you, you damn Saint, none of this was originally your concern, but unfortunately you came at the wrong time and were so self-righteous. Now you can't leave even if you want to—"

He then looked at the Native American accessories on Wayne's body, a hint of greed in his eyes.

Wayne nodded slightly and said, "So, you want to seize Tatanka's oil fields."

A look of surprise crossed the buzz-cut man's face, then a slight smile appeared on his lips. He said, "Not bad, damn it, Mr. Saint, you're quite the smart man, but the smarter you are, the harder it is for you to leave—"

""

As he spoke, he casually reclined in his seat, looking at the road ahead illuminated by car headlights, as if he were the owner of this reserve.

Night had fallen, and the entire reserve was shrouded in darkness.

They had now left the area where the casino resort was located and arrived at the edge of the reserve.

The surroundings became completely dark, even the streetlights disappeared, and the streets became dilapidated.

The entire reserve is not large, and the actual indigenous population is only a few thousand, but the gap between the rich and poor is extremely obvious.

It even far exceeds the size of ordinary American urban areas.

The casino resort area is magnificent like a palace, while the impoverished area is completely in the style of a slum.

A series of staggering drunkards appeared on the roadside, and bottles and needles were scattered on the street corner. The American-style trifles and the unconscious drunkards complemented each other, adding to the local atmosphere.

Soon, the car stopped in front of a somewhat dilapidated building, with a metal plaque nailed to the door:

"Get out of the car, you damn saint." The man with the earring chuckled and pointed his gun at Wayne.

Wayne calmly got out of the car and, surrounded by several people, walked toward the historical memorial in front of him.

Seeing Wayne remain completely calm throughout, the earring-wearing man behind him muttered to his companion, "This damn saint is really—annoying. That face of his—I only want to see him panic. What the hell is this?"

The other party remained calm throughout, and the aura he exuded made the kidnappers he had been forced to stay away.

It even gave the impression that he wasn't kidnapped, but rather on a picnic.

At this moment, the man with the buzz cut had already brought Wayne to the entrance of the historical memorial. Behind the mottled iron gate was a dark and closed historical memorial.

The man with the buzz cut took out his phone and dialed a number.

Soon, a figure appeared in the courtyard of the memorial hall, staggering over and opening the door.

This is also a white person.

"Hey, Willie, you guys found something good. What's this? A fucking white shaman?" the man who opened the door said, reeking of alcohol and grinning.

"Shut up, Bill. I've told you before, stop drinking. You look like a fucking Indian bootyman now," Willie, the crew-cut man, snapped, frowning. "Is Mr. Kingsley here?"

The man who opened the door pointed into the memorial hall and said, "It's inside; the boss is waiting for you."

Willie with the buzz cut gestured and said, "Let's go."

The group immediately led Wayne into the memorial hall.

In the dim light, all that can be seen on the walls of this memorial hall are black and white photographs and old objects.

This includes various tools and clothing used by Native Americans.

The black and white photos depict scenes from church boarding schools.

The children attend classes, the children rest, the children eat, and the children are whipped.

The following text details this dark history, condemning the crimes committed by the country against Native American groups and the inhumane genocide measures.

Among the items on display were even many everyday items made from Native American body parts.

Skull wine glass, hair blanket, bone needles, and a complete human skin boot from the thigh to the heel —

Sensing Wayne's scrutinizing gaze, Willie, the crew-cut man escorting Wayne at gunpoint, grinned menacingly and said, "How about it, Mr. Saint, fucking? Or rather, Mr. White Shaman? Isn't it interesting?"

"Now white people run this memorial, and it's the same place where we sold and imprisoned those fucking Indian bastards."

"Every day during the day, many tourists, including locals from the reserve, come to visit this memorial."

"They will lament how miserable the Native Americans used to live, living like fucking stray dogs. Some Native Americans will shed tears, some white people will repent, and while they are lamenting the past, in the secret room of the memorial, those Native American bitches and idiots that we captured are being treated like livestock —"

"Oh, just thinking about all this every day makes me want to climax—"

With excitement in his eyes and a face full of exhilaration, Willie, with his buzz cut, seemed ready to break free on the spot.

This sense of guilt, this stark contrast, was overwhelming for him.

As they spoke, they had already led Wayne to the central hall of the memorial.

This is a large hall with an arched dome, and the surrounding walls are covered with various black and white photographs of church boarding schools.

Those were Native American children standing in front of the boarding school building, looking at the camera.

Their gazes were mostly very calm, and the gazes from hundreds of black and white photographs converged throughout the hall, giving one the feeling that every part of their body was being watched.

The hall was filled with rows of chairs, just like in a church.

However, in front of what should have been a cross, there was a huge screen, clearly used to display images.

At that moment, several people were sitting there. The first one was a white man in a suit and tie, smoking a pipe, with a beard and wearing gold-rimmed glasses.

Upon seeing Wayne arrive, the man smiled slightly and said, "Look who's here, fucking Bruce Wayne—"

"Wayne, Wayne, you're a white man, why are you helping these lowly Native Americans?"

You make me very unhappy.

.