Two Realms Shuttle Gate: Don't Call Me a Demon!-Chapter 695 - 413: Magical United States (Two Updates of 10,000 Words Each)

Beautiful Country, California, Pollak Prison.

This is a private prison. In the liberal Beautiful Country, everything can be privatized, including prisons.

Private prisons in the Beautiful Country have been on the rise for decades because the number of prisoners in the Beautiful Country is too large.

This country, which accounts for only 5% of the world's population, houses 25% of the world's prisoners, making it number one in the world.

Hence, private prisons have emerged, becoming a 'lucrative business' that can go public and generate annual revenues of tens of millions, attracting much capital involvement.

Pollak Prison, part of the leading private prison enterprise CCA Group, is also the largest prison of CCA.

Currently, CCA Group has established prisons across the Beautiful Country, housing as many as hundreds of thousands of prisoners. The company was even selected by Forbes magazine as one of the '400 Best Big Companies in the Beautiful Country' in 2007.

However, despite being under the leading enterprise CCA, the lives of prisoners here are far from matching the treatment and reputation of this large company.

Behind the thick gates and multiple layers of barbed wire, high-intensity labor is in progress. It is no different from a factory, with machines running everywhere and assembly lines in full swing.

White, Black, and Latin prisoners are working like ordinary laborers.

The only difference between them and ordinary workers in the Beautiful Country is that there are no labor unions, no strikes, no insurance or social security payments required here. Compared to the high labor costs of other factories, this factory is practically a goldmine with zero labor costs.

At this moment, the temperature here is over thirty degrees due to the hot weather. There is no air conditioning, not even a ceiling fan. All the prisoners are drenched in sweat and clothes soaked.

They are more like tireless slaves on a production line than prisoners.

"It's mealtime."

At noon, the guards banged their batons on the iron doors, creating a loud noise.

The scene immediately became agitated. Crowds of prisoners scrambled, cursed, argued, and even fought to get to the canteen first.

The guards present were accustomed to this, leisurely smoking and pointing, laughing at the scene like it was monkey play.

They're not afraid of the prisoners causing trouble. The batons in their hands and the guns at their waists aren't for show.

If the prisoners don't work well, they have their ways to deal with them. If they still don't obey, forced 'suicide' will be their only option.

In the canteen, the food entirely reflects the capitalists' precise cost control.

The bread and hamburgers show signs of being nibbled by rats, the meat is spoiled, and the vegetables have bugs in them, but that's no big deal. Everything is aimed at minimizing costs; as long as it doesn't kill the prisoners, it's acceptable.

The prisoners wolf down the food at the dining tables. Of course, not everyone eats so badly.

A part of the prisoners eat much better—sausages, cola, salads, roast chicken, and so on.

This private prison has always been a heaven for the rich and a hell for the poor. If you have no money, you can only do the hardest and most exhausting work, eat the worst food, and live in the worst conditions.

But as for the rich, if you pay enough, serving a sentence here is like a relaxing vacation.

"Chairman."

Suddenly, the sound of rhythmic footsteps came from outside the canteen, and a middle-aged man walked in.

The guards maintaining order were shocked, for this was Novartis Stott, the chairman of CCA, who rarely appeared here.

Along with Novartis was a team of medical staff.

"Gather them."

Novartis commanded coldly, scanning the prisoners with his eyes.

The scene became chaotic. Under the guards' beatings, the prisoners, begrudgingly, put down their food and lined up reluctantly in front of Novartis. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com

"Those whose names are called, come for Blood Extraction."

Novartis gave the order without any unnecessary words.

The medical personnel had already brought blood extraction equipment, wearing masks, and brandishing needles, causing a commotion among the prisoners.

"Fake, why are we having a Blood Extraction? What good reason do we have to draw blood?"

"Why draw blood? I'm not sick. You can't do this to me."

"Exploiting our labor is one thing, now you also want our blood? You bastards, I'm going to report you to the authorities."

"No wonder we had a health check yesterday; you've been plotting this all along."

Such a forced blood draw order immediately aroused resistance among the prisoners. They're already criminals, most of them with rebellious natures, certainly not willing to give their blood for nothing.

"Do I need to teach you how to do your job?"

Cold-eyed, Novartis glanced at the guard, who shivered and hurriedly shouted: "Can't you understand what you're told? Do as you're instructed! If you don't want to have blood drawn, then no one eats for three days, and we'll see who dares to resist."

As he spoke, he pulled out his baton and began beating a Black prisoner in front of him, causing the prisoner to scream in pain.

Other guards followed suit, soon engaging 'amicably' with the prisoners. After a few gunshots, the scene quickly calmed down.

One by one, the prisoners squatted on the ground reluctantly, staring at the smoking gun barrels, and the ceiling now had a few extra small holes.

They knew if they continued causing trouble, the next shots wouldn't be warning shots but would create a few bloody holes in them.