American Medicine God: Starting by Inheriting a Pharmaceutical Company and Selling Medicine

A black Cadillac stopped in front of a glass-walled building.

Victor got out of the car and glanced up at the sign at the top of the building—"American Institute for Public Policy." It sounded like a harmless academic think tank dedicated to macroeconomics and social welfare. But if you had access to its list of top donors, you would find the Vought Group prominently listed, occupying the sole "Platinum Partner" position.

"Welcome to the backstage of power, Victor."

Barry stood in the lobby to greet him. He was wearing a well-tailored Italian bespoke suit, his hair was neatly combed, and he wore his signature, slightly cynical smile.

Barry was Victor's earliest partner. He had left, unable to bear the loneliness, taking his share of the profits, and after squandering all his savings in Las Vegas and Monte Carlo, he sheepishly returned to Victor's side. Victor didn't hold a grudge; instead, he entrusted him with the most important public relations and lobbying department of the Vought Group. Because Victor knew that no one in the world understood better than Barry how to manipulate human weaknesses and stir up emotions.

"How's it going? Is our 'bill' ready?" Victor asked as he walked inside.

“It’s already being drafted, and as you requested, every word has been carefully polished.” Barry led him into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. “We’ve hired three senior legal advisors from former congressional legislative committees, and they’re scrutinizing it word by word. You know, the devil is in the details of the law; sometimes changing an 'and' to an 'or' can determine the ownership of billions of dollars.”

The elevator doors opened, revealing a busy yet organized office space. Dozens of young Ivy League legal professionals were buried in mountains of documents, phones rang incessantly, and everyone was discussing clauses, amendments, and hearings in a hurried yet professional tone.

"This is our military factory." Barry pointed to the busy figures, a hint of pride in his eyes. "We don't produce bullets, we produce 'arguments.' We don't manufacture missiles, we manufacture 'consensus.'"

They entered a spacious conference room. Through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, the dome of Capitol Hill shimmered golden in the setting sun, seemingly within reach. On the table lay a thick draft document, its cover bearing the bold, gold lettering: "The Brain Disease Early Prevention and Intervention Act."

"This isn't just a bill; it's a business plan." Victor picked up the draft and quickly scanned the table of contents.

“Our approach was perfect,” Barry explained, walking to the whiteboard and picking up a pen. “We didn’t directly ask insurance companies to pay for Nirvana; that would be too blatant and would cause a backlash. What we asked was that insurance companies must cover ‘screening for brain function degeneration’ and ‘early neurorepair treatment’.”

He turned to one of the pages and pointed to a line of bold text.

"According to our definition, any persistent neurotransmitter imbalance is considered an early symptom of brain disease. This includes, but is not limited to: insomnia, anxiety, poor concentration, mild cognitive impairment, etc."

"In other words, as long as you're a living person, you're sick." Victor laughed, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

“Legally, this is called ‘preventive care,’” Barry corrected, a professional smirk on his face. “This is the core principle of Obamacare—prevention is better than cure. If you fix your brakes before a car accident happens, you’re saving lives.”

Victor put down the documents, walked to the window, and gazed at the distant Capitol Hill.

"Insurance companies will go crazy. This will increase their spending by billions of dollars. Blue Cross, UnitedHealth, their lobbying teams are definitely on their way."

"That's why we need 'health economics'." Barry snapped his fingers, and an analyst wearing thick-rimmed glasses walked in and projected a PowerPoint presentation onto the screen.

"Boss, according to our model projections," the analyst said, pointing to a set of comparative data on the screen, his tone filled with the cold logic of numbers, "although early intervention will increase short-term costs, if we can reduce the incidence of Alzheimer's disease by 30% or delay the onset of the disease by 5 years, then in the long run, it will save the United States more than $5000 billion in care costs."

"The costs of nursing homes, caregivers, and lost wages for home care... these are astronomical figures. In comparison, the cost of medication, which is a few hundred dollars per person per month, is just a drop in the ocean."

Victor looked at the data and nodded in satisfaction. This was the weapon he wanted.

"Use Wall Street logic to persuade Congress, and use the logic of saving money to persuade insurance companies," Victor concluded. "Tell those lawmakers that if they pass this bill, they are not only saving lives, but also saving the country's fiscal deficit. This is not just benevolence, but 'fiscal responsibility.'"

"This is far more powerful than a simple moral appeal," Barry added. "In addition, to ensure everything goes perfectly, we've also prepared a 'special forces' team for you."

"Special forces?"

“You need some flesh-and-blood stories to fill these cold, hard numbers.” Barry opened another document, which contained photos of ordinary people: veterans, single mothers, retired teachers. “We contacted the National Brain Health Alliance, a grassroots organization made up of patients’ families. They were very willing to go to Capitol Hill hearings and tell their stories of how they watched their loved ones slowly lose their memories and become like zombies.”

"Moreover, they would cry out: if we had used 'Nirvana' sooner, all of this could have been avoided."

Victor looked at Barry, a hint of admiration in his eyes. That's professionalism. Packaging commercial interests as public interests, and corporate expansion as social progress.

"Very good. Let these voices echo throughout every corner of Capitol Hill," Victor said. "I want every member of Congress who voted against this bill to feel like they are murdering the future of the elderly and betraying taxpayers who have dedicated their lives to this country."

"There's one more person you need to see." Barry smiled mysteriously and lowered his voice. "Senator Griffin. He's the chairman of the Senate Health Committee and a key gatekeeper for the passage of this bill."

Where is he?

"He plays golf at his private club. I heard he's been very troubled lately because his youngest son's grades at Yale aren't going well, and he's even at risk of dropping out because of a 'minor accident' at a party."

Victor raised an eyebrow, tapping his fingers lightly on the table. "I think we happen to have a 'Walter Future Star' scholarship program, specifically designed to reward young people with exceptional potential. Furthermore, our 'Nirvana' drug has remarkable effects on improving concentration and learning efficiency. Perhaps, Young Master Griffin simply needs a little 'chemical assistance' and an opportunity to do charity work in Africa to enhance his resume?"

The two exchanged a smile. That smile contained a wealth of information that only those within the industry could understand.

In this game of power, nothing is off-limits. If something is, it's only because the stakes aren't high enough, or the exchange isn't conducted elegantly enough.

Victor picked up the draft bill as if he were holding the key to a vault.

“Barry, do you know what?” Victor said softly, his gaze deep, “we are making history. Fifty years from now, when people look back on this history, they won’t remember how much money we made, or how many methods we used. They will only remember that we pushed humanity to pay attention to brain health, and that we freed humanity from the fear of dementia.”

"Of course." Barry raised his coffee cup, which tasted like top-quality Blue Mountain coffee. "A toast to history. A toast to the great 'Brain Disease Prevention Act'."

"A toast to us." Victor clinked his glass, the crisp sound echoing in the conference room.

Outside the window, the setting sun painted the Capitol Hill dome a blood-red hue, like a beating heart. A storm was brewing, dark clouds looming, awaiting only the final eruption.

At the eye of the storm, Victor will be the sole helmsman. He will steer the giant ship Vought toward the deep blue sea known as "Monopoly".