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

Port Elizabeth Industrial Area, New Jersey.

The cold wind howled, stirring up scraps of paper on the ground.

In front of an inconspicuous abandoned warehouse hangs a brand-new sign: "Jersey Fresh Seafood Transportation Company".

Saul Goodman, wearing a slightly oversized trench coat, was excitedly patting the rusty Ford refrigerated truck in front of him.

"Look at this gem, Victor! Look at this beautiful piece of industrial waste!" Saul waved his arms exaggeratedly. "Although its refrigeration unit is as noisy as a tractor, it has one unparalleled advantage—it's legal. Every single screw has a Department of Transport permit, and I've stamped it all over with the health bureau's quarantine stamps."

Victor stood in the cold wind, his hands in his coat pockets, scrutinizing the behemoth.

"Open it and take a look," Victor said calmly.

Thor snapped his fingers, and a mechanic next to him immediately pulled open the heavy rear cargo door.

A nauseating, fishy stench wafted over.

The carriage was filled with white styrofoam boxes, and melted ice water mixed with fish blood flowed on the carriage floor, making it sticky.

"This is our moat," Thor said smugly, pinching his nose. "I put one of those dead fish that've been sun-dried on a New Jersey beach for three days in every box. Believe me, the smell is so strong that even a well-trained drug-sniffing dog would question its existence."

Victor ignored the stench and stepped into the carriage through the sticky fish blood.

He walked to the deepest part of the carriage, squatted down, and gently tapped the floor with his fingers.

"Let me demonstrate."

The mechanic nodded, walked to the driver's side, pressed an inconspicuous defogger button below the instrument panel, and then quickly stepped on the brakes twice.

"Click".

A soft hydraulic sound was heard.

The floor beneath Victor's feet slowly rose.

Beneath the 15-centimeter-thick insulation layer, a sophisticated stainless steel compartment was revealed.

Dozens of bottles of purple liquid were neatly stacked in the hidden compartment. They were secured in specially made shock-absorbing foam, making them very stable.

"A hydraulic double-layered bottom." Victor nodded in satisfaction. "It takes advantage of the blind spots that refrigerated trucks already require thick insulation layers for. A very clever design."

"Of course," Saul leaned closer, his face full of flattery. "Besides, once the ice water melts, it will flow down through the pre-reserved channels, perfectly covering the gaps in the hidden compartment. Even if the police were lying on the floor with a magnifying glass, they would only see dirty, bloody fish water."

Victor stood up, stepped out of the carriage, and took a deep breath of the cold air outside.

Over the past month, as business has expanded to Philadelphia, the drawbacks of traditional "trunk transportation" have become increasingly apparent.

The interception by petty thugs, the embezzlement by drivers, and the ubiquitous patrols on the road all contribute to a loss rate as high as 30%. This is not just a matter of money; it's about uncertainty.

In Victor's business logic, uncertainty is the biggest enemy.

"Three vehicles, two round trips a day." Victor looked at the rudimentary convoy before him, his eyes gleaming with calculation. "The capacity per trip is ten times what it used to be. And with the 'Seafood Company' label, we can openly deliver goods to the kitchen of any nightclub."

"But Victor," Saul asked, rubbing his hands together with some concern, "what if the state troopers insist on unloading and inspecting the goods, even though we have permits?"

Victor turned his head, looked at Thor, and smiled.

"Thor, do you know what humanity's greatest weakness is?"

Thor paused, then asked, "Greed?"

"No, it's disgust."

Victor pointed to the truck full of dead fish.

"Nobody wants to search for justice among a pile of rotten fish. Especially not state troopers who are paid meager wages and wear clean uniforms."

……

Two hours later. Interstate 95, the border between New Jersey and Pennsylvania.

Police lights flashed.

A state trooper patrol car pulled over the Ford van, which reeked of fish.

The driver was a young Irishman named Richie. He was so nervous that his palms were sweating, but he still rolled down the window as Victor instructed.

"Driver's license, transport document." The state trooper was a portly middle-aged man with an impatient look on his face.

Richie handed over his identification.

The state trooper frowned as he glanced at it, then went around to the back of the car.

"Open the carriage."

Richie's heart leaped into his throat. His hands trembled as he opened the car door.

"Splash!"

As the car door opened, a strong, foul stench, a mixture of rotting seafood and melted ice water, rushed out.

"My God!"

The state trooper stumbled back, nearly vomiting. He covered his nose, staring at the flowing blood in the truck bed and the dead fish eyes peeking out from several tattered styrofoam boxes.

"What the hell is this?" the state trooper roared.

"I urgently need discounted seafood from Philadelphia, sir." Richie forced a smile, trying to suppress his nausea. "The boss said if it's not delivered by 2 PM, he'll dock my pay. This smell is definitely a bit overpowering."

The state trooper's hand, which was about to go up and check, was left hanging in mid-air.

He glanced at his freshly polished leather boots, then at the filth covering the floor.

"Close it! Close it now!" The state trooper waved his hand, as if shooing away a plague. "Get out of here! Don't let this smell get into my patrol car!"

"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"

Richie felt like he'd been granted a pardon. He quickly closed the car door, jumped into the driver's seat, and floored the accelerator.

The truck spewed black smoke as it roared toward Philadelphia.

……

Philadelphia, 12th Street, in the back alley of a club called "Blue Nights".

Victor sat in a black sedan parked on the street corner.

Ten minutes later, the Ford van slowly drove into the back alley.

Several burly men dressed in chef's uniforms quickly came out to assist. They skillfully opened the hidden compartment, carried the boxes of purple liquid into the kitchen, and then threw the pre-prepared cash boxes into the hidden compartment.

The movements were fluid and seamless, without any unnecessary words.

It was just like a regular food delivery.

Victor watched this scene, his fingers gently stroking the family ring.

In his view, this was more than just a transportation operation.

This is the opening up of blood vessels.

What was once a discontinuous and risky network of capillaries has now transformed into a robust and efficient aorta. A steady stream of cash flow is being pumped along this artery into the heart of his newly established business empire.

"That's the art of logistics, Saul."

Victor said to the lawyer sitting in the passenger seat.

"While others are still using their bodies to smuggle drugs, we've already built our own FedEx on this country's highways."

Saul swallowed hard as he looked at the boxes of cash being moved, his eyes filled with awe.

"You're a madman, Victor," Thor muttered to himself, "but damn it, you're a genius."