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

The chimneys of the Water Pharmaceutical Factory resembled three giant cigarettes, constantly spewing white fumes into the sky day and night.

The roar of the machines never stopped. They worked in three shifts, 24 hours a day.

Under Victor Corleone's vast distribution network, the demand for "Purple Water" exploded exponentially. Trucks came and went like worker ants every day, carrying away boxes of liquid gold labeled "cough syrup" and bringing back bags of banknotes that smelled of ink.

But beneath the surface of prosperity, undercurrents are surging.

Noon, staff canteen.

The air was thick with the mingled smells of meat sauce, sweat, and machine oil. Workers, clad in oil-stained blue overalls, wearily stuffed sandwiches into their mouths.

A stranger stood on a dining table.

His name was Frank Sheeran. He was in his forties, a burly man like an Irish bulldog, wearing a slightly tight, inexpensive suit with his tie hanging loosely around his neck.

"Brothers! Look at your hands!"

Frank raised a hand, his voice booming, with the penetrating power he'd honed in the noisy workshop.

"Those are calluses! Scars! Skin corroded by chemicals!"

The once noisy canteen fell silent. Foreman Bob stopped chewing and stared blankly at the unexpected guest.

"I saw the boss's new car in the parking lot. A custom-made Cadillac, leather seats, walnut wood interior. I heard he also bought a manor; the cost of mowing the lawn alone is enough to support your whole family for a month!"

The workers began to whisper among themselves, their eyes revealing discontent and envy.

"And what about you?" Frank slapped his thigh. "You're breathing in exhaust fumes, turning your lungs into black sponges! For what? For a pittance of a few dollars an hour for overtime?"

"This isn't fair!" someone shouted from a corner.

"That's right! This is fucking unfair!" Frank waved his fist, as if commanding a war. "We need dignity! We need protection! We need truck drivers and teamsters!"

……

Two o'clock in the afternoon, in Victor's office.

Behind that huge mahogany desk, Victor was looking at financial statements.

The door was pushed open roughly.

Frank Sheeran strode in, followed by two burly "bodyguards," or rather, thugs.

Victor didn't look up; he simply closed the folder gently.

"Mr. Sheeran," Victor said, taking off his glasses and wiping them as he spoke, "I thought you were here to discuss the lunch service. After all, your speech in the cafeteria was quite impressive; I almost thought you were running for mayor."

Frank sneered, pulled up a chair, and sat down casually.

"I'm here to save you, Mr. Corleone."

Frank pulled a thick document from his pocket and slammed it on Victor's desk.

"This is the draft collective bargaining agreement. My brothers... that is, your workers, have asked me to talk to you."

Victor put on his glasses and opened the file.

His gaze swept quickly over the terms and conditions.

Article 1: Salaries for all employees will be increased by 30%.

Article 2: The trade union has the veto power over personnel recruitment and dismissal.

Article 3: Establish an "Employee Welfare Fund". For every bottle of medicine produced, 5% of the proceeds must be paid to the labor union as a special welfare fund.

Victor smiled.

That was a laugh born of extreme anger.

He closed the file, leaned back, crossed his hands over his stomach, and looked at Frank with the eyes of someone looking at an alien.

"Mr. Sheeran, I'm curious," Victor said, pointing to the document, "Did you write this agreement yourself, or did Mr. Hoffa from Detroit teach you?"

Frank's expression changed: "This has nothing to do with Mr. Hoffa. This is the voice of the workers."

"No, this isn't a cry for help. This is robbery."

Victor stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked down at the bustling factory area below.

"I can understand a pay raise. But a personnel veto? That means my factory has become your employment placement site. As for that 5% welfare bonus..."

Victor turned around, his gaze sharp as a knife.

"This is called protection money, Mr. Sheeran. You've just given it a legal disguise."

"Watch your language, Corleone!" Frank jumped to his feet, slamming his hands on the table like an enraged bull. "Teamsters are a legitimate labor organization! We're fighting for workers' rights!"

"Really?" Victor approached Frank, the two less than ten centimeters apart. "Then why is this 'welfare payment' account registered in the Cayman Islands? Why doesn't the usage details of this money need to be disclosed to the workers?"

Victor lowered his voice, his tone carrying a chilling undertone.

"Don't take me for a fool, Frank. I know how you operate. You burrow into the veins of the company like parasites, sucking every drop of blood, and leaving behind an empty shell. You don't care about the workers, you only care about that damn 'slush fund'."

Frank narrowed his eyes, the pretense fading away to reveal his true, thuggish nature.

"It seems we can't reach an agreement."

Frank straightened his tie and resumed his arrogant demeanor.

"You know what, Mr. Corleone? Machines are inanimate, but people are alive. If people are unhappy, machines will be unhappy too. And if machines are unhappy, they will stop."

Threat.

A naked threat.

Victor looked at him expressionlessly.

"Is this your ultimatum?"

“No,” Frank stopped at the door, turned back and sneered, “this is the preamble to the declaration of war. See you tomorrow, Mr. Corleone.”

The door was slammed shut.

Victor stood there, silent for a few seconds.

He picked up the phone and dialed Saul's number.

"Saul, prepare all the legal documents. We're going to war."

The voice just fell.

Suddenly, the office lights flickered and then went out completely.

Immediately afterwards, the loud, inertial sound of machines stopping came from outside the window, along with the panicked shouts of the workers.

The entire Waterpharm plant fell into a deathly silence.

2:15 PM.

"That's fast, Frank," Victor muttered to himself.