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

Madison Avenue, New York. The snowstorm outside the window is fiercer than in New Jersey, turning Manhattan into a silver-clad maze.

The atmosphere in the top-tier conference room of "Sterling Cooper & Partners" was as lively as the height of summer.

This is where America's top male-male elites gather. Dressed in three-piece suits and holding Scotch whisky on the ice, they are debating the next world-changing idea.

"Mr. Corleone, please take a look at this proposal."

Creative Director David Ogilvy pressed the slide.

On the screen appeared a middle-aged doctor wearing a white coat and glasses, smiling as he held up a blue medicine bottle.

GG's motto is: Apollo – Scientific weight loss, safety first choice.

"Our core strategy is 'trust'," Ogilvy explained passionately. "Given the rampant rumors circulating in the market about Fen-Phen's side effects, consumers are in a state of extreme panic. We need to reassure them with the image of an authoritative doctor, telling them that this is a drug that has undergone rigorous FDA approval and is absolutely safe."

A murmur of approval rippled through the conference room.

"It's very safe."

"It complies with the regulations of the pharmaceutical industry."

"Playing it safe is never a mistake."

Victor turned his head and looked at Barry Hines sitting next to him.

Barry was wearing a somewhat over-the-top plaid suit. He had his legs crossed, was picking his teeth with a toothpick, and looked completely nonchalant.

"Barry, what do you think?" Victor asked.

Barry spat the toothpick into the ashtray and let out a snicker.

"Dog shit."

The air in the conference room froze instantly. Ogilvy's face turned grim.

"Mr. Hines, this is something our team worked on for three consecutive nights..."

"That's just three piles of dog shit hastily made overnight." Barry stood up, walked to the projection screen, pointed at the kind-looking doctor, and said, "Who the hell cares who this old man is? Who cares if it's safe? If you want to sell condoms, you can use this strategy. But what are we selling? Diet pills!"

"Those fat girls, those fat girls who can't even see their toes, do they care about their health? If they cared about their health, they wouldn't be stuffing themselves with hamburgers and fried chicken! What they care about is whether they can fit into that dress that's a size too small! What they care about is whether they can make their ex-boyfriend regret his decision at the class reunion! What they care about is whether they can be stared at by men like they're a piece of fresh meat!"

"Vulgar!" Ogilvy couldn't help but retort. "We're a legitimate pharmaceutical company, not selling miracle cures!"

"In this country, all businesses sell miracle drugs," Barry sneered. "Some are just packaged a little better."

Victor tapped the table lightly.

"Go on, Barry."

Encouraged, Barry became even more excited. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and slapped it on the table.

"This is what I thought of backstage at a stand-up comedy show last night. Forget all those damn white coats and microscopes. We're not selling medicine, we're selling 'dreams.' The illusion that every fat girl longs for most in the middle of the night."

Victor picked up the paper. It had only one line written on it.

In this appearance-obsessed world, being thin is justice.

A smile appeared on Victor's lips.

"That's interesting. But it's not 'sophisticated' enough." He picked up his pen and underlined the line. "It's too blunt; it's likely to cause resentment. We need to package this anxiety in a more refined, more... alluring way."

He pondered for a moment, then wrote another line on the paper.

Don't let your weight hold you back in life.

"That's a good line," Barry whistled. "It creates anxiety and then provides a solution. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant."

"But that's not enough." Victor stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked down at the swarms of people bustling about like ants. "We're going to go big. Sofia, are there any Super Bowl spots left this year?"

"The Super Bowl?!" Ogilvy exclaimed. "Mr. Corleone, that's a whopping $200 million per 30 seconds! And, no prescription drug has ever failed in the Super Bowl! This...this is against the rules!"

"Rules are meant to be broken." Victor looked out the window, his eyes burning with fervor. "The FDA just released new DTC (direct-to-consumer) guidelines last August. They allow us to omit that long list of side effects in our GGs, just adding 'Consult your doctor.' It's a door that's just opened, and we're going to be the first to rush in."

He turned around, his eyes blazing.

"I want to buy 60 seconds of halftime. I want to make 100 million viewers across America, while they're eating chicken wings and drinking beer, suddenly realize they're a pig."

"What are we going to film?" Ogilvy was already intimidated by this crazy atmosphere and asked subconsciously.

"No doctors. No labs." Victor closed his eyes, as if he could already see the scene. "We're going to make a story."

"A Cinderella story," Barry picked up, a sly glint in his eyes. "A fat girl, mocked and ignored, cried in a corner of the ball. Then, she ate a blue pill. The scene shifts, and three months later, she's a supermodel, walking the red carpet in the dress that couldn't be zipped up before. All the flashbulbs are on her, and everyone who once mocked her is speechless."

"The background music should be an upbeat symphony," Victor added. "Finally, all that appears on the screen is that blue medicine bottle and that GG quote: Apollo—reinvent your life."

"And that one unnecessary line," Barry grinned mischievously, "'Consult your doctor to see if Apollo is right for you.' But say it as fast as you can, like a spell."

A brief silence fell over the meeting room. Everyone was stunned by the idea.

"This...this will be controversial." Ogilvy wiped his sweat. "Feminist organizations will protest that we objectify women, and parent associations will complain that we create body image anxiety..."

"Let them protest!" Barry slammed his fist on the table, like an enraged bulldog. "Controversy equals traffic! Traffic equals money! If no one's criticizing your guy, then your guy is trash! What we want is for all of America to be talking about this! We want 'Apollo' to become a cultural symbol, a totem representing 'thin' and 'beauty'!"

Victor looked at Barry, a hint of admiration in his eyes. This was exactly the kind of person he needed—a mad dog that would not only bite but also create chaos.

"Let's proceed with this plan," Victor declared decisively. "Barry, you're in charge of media relations. I want all the gossip magazines, talk shows, and radio stations to be discussing 'Is obesity a disease' before the Super Bowl. You need to muddy the waters and make people think that not taking medication to lose weight is irresponsible."

"Leave it to me, boss." Barry grinned, revealing a chilling smile. "I'll make those fat guys feel like they're committing a crime."

"Sophia, contact the bank." Victor straightened his collar. "We need a bridge loan to pay the GG fee."

"Understood." Sophia closed her notebook.

Victor walked to the door, stopped, and glanced back at the group of GG elites who were still in shock.

"Gentlemen, remember one thing."

"Greed is mankind's best friend. Fear is mankind's best teacher. And we are merely trying to cure their fear by satisfying their greed."

"Isn't this the greatest compassion?"

The door closed.

Ogilvy stared at the empty doorway, a chill running down his spine. He turned to look at Barry Hines.

"Are you... really making medicine?"

Barry shrugged, picked up the expensive bottle of whiskey, and took a big gulp straight from the bottle.

"Who knows? Maybe we're playing God."