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

January 1999, Zurich, Switzerland.

Winter in the Alps is purer and harsher than in New Jersey. The snow here is clean, and the air is crisp.

On the shores of Lake Zurich, an unassuming old building stands silently in the snow. Its exterior walls are covered in withered ivy, making it resemble a forgotten monastery. Only a small bronze plaque at the entrance bears a line of German text:

"Institut für Glückseligkeit" (Bliss Institute).

Victor Corleone, wearing a heavy black cashmere coat and leather gloves, stood before the oak door. His breath condensed into white mist in the cold air, then dissipated instantly.

"This doesn't look like a place that can change the world," Sofia said, linking her arm with his and pulling her fur coat tighter around herself. "It looks more like Frankenstein's lab."

"Great things often begin in humble places." Victor pushed open the door. "Just as Jesus was born in a manger, and Apollo was born in the cellar."

They were greeted by an elderly Swiss man with gray hair and thick-rimmed glasses, Dr. Hans Müller. He wore a white lab coat stained with chemical reagents, his hair was a mess like a bird's nest, and his eyes revealed the dullness and unease typical of a bookworm.

"Mr. Corleone... and Mrs. Corleone." Hans nervously rubbed his hands together, pale blue powder still lingering under his fingernails. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Although I'm not sure why you'd be interested in our little, nearly bankrupt laboratory. We're barely able to pay our electricity bills."

"Because I'm looking for hope," Victor said with a smile. "I heard you have some here."

Hans paused for a moment, then smiled bitterly. "Hope? No, sir. We only have failure here. Utter failure."

He led the two into the laboratory. It was a mess, with discarded test tubes and draft papers piled up everywhere.

"We originally wanted to develop a new type of antihistamine, but we failed because the side effects were too severe. Then we tried to make painkillers, but that also failed; the pain relief effect was not as good as aspirin. Finally, we accidentally synthesized a molecule, codenamed Bliss-001. It was useless for any disease; it could neither kill bacteria nor lower blood pressure, and it couldn't even cure a cold."

Hans picked up a dusty medicine bottle from the table and sighed.

Its only "side effect" is...

"It's about making people feel good," Victor chimed in.

"Yes." Hans nodded, looking puzzled. "In our Phase I clinical trial, we found that although the subjects' conditions did not improve, their emotions became abnormal... calm. Even somewhat joyful. They were no longer anxious, no longer suffering from insomnia, and even those patients with severe suicidal tendencies started humming songs in their wards and even voluntarily helped the nurses fold their blankets."

"But what's the use?" Hans shrugged, looking helpless. "It's just a side effect. It doesn't cure any 'real' pathological disease. The FDA won't approve a drug that 'makes people happy'."

Victor didn't speak. He walked to the laboratory window and looked out at the gray sky and the swirling snow.

"Dr. Hans, you are wrong."

"The disease you cured is the most terrible disease in the world."

"The most terrible disease?" Hans asked, puzzled. "Cancer? AIDS?"

"No. It's despair."

Victor walked up to Hans, picked up the bottle of medicine, and gently shook it, making a rustling sound as the pills inside swished.

"Look at the world, Doctor. Look at all those people rushing by outside the window. They have houses, cars, jobs, families. By material standards, they are richer than medieval kings. But are they happy?"

Victor pointed to his temple.

"They are anxious. They are fearful. They are afraid of losing their jobs, afraid of their marriages breaking down, afraid of growing old, afraid of dying, afraid of being left behind in this fast-paced society. Their souls are suffocating under the weight of mortgages, car loans, and their children's education. Every morning when they wake up, their only thought is: 'Damn, it's another day.'"

"This is an epidemic, Doctor. An epidemic without viruses or bacteria, yet capable of killing souls. Its name is 'modern depression'."

Victor poured out a pill and placed it in his palm.

"And this thing can give them a glimmer of light in the abyss of despair. It can make them smile even when they're being yelled at by their boss; it can make them feel hopeful about life even when faced with huge bills."

"This isn't medicine. It's a 'happy capsule.' It's an anesthetic for the soul."

Hans was struck by Victor's description. He had never considered his invention from this perspective before. As a traditional pharmacologist, he had always believed that medicine was for repairing the body, not for embellishing the soul.

"But... this is just altering the brain's neurotransmitters," Hans said hesitantly, trying to maintain a semblance of scientific dignity. "It's an escapism. It's 'cosmetic pharmacology.' We're not treating illness; we're whitewashing. If someone is suffering because of unemployment, we should help them find a job, not give them medication to make them happy about being unemployed."

"So what?" Victor retorted, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Finding a job is too hard, Doctor. Changing society is too hard. But taking a pill only takes two seconds."

"If embellishment can help people survive, that is salvation. If false happiness can help people endure real pain, that is mercy."

He picked up the water glass on the table, and in front of Hans, threw the pill into his mouth and swallowed it.

"Mr. Corleone!" Hans exclaimed, trying to stop him, "This hasn't been approved by the FDA yet!..."

"I am the FDA," Victor said calmly.

Ten minutes later.

A strange feeling spread through Victor's body.

It wasn't the exhilarating, aggressive restlessness of Apollo, nor the dizziness of alcohol. It was a warm, soft, and tranquil peace, like being in a mother's womb.

All the anxiety, all the scheming, all the conspiracies, all the bloodshed—all became insignificant in that moment. The sharp noises in my mind vanished, replaced by soft white noise.

Looking at the snow outside the window, he felt that every snowflake was a gift from God, shimmering with a holy light. Even Hans's dirty white coat seemed endearing to him.

This is "bliss".

A cheap, industrialized, mass-producible Nirvana.

"Buy it," Victor said to Sophia, his voice becoming unusually gentle, his eyes filled with compassion.

"How much?" Sophia asked, taking out her checkbook.

“No matter the price,” Victor said, looking at Hans. “Write Dr. Miller a blank check. This thing is worth all the gold in Switzerland. No, it’s worth more than gold. Gold can only buy material things, but this thing can buy ‘happiness.’”

Hans Miller looked at the couple who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere and felt like he was dreaming. His entire life's failures had turned into his greatest success in this moment.

"With this," Victor looked out the window again, the effects of the drug making him feel like he was floating on clouds, "we will no longer just be controlling people's bodies."

"We need to control their emotions. We need to define what 'happiness' and what 'normal' means."

"We must make grief a disease, and anxiety a sin. And we are the only redeemers."

"Apollo is just an appetizer. Bliss is the main course."

The wind and snow intensified.

But in Victor's eyes, what was fluttering in the air was not cold snowflakes, but countless white banknotes falling from heaven and covering this miserable world.