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

10:00 AM. The plaza in front of the Water Pharmaceutical Factory.

Frank organized no fewer than a hundred striking workers, who crowded under a makeshift wooden platform, waving placards.

"Unity is strength!"

"We want bread, and we want dignity!"

Frank Sheeran stood in the center of the stage, wearing a leather jacket and gripping the microphone tightly in his hand.

On both sides of the stage, cameras and microphones from major media outlets were lined up. The Newark Star, the Jersey Gazeta, and even a Philadelphia television broadcast van were there. This was exactly what Frank wanted—a perfect personal show.

On the third floor of an office building at the edge of the square, Victor stood behind the curtains, holding a glass of ice water, quietly watching this scene.

"Let's begin," he said to old Jack behind him.

Old Jack picked up the walkie-talkie and pressed the call button: "Action."

On the stage, Frank waved his fist, his voice booming through the speakers across the square.

"Brothers! Sisters! That kid Corleone thinks he can scare us with a few layoff notices? He's wrong! What capitalists fear most is us standing together!"

"He's trying to divide us! He's trying to buy us off! But let me tell you, as long as I, Frank Sheeran, stand here, no one can..."

"Um... Frank."

A timid voice suddenly interrupted him.

Frank frowned and turned his head. He saw Bob, the honest and unassuming foreman of Workshop Two, tremblingly raising his hand.

"What's wrong, Bob?" Frank asked in a low voice, a hint of displeasure in his tone. "It's live now."

"I have something to say." Bob didn't put his hand down.

The crowd fell silent. Cameras all pointed at the middle-aged man with a full beard and dark circles under his eyes.

"Go ahead, brother," Frank said, though his heart was pounding, he had to put on an open-minded front. "Let the media hear the voice of us workers."

Bob walked to the front of the stage. His legs were trembling, and he was clutching a crumpled piece of paper tightly in his hand.

That was his daughter's surgery payment slip.

"I'm Bob Miller," he said to the camera, his voice hoarse. "I have two children, my youngest daughter Lucy is six years old. She has a heart condition, and the doctors say she won't live past this winter without surgery."

A sympathetic whisper rippled through the crowd.

“Last week, I went to the union to apply for mutual medical benefits.” Bob turned to Frank, his eyes filled with complex emotions. “Mr. Frank told me that because we were on strike, the fund was frozen. He told me to bear with it for the sake of the bigger picture.”

Frank's expression changed. He tried to grab the microphone: "Bob, this is an internal matter, let's go downstairs and talk..."

But Bob held on tightly to the microphone.

"I can't take it anymore!" Bob suddenly roared, tears streaming down his face. "My daughter is waiting to die! And you're still talking about your damn dignity!"

He held up the payment slip and showed it to everyone.

"Last night, someone knocked on my door. He didn't talk to me about dignity, nor about the bigger picture. He gave me the money on this bill. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Not a penny less."

Bob took a deep breath and shouted as if using all his strength, "That man is Mr. Victor Corleone! Our boss!"

boom--

The square erupted in chaos. The workers looked at each other in bewilderment, and their whispers quickly turned into a huge uproar.

Frank turned pale; he realized he had fallen into a trap.

"He's lying!" Frank shouted, pointing at Bob. "He's a scab! He's been bribed!"

"Was I bribed too?"

Another voice rang out. George, the gambler from Workshop Three, stood up. He raised his left hand, which was wrapped in bandages; a finger should have been missing there today.

"Frank, all you do is lead us in chanting slogans. But while you were eating steak, it was Mr. Corleone who paid off my loan sharks and saved my hand."

"And me!"

"And me!"

The dominoes started to fall.

Of the five members of the strike committee, four stood up, except for Frank's staunchest confidants.

The situation reversed instantly.

Victor, who was originally seen as a "vampire," is now seen by the workers as a philanthropist who "truly cares about the lives of the employees." Frank, the "union hero," is now seen as a hypocrite who disregards the lives of workers for his own political gain.

"fraud!"

"Go back to Philadelphia!"

I don't know who threw the first stone. Immediately afterwards, water bottles rained down on the podium.

Frank fled in a disheveled state, barely managing to squeeze through the angry crowd and into his car parked on the side of the road with the help of his bodyguards.

Third floor window.

Victor watched this scene with no expression on his face.

"The voting results are in." Saul pushed open the door, holding a statistics sheet in his hand. "85% of the workers agree to return to work. The new plan has been approved."

"Very good." Victor turned around. "Jack, see Frank off."

"Give it away?" Old Jack was taken aback.

"Literal meaning." Victor walked to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a glass, and said, "He's on a highway in New Jersey and needs a little excitement."

……

New Jersey Interstate 95.

Frank's Cadillac weaved wildly through traffic. His tie was askew, and there was a red mark on his forehead from being hit by a water bottle.

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!"

He pounded on the steering wheel frantically, yelling, "Those ungrateful bastards! That treacherous Italian bastard!"

But he knew he was finished. Exposed on camera, his political career in Teamsters was over.

The car was getting faster and faster, and the speedometer needle was approaching 80 miles per hour.

There was a sharp turn ahead.

Frank instinctively stepped on the brakes.

"puff."

A soft, muffled thud.

The brake pedal felt soft and yielding when pressed to the bottom, offering no resistance whatsoever. It was like stepping into a ball of cotton.

Frank's pupils dilated instantly.

When a vehicle is traveling at high speed, the braking system is subjected to enormous hydraulic pressure. A brake hose with a tiny puncture can't withstand the pressure in that instant and bursts completely.

Brake fluid gushed out.

"No!!!"

Like a runaway bull, the Cadillac crashed through the roadside guardrail, tumbled twice in the air, and slammed heavily into the muddy swamp beside the road.

The loud crash startled the crows on the roadside.

……

Meanwhile, in the offices of Water Pharmaceuticals.

Victor raised his glass and gently swirled it in the sunlight streaming through the window.

"Respectfully surprised."

He said it softly, then drank it all in one gulp.

The car won't explode, and Frank won't die. Because the mud is soft, at most he'll break a few ribs and spend a few months in the hospital.

Victor didn't want to kill him. Killing him would trigger a massive FBI investigation, which would be a foolish thing to do.

But he wanted to give a warning to everyone who tried to get their hands on Waters Pharmaceuticals.

In New Jersey, there is only one rule.

That's Corleone's rule.

The television news was replaying the scenes from the square. A reporter was excitedly commentating to the camera: "This is a dramatic turn of events! Capitalists have displayed a rare glimmer of humanity, while union leaders are facing a moral crisis..."

Victor turned off the TV.

"Saul," he said, glancing at the lawyer who was organizing documents, "preparing for the next phase of the plan. The union is done; now we need more cash flow."

"That boss," Saul pushed up his glasses, pointing to the mountain of orders piled on the table, "has so much cash flow that we need to fill sacks with it. In fact, the car wash manager called yesterday, crying, saying his safe was overflowing."

Victor smiled.

He walked up to the map of New Jersey, traced Atlantic City with his finger, and said, "Since the bathtub is too small, let's get a swimming pool instead."

"Or, a vast ocean."