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

The following morning, at the Water Pharmaceutical Factory, in the office.

Fat Tony sat in the leather boss's chair that originally belonged to old Walter, holding a freshly made "Texas Tea" in his hand.

"I must say, Victor."

Tony took a sip, a satisfied yet greedy smile spreading across his face.

"This stuff is really potent. My guy, Paul, had a drink last night and slept like a fool in his car for a full twelve hours. When he woke up, he even asked me if I had any more."

He put down his cup, leaned forward, and an oppressive aura instantly enveloped Victor across the desk.

"But good products are good products, and business is business."

Tony's fingers tapped heavily on the table.

"I believe this stuff can be sold. But tell me, how can you conjure up three million dollars from this bottle of sugar water to pay me back? If you can't come up with a solution, I'll have no choice but to dismantle this factory and sell it for scrap metal, and take your high school sister with me to pay off the debt."

Victor sat in the guest seat, his expression calm, his gaze behind his glasses unwavering.

"If you demolish the factory, you'll get at most 500,000 yuan. That's killing the goose that lays the golden eggs."

Victor stood up and walked to the New Jersey map on the wall.

"Tony, your current business model is too primitive. Collecting protection money? Hijacking trucks? That's what blue-collar workers do. It's tiring, risky, and doesn't make you much money."

He picked up a red marker and circled several points on the map: Newark, Jersey City, and Trenton.

What I'm going to give you isn't three million in cash. It's a legitimate money-printing machine.

"A money-printing machine?" Tony scoffed. "You expect those street thugs to line up at the pharmacy with prescriptions to buy this stuff?"

"No."

"That's retail. What we're going to do is wholesale and market making."

He quickly wrote down a set of numbers on the whiteboard.

$1.00 -> $5.00 -> $20.00

"Listen, Tony. This is the 'Bead Threading Bureau' we're going to build."

"First link, Water Pharmaceuticals. I am the legitimate manufacturer. This 4-ounce bottle of purple liquid costs me less than $1 to produce. I'm 'wholesale' it to you for $5. The $4 difference will be used entirely to pay off your debt."

Tony squinted and did some mental calculations: "Then I'd need to sell 750,000 bottles to break even. That's too slow."

"Don't worry, the best is yet to come."

"The second step is that you are the 'exclusive distributor.' You stock these products in your nightclubs, underground casinos, and billiard halls. Your retail price is $20."

"$20?" Tony's eyes widened. "A bottle of cough syrup? Only crazy black guys would buy that! A stick of marijuana is only $1.50!"

"Marijuana is for the poor. Cocaine is for the rich ($100/gram). We're in the middle."

Victor placed his hands on the table and looked directly into Tony's eyes.

"This is called a 'light luxury' positioning. More expensive than marijuana, it represents status; cheaper than cocaine, it represents value for money. For those street thugs who drive secondhand Cadillacs, want to imitate the big shots but are afraid of dying, this is their 'holy water'."

"And most importantly..."

Victor lowered his voice and unleashed his trump card.

"Regulatory arbitrage".

"The FDA (Food and Drug Administration) is blind right now. They don't have a nationwide prescription monitoring system (PDMP). This means that legally, this stuff is just a regular cough medicine. Your men selling heroin on the street will get shot on the spot by the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency), but selling this?"

"Even if the police catch you, they can only watch helplessly. Because this is 'medicine,' not 'poison.' As long as you're not caught red-handed trading, you're helping the community residents relieve their coughs."

Fat Tony fell silent.

He looked at the bottle of purple liquid, then at Victor, and the fierce glint in his eyes gradually faded.

As a seasoned gangster, he knew all too well the value of a "legal facade." No need to live in constant fear of the police, no need to fight Colombians for territory; all he had to do was set up his purple dessert in the nightclub…

"Profits? I want 51% of this factory. Since it's a legal business, I want to be the major shareholder."

"No."

Victor answered decisively.

49%.

Tony's face instantly darkened, and the two bodyguards behind him immediately reached into their coats.

"Kid, don't be too greedy. Your life is still mine."

"It is precisely because I value my life that I cannot give you controlling stake."

Victor showed no fear, and even went further, taking out a pre-prepared equity transfer agreement from his drawer and throwing it in front of Tony.

"Tony, use your brain. If you control this factory, and something goes wrong in the future, even though the factory is legal, the IRS isn't going to take it lying down. If they audit the accounts and find that the major shareholder has underworld connections, what do you think you'll face?"

Victor pointed to the agreement.

"You take 49%, only receive dividends, and don't participate in management. I will be the legal representative and the major shareholder. I will bear all the legal risks and all regulatory reviews."

"I am your firewall, Tony."

"Do you want money, or do you want to end up picking up soap in a federal prison?"

These words extinguished Tony's anger and also brought him back to his senses.

He's a gangster, and what he fears most is the IRS and the FBI. Victor is right; those who stand in the limelight are often the ones who die the fastest.

"Firewall..."

Tony chewed on the word, then suddenly burst out laughing.

"Hahaha! Great! What a wonderful firewall!"

He slammed his hand on the table, causing the bottle of purple liquid to shake slightly.

"Victor, how come I never realized you were such a scoundrel? You're even more of a thug than I am!"

He grabbed the pen on the table, didn't even look at the terms, and directly signed his crooked name at the end of the agreement.

hiss-

He tore the $300 million IOU into pieces, which scattered on the ground like snowflakes.

"Six months."

Tony stood up, straightened his collar, and regained his mafia boss demeanor.

"I'm giving you six months. I want to see this purple stuff plastered all over every nightclub in New Jersey. If I don't see the money, this agreement is your will."

"make a deal."