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

Spring came earlier than usual in 1982. The oak trees outside the windows of Corleone Estate had already sprouted tender green buds.

Fat Tony pushed open the door and entered, his excitement almost overflowing.

"Victor! Look at this!"

He slammed a financial report on his desk.

"Last month's sales broke records! 1.2 million! Cash!" Fat Tony's face glistened with oil, like a walrus that had just had a hearty meal. "The distributors in Jersey City are going crazy; they're even wanting to prepay for next month's orders. Victor, we have to expand! I heard that the tomato sauce cannery next door went bankrupt; we can take it over and add five more lines! No, ten more!"

Victor Corleone sat in a high-backed chair, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He didn't look at the report, nor did he glance at Fat Tony. His gaze, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, fell on the busy factory chimneys in the distance.

There, wisps of smoke rose and blended into the grey sky.

"Tony," Victor said, "sit down."

Fat Tony paused for a moment. He keenly sensed that something was wrong. He suppressed his smile and plopped down on the sofa opposite him.

"We're going to stop the purple water business," Victor said.

These words were spoken softly and briefly, but to Fat Tony, they sounded like a thunderclap.

"What?!" Fat Tony's eyes widened. "Stop? Now? Are you drunk or scared out of your wits by the FDA? That's a million dollars in net profit every month! That's printing money!"

"This is printing ghost money," Victor interrupted him coldly.

He put down his cup, stood up, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled out a thick copy of the Federal Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act from a row of hardcover books.

"Do you know what cGMP is, Tony?"

"What G?" Fat Tony looked bewildered.

"Current Good Manufacturing Practice (GMP)." Victor tossed the codex onto the table. "Just yesterday, we received a pre-approval notice from the FDA regarding our qualification to manufacture 'Class IV controlled drugs'."

"So what? Our cold medicine was legal before, wasn't it?" Fat Tony still hadn't grasped the point. "Back then, we were also selling purple water, and nobody came looking for trouble."

Victor sighed. There was a cognitive gap of an entire era between him and this gang leader who only knew how to fight and kill.

"Back then, we were 'Walter Pharmaceuticals,' a small-town company that made cough syrup. The FDA wouldn't bother with us much." Victor walked to the whiteboard and wrote down the word: Valium.

"But now, we want to become 'Vought Pharmaceuticals.' We want to produce tranquilizers, we want to produce antibiotics, and we want to sell our drugs to every chain pharmacy in the United States. This means we have to undergo the highest level of FDA unannounced inspections."

Victor turned around, his eyes sharp: "If our factory is producing both legal drugs and illegal street narcotics at the same time, that's called 'cross-contamination.' If even a single microgram of codeine residue is found on a stable production line, our cGMP certificate will become worthless, and we'll all have to spend ten years in federal prison."

"Fuck cGMP!"

Fat Tony jumped to his feet, his face turning a deep purplish-red. He waved his arms like an enraged bull.

"I don't care about this damn FDA! All I know is that my men are waiting to eat! My distributors are waiting to get their goods! And now you're telling me to kill this goose that lays the golden eggs? Just to get those worthless pills that are still waiting for approval?"

He pointed at Victor's nose, spitting as he spoke: "Don't think I don't know what you're thinking, Victor. You want to keep it all for yourself, don't you? You want to kick me aside and go be some respectable 'high society' person?"

Victor looked at the enraged beast before him, a cold glint in his eyes.

He recalled a year ago when this beast led a group of men into his office, using his sister as leverage to force him, who had just lost his father, to repay an astronomical debt. If it weren't for protecting his family, he would never have cooperated with this murderer who had driven his father to his death.

Throughout the year, every time Victor shook hands with Fat Tony, he felt a physical nausea. But he endured it.

Victor stopped getting angry. He watched quietly as Fat Tony finished venting his anger, then took a check out of the drawer.

"Here's two million. Tony, the three million debt I owed you was paid off six months ago. And as a shareholder with a 49% stake, you've received over five million in dividends over the past six months." Victor pushed the check forward. "This is for the share buyback. From today onwards, the Purple Water formula is sealed. The factory is to be completely cleaned up. You can use this money to run your casino, your loan sharking business, or whatever other business you want. But Water Pharmaceuticals must remain clean."

Fat Tony stared at the check. Two million dollars—a fortune in 1982. But compared to the steady stream of cash he expected, it was practically a beggar's treat.

He did not accept the check.

"What if I don't agree?" Fat Tony narrowed his eyes, his hand unconsciously reaching for his waist. There, bulging, was clearly a Colt revolver.

Just then, the door opened.

Saul Goodman poked his head in, his usual carefree grin gone, replaced by a hint of nervousness: "Boss, um... we're in trouble."

"explain."

“Our informant said that DEA Agent Hank Schrader has been investigating our trucking lines recently. Although the department rejected his search warrant application, he… well, it seems he contacted a friend in the IRS.” Saul wiped the sweat from his brow. “They’re checking the accounts of those shell companies, saying they suspect ‘money laundering’.”

Fat Tony's expression changed instantly.

If the DEA is a mad dog, then the IRS is the Grim Reaper. Gangs aren't afraid of the police, but they are afraid of tax audits—a psychological shadow cast since the Al Capone era.

Victor picked up his glass again and took a sip. "You see, Tony. Times have changed. That mad dog Hank has his eye on you. He can't get into the factory, but he can cut off your cash flow. If you keep selling purple liquid, neither you nor I will survive past Christmas. I'm doing this to save you."

Fat Tony gritted his teeth, staring intently at Victor. He knew Victor was right. While the purple water business was extremely profitable, its cash flow was too massive and too conspicuous to be hidden.

Ultimately, his fear of federal prison triumphed over his greed.

He grabbed the checks from the table and stuffed them into his jacket pocket.

"You'll regret this, Victor," Fat Tony said viciously. "You've thrown away a gold mine. When you want to come back begging me, don't expect me to open the door for you."

After saying that, he slammed the door and left.

The deafening sound of the door slamming echoed down the corridor.

Victor put down his glass, his expression completely expressionless. He pressed the button on the intercom on the table.

"Old Jack?"

"I'm here, young master," came the butler's voice from the walkie-talkie.

"Let's begin," Victor said. "Destroy all the purple water inventory. Dismantle reactors 3 and 4. I want that workshop so that you can't even smell a trace of codeine, not even in the cracks of the floorboards."

"Understood. What about the remaining ingredients?"

"Pour it down the drain."

……

Half an hour later, Victor stood in the corridor on the second floor of the factory.

Beneath their feet, workers wearing gas masks were handling the purple liquid that had once brought them a fortune, like waste.

The huge reactor was opened, and viscous purple water gushed into the drainage ditch.

This is the smell of underground New Jersey. It's the smell of the slums. It's the smell of quick money.

Victor watched the purple liquid swirl and disappear into the dark drain hole. He felt an unprecedented sense of relief.

Like a snake, it finally shed its old, taut, and grime-covered skin.

Saul walked up to him and handed him a document.

"Roche's patent analysis report." Saul clicked his tongue, looking at the scene below. "What a pity. That's all real money."

"That's poison, Thor." Victor took the document and walked towards the research center without looking back. "We need to make an antidote now."

On the cover of that document was a phrase that would dominate the global pharmaceutical market for the next thirty years:

Controlled Release Technology.

Outside the factory, in a black Cadillac, Fat Tony hadn't gone far. He stared at the purple wastewater flowing from the factory, his greed gradually turning into malice.

"Only a fool would pour money down the drain." He dialed a number. "Hello, it's me. That pharmacist named Kyle...yes, the one who got fired from the pharmaceutical company. Bring him to my basement. I have work for him."