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

In Newark's South Side, abandoned textile mills have been transformed into various cheap motels and underground clubs.

"This stuff just won't sell, Victor."

Next to a Cadillac that was still running, Paul, one of Tony's henchmen, was kicking a box of "Walter Cough Syrup" that hadn't decreased much.

"Those addicts crave the 'strength,' that instant, exhilarating rush to their heads." Paul sniffed, then disdainfully pulled a small packet of white powder from his pocket and shook it. "Not this cloyingly sweet sugar water that doesn't have any effect even half an hour after drinking it. Dude, I stood on the street corner for three days and only sold two bottles, and those were to an old lady with a cold."

Victor Corleone, dressed in a dark gray suit and holding a black umbrella, stood in the rain, looking out of place in this dirty neighborhood.

He wasn't angered by Paul's complaints; he simply pushed up his glasses and looked through the rain at the graffiti-covered iron gate across the street.

That's "The Basement," Newark's most chaotic and lively underground hip-hop club. The deep bass can make your heart pound even two blocks away.

"There's nothing wrong with the product, Poly. You've chosen the wrong customer and used the wrong scenario," Victor said calmly.

"Scene?" Paul scoffed. "What kind of scene do you need to sell medicine? It's all about cash on delivery, even in a public restroom."

"That's selling drugs, Poly. We're selling 'culture'."

Victor folded his umbrella and handed it to Paul. "Take a box of goods and come inside with me."

"Go in? Dressed like that?"

Victor ignored him and walked straight toward the vibrating iron gate.

……

"The Basement".

The dim lighting was sliced ​​into tiny specks of light by the rotating mirror sphere, dancing wildly in the smoky air. On stage, a black rapper was rapidly spewing lyrics into the microphone, the rhythm so fast it was breathtaking.

The crowd was restless, like a pack of wild beasts locked in a cage, twisting and turning wildly to the rapid drumbeats.

Victor frowned. This kind of fast-paced music with a BPM (beats per minute) exceeding 120 is a product of the cocaine era. People crave excitement, speed, and explosiveness.

But this does not belong to "purple water".

He walked through the crowded streets, maintaining a strange, detached elegance despite the provocative glances and physical collisions around him, as if he were walking in another dimension.

He went straight to the DJ booth.

Behind the control panel sat a burly Black man with dreadlocks, completely absorbed in the electronic music storm he was creating. He was the king of the place, controlling the heartbeats of the hundreds of people in the audience.

A hundred-dollar bill was placed on the mixing console.

The DJ stopped scratching, raised an eyebrow, and looked at the incongruous white man. "Lost, Wall Street kid? We don't buy stocks here."

"I'll buy the time." Victor's voice wasn't loud, but it clearly reached the DJ's ears during the brief lull in the silence.

He then put down two more hundred-dollar bills.

"Slow down the tempo," Victor said. "Slow down to 60 BPM. Boost the bass and lengthen the vocals."

"Are you crazy?" The DJ looked at him like he was an idiot. "This kind of rhythm will put people to sleep. If the crowd goes cold, the boss will kill me."

"Try this."

Victor didn't argue. He took a bottle of purple water from Paul and unscrewed the cap. Then, he picked up the half-full glass of Sprite next to the DJ booth, filled with ice, and slowly poured the viscous purple liquid into it.

Even in dim lighting, it is a breathtaking visual spectacle.

The bright purple syrup, like some kind of living liquid gemstone, sinks and diffuses in wisps within the clear carbonated beverage. Bubbles, wrapped in purple ribbons, rise and burst, releasing a sweet grape aroma.

Victor took a few red fruit candies out of his pocket, threw them into the bottom of the cup, and gently shook it.

"This is called 'Texas Tea'," Victor said, pushing the still-sizzling cup toward the DJ. "Drink this, and you'll understand what real rhythm is."

The DJ looked suspiciously at the alluring liquid, then at the three hundred dollars on the table. Ultimately, greed and curiosity overcame his wariness. He picked up the glass and gulped down a large mouthful.

three minutes.

The onset of the drug's effects usually takes twenty minutes, but in this hot, oxygen-deprived environment filled with the smell of marijuana, the sedative effect of promethazine was accelerated.

The DJ felt the lights in front of him begin to blur. The previously hurried and restless crowd seemed to slow down in his eyes. Every movement was like a slow-motion video, and every sound echoed.

An unprecedented sense of relaxation washed over his mind like a warm tide. All anxiety, anger, and aggression vanished, leaving only a languid feeling of floating on clouds.

"Damn it..." DJ muttered to himself, his voice low and hoarse. He felt his fingers no longer obeying the urgent commands of his brain, but instead instinctively pushing the pusher in rhythm with the slow beat of his heart.

The music has changed.

The originally rapid drumbeats were forcibly prolonged, turning into a heavy and slow rumble, like the beating of a heart in the deep sea. The vocals were lowered in pitch, becoming deep and viscous, each word seemingly carrying a strange magic.

This is the future of "Chopped and Screwed" style—screwdriver music.

The crowd on the dance floor was initially bewildered, with some even booing. But soon, the low-frequency sound waves began to resonate with the lingering effects of alcohol and marijuana in their systems.

Victor stood in the shadows, watching it all unfold.

He saw several Black men who had been violently pushing and shoving stop, their bodies beginning to sway involuntarily to this extremely slow rhythm. It was no longer a violent shaking, but a large, seaweed-like swaying.

"Open the box," Victor said to Paulie, who was already stunned.

Poly opened the box, revealing 99 neatly arranged bottles of purple water inside.

Victor took out a bottle, unscrewed it, and held it up to the light.

The DJ seemed to sense something; he grabbed the microphone and roared in that drug-induced, deep, drawn-out voice, "Want to...fly...? That's...purple...heaven..."

The first person rushed over. He snatched the bottle from Victor's hand and threw down a handful of crumpled banknotes.

Then came the second, and the third.

In this underground world filled with despair and restlessness, everyone is searching for a way out. Heroin is too potent, making life worse than death; marijuana is too mild, unable to bear the burdens of life.

Only this purple liquid, gentle and sweet, can transport one into a painless, time-stagnant purple bubble.

"This doesn't make sense..." Paul muttered to himself as he frantically collected the money. He watched as the usually fierce thugs crowded around Victor like babies begging for milk, their eyes filled with longing.

In just twenty minutes.

The box is empty.

Poly's pockets were bulging with small bills, even the inside pockets of his coat were full.

The DJ was still engrossed in playing that slow, unsettling rhythm on stage, and the entire club had turned into a purple sea. Everyone was swaying, everyone was sinking.

Victor straightened his wrinkled collar and glanced at the watch on his wrist.

"Let's go, Poly."

He turned and walked toward the door, without glancing back at the reveling crowd.

"Wait, Victor!" Paulie caught up excitedly, his face flushed. "How much cargo are we taking tomorrow? Five cases? Ten cases? Those guys are crazy! Someone asked me if they could just buy a whole barrel!"

Victor pushed open the iron gate, and the cold night rain rushed in again, washing away the sweet smell on his body.

"I won't come tomorrow." Victor opened his black umbrella, shielding himself from the wind and rain.

"What? Why?" Paul was stunned. "This is robbery!"

This is called "hunger marketing".

"Let them thirst. Let them search the streets, ask, and make a ruckus. Until this purple fire engulfs the entire Newark underworld, until they feel that not being able to drink this stuff means being abandoned by the times..."

"Back then, even if the factory operated 24 hours a day, it still couldn't print all those banknotes."