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

A month later.

Winter nights always come exceptionally early in New Jersey. By five in the afternoon, the sky is already heavy with leaden clouds, making it hard to breathe.

But on the assembly line at the Water Pharmaceuticals plant, the lights were on and the machines roared like tireless beasts.

"Sizzle—"

White plastic gallons are conveyed through filling nozzles by a conveyor belt. The viscous purple liquid is precisely injected, the barrels are sealed, and then pushed to the next stage.

No label.

No instruction manual was provided.

No production date.

Only that one striking shade of purple, shining through the translucent plastic bucket, refracted an eerie glow under the fluorescent light.

Old Jack stood by the iron railing on the second floor, clutching his old baseball cap, his brow furrowed.

As a long-time butler who had worked for the Walter family for thirty years, he had seen the factory produce aspirin, antibiotics, and even first-aid kits from World War II. But he had never seen anything like it.

The workers no longer wore white coats, but instead put on dustproof suits, their eyes revealing a light that was both excited and uneasy—a mixture of greed at seeing the numbers on their pay slips double and an instinctive fear of what they were making.

"Young Master."

Old Jack turned around and looked at the young man standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the entire workshop.

"This is the third batch. Five thousand gallons. There are no warehousing records, no FDA approval, and not even a sales contract."

His voice trembled slightly.

"Last night, I saw several unlicensed trucks taking them away. Those drivers... they didn't look like they were delivering medicine, more like..."

"Like what? Jack."

Victor turned around.

He was wearing a dark gray cashmere coat and holding a cup of hot coffee. The once gentle and refined college student was gone, replaced by an unfathomable depth.

"Like a gang?"

Victor chuckled and walked up to old Jack.

"Jack, look at this factory."

He pointed to the busy assembly line downstairs.

"A month ago, it was a corpse. The workers were on strike, the banks were chasing us for debts, and we were almost homeless. But now? Look at them. Everyone's got pockets full of dollars, and we're getting our year-end bonuses this Friday."

"But that's against the rules..." Old Jack mumbled.

"Rules are made by living people, Jack."

"We're saving this factory. We're producing 'happiness.' Where it goes is the logistics company's problem, not ours."

"Listen to me. Don't ask questions, don't look, just pay the wages."

After saying that, Victor turned and walked towards his office.

"By the way, Jack, I've deposited $20,000 into your retirement account. Go buy a house with a pool in Florida; you should enjoy life."

Old Jack stood there, stunned. Looking at Victor's retreating figure, he suddenly realized that the young master he had watched grow up was truly dead on that rainy night.

The person in front of you is a stranger.

.......

Meanwhile, in Camden, New Jersey.

This place is known as "America's murder capital," where poverty, violence, and drugs grow like weeds on the ruins.

In an underground disco called "Detroit Nights," the deep bass seemed to pound into everyone's chest.

The DJ changed a song.

The rhythm suddenly slowed down. It was a deliberately elongated, distorted beat, as if the cassette tape had jammed. The deep voice seemed to come from a deep well, with a viscous, psychedelic texture.

Chopped and Screwed (slow bass).

The crowd on the dance floor did not stop as the rhythm slowed down; instead, they fell into a more frenzied, almost religious swaying.

Their movements were slow and exaggerated, and their eyes were unfocused.

Each person was holding two stacked white foam cups.

"A toast to Texas tea!"

A black rapper with dreadlocks stands on a billiard table, raising two cups high in his hands.

The glass was filled with ice cubes, a few red Jolly Rancher hard candies, and that intoxicating purple liquid.

Texas tea, or rather, Dali, purple water mixed with Sprite. The black rapper tilted his head back and gulped down a large mouthful.

That unique liquid, with its grape and medicinal flavor, slid down my throat. A few minutes later, the synergistic effect of promethazine and codeine began to erupt in my cerebral cortex.

The world has slowed down.

The lights transformed into flowing lines, and the sounds became tangible entities. All the anxiety, fear, and anger were gently enveloped and swallowed up by this purple tide.

"This is God's urine!" the rapper laughed, scattering a stack of banknotes covered in white powder and lipstick stains into the air.

Green dollars fell like raindrops.

In a corner of the ballroom, Fat Tony sat on a leather sofa, watching all of this.

There were three black leather suitcases at his feet. Each one was already full.

"This is blatant robbery."

Tony took a puff of his cigar, and the smoke he exhaled turned purple under the flashing neon lights.

"Five hundred thousand a month. Net profit." He turned to his bodyguard. "Tell Victor I'm doubling it next week. No, triple it! These black bastards would sell their own mothers for this 'purple liquid'!"

......

Trenton Police Department, Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA Task Force).

Hank Schrader pulled the Chevrolet over to the side of the road and rubbed his temples wearily.

As a veteran who has worked on the front lines of drug enforcement for fifteen years, his intuition is even sharper than that of a police dog.

Lately, something's been off on the streets.

It's not that there are fewer shootings, but rather that the street thugs who used to fight tooth and nail over heroin territory have suddenly become "quiet."

This silence made him uneasy.

"Hey, Hank! Look what I confiscated."

Gomez, Gomez's partner, walked back from a group of high school students who had just been dispersed, holding a strange object in his hand.

Two white foam cups stacked together.

"Kids these days are so strange, they need two cups to drink Sprite? Are they afraid their hands will get cold?" Gomez laughed as he threw the cup into the trash can.

"etc."

Hank's eyes narrowed, and he reached out to stop Gomez.

He picked the cup up from the trash can and brought it close to his nose to smell it.

A cloyingly sweet grape flavor mixed with a familiar yet indescribable medicinal smell.

A trace of purple liquid remained at the bottom of the cup, gleaming eerily under the streetlights.

"This is not Sprite."

Hank dipped his finger in the mixture and tasted it.

sweet.

bitter.

There's also that slight numbness on the tip of your tongue.

"Codeine..." Hank frowned. "It also smells like antihistamines."

He looked up at the brightly lit street in the distance.

"Check this out."

Hank put the cup into the evidence bag, his eyes becoming as sharp as a falcon's.

Have any pharmacies been robbed recently? Or has any hospital lost a large quantity of cough medicine?

"No, boss. It's been eerily quiet lately."

"That would be even more terrifying."

Hank looked at the purple evidence bag, his voice low.

"If it wasn't stolen, then someone is producing it on a large scale."