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

Miami, Florida.

James L. Knight Center.

On the huge stage backdrop, the Vought Pharma logo—the deep blue V-shaped shield—was illuminated by several white spotlights.

But what's truly suffocating isn't the lighting, but the densely packed crowd below the stage.

Three thousand people.

Three thousand young women.

They were all dressed in uniforms specially made by Walter Pharmaceuticals: tailored pink blazers, white silk shirts that just revealed their collarbones, and short skirts that were exactly three inches above their knees.

Looking around, the entire stadium resembled a pink ocean. There were no balding middle-aged men, no pharmacy PhDs in baggy suits, and no data analysts with thick glasses.

This place is filled with youth, beauty, and vitality. This is the army Victor is preparing.

"In this world, there are only two things that can make people willingly take out their wallets."

In a VIP box on the top floor of the stadium, Victor Corleone looked down at the pink ocean below.

Standing behind him was Marcus, the vice president of sales at Water Pharmaceuticals. This fifty-year-old traditional medicine man was constantly wiping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, his eyes filled with fear.

He had witnessed the power of the "cheerleading effect" as early as two years ago.

What he fears is the scale.

"Three thousand people! Victor, this is insane," Marcus's voice trembled. "We've expanded our sales team tenfold in two months. The salaries and training costs alone are astronomical. The company just went public, cash flow is precious, if..."

"It would be crazy if we didn't have new products."

Victor turned around and took a small brown medicine bottle from a box on the table.

"Valium XR did make us our first pot of gold," Victor said, looking at the new bottle, "but it had a flaw. It's a combination drug, containing acetaminophen. This means it has a 'ceiling effect.' Too much can damage a patient's liver. Doctors are hesitant to prescribe large doses, which is why our profits have hit a plateau."

He tossed the new medicine bottle to Marcus.

"But this one, this one has no ceiling."

Marcus caught the medicine bottle and read the label on it:

OxyContin

Oxycodone Hydrochloride Extended-Release Tablets

12-hour continuous analgesia

"This is..." Marcus's eyes widened. "Pure opioids? No compound ingredients?"

"Pure joy. Pure relief." Victor walked to the French windows. "If tranquilizers are a shield that protects patients from pain, then OxyContin is God's hammer that can shatter pain into nothingness."

"It's a nuclear weapon, Marcus. It can make a terminally ill cancer patient feel like they can run a marathon, and a soldier with a broken leg feel like they can fly."

"Why the rush?" Marcus asked. "We still have time..."

"We don't have time!" Victor whirled around, his voice rising an octave. "Purdue Pharma's MS Contin patent is about to expire, and they're developing the same thing. Even Johnson & Johnson is eyeing this market. The pain management market is currently untapped; whoever plants their flag first will be king!"

"I want to make all the doctors in America forget about Valium and Tylenol within a month. I want them to only have one word on their minds: OxyContin."

Just then, the lights in the stadium suddenly went out.

In the darkness, only a spotlight shone from the center of the stage. The powerful drumbeats, like a pounding heart, roared forth—Queen's "We Will Rock You."

"Thump, thump, check! Thump, thump, check!"

Three thousand girls stomped their feet and clapped in unison. A pink wave surged in the darkness, the sound almost lifting the roof off.

The lifting platform rises.

Katie Olsen stood in the center of the pillar of light.

She wore a custom-made white suit, holding a microphone, looking like a queen about to be crowned, or a rock star.

Her blonde hair shimmered under the spotlight, and her makeup was flawless.

"Good morning, Walter Girls!" Katie's voice boomed through the speakers, hitting everyone's eardrums.

"Good morning, Katie!" Three thousand voices merged into one scream.

"Tell me, what do we sell?" Katie asked loudly.

"Osch-Contin!"

"Wrong!" Katie pointed directly at the audience. "If you think you're just selling a bottle of painkillers, then you can get out of here right now!"

The entire room fell silent instantly.

"You're not selling medicine. You're selling freedom."

"Think of the grandmothers who are so tormented by back pain that they can't even hold their grandchildren. Think of the fathers who have to give up their jobs because of arthritis. Think of the miners who are in so much pain at night that they want to commit suicide."

"Doctors are busy, they are tired, and sometimes they forget this pain. Your job is to remind them!"

Katie suddenly swung her fist, her voice rising again.

"You must tell those doctors that if they prescribe this medicine, they are heroes! They are bringing God's gift to the world! You are not selling; you are saving lives!"

Tell me, who are you?

"We are Walt!"

"What are you going to do?"

"conquer!"

Suddenly, a map of the United States exploded on the giant screen. Countless red dots spread across the map, representing the clinics that Vought Pharmaceuticals planned to conquer within a month.

"Pink Blitzkrieg," Victor read out the operation codename from inside the box, "Let's begin."

February 1984. McDowell County, West Virginia.

This is the heart of the Appalachian Mountains, America's "coal capital."

The sky was a hazy gray, and coal dust always hung in the air. Even the roadside weeds were covered with a layer of black dust. Here, the men's only refuge was the mine, and the women's only entertainment was the church.

This is a completely different world from Miami. Here, there are no neon lights, only pneumoconiosis and broken spines.

A brand-new, bright pink Porsche 911, like a bolt of lightning piercing the night, abruptly entered this gray world.

It drove through the potholed streets and stopped in front of an old-fashioned clinic made of red bricks.

The clinic's windows were covered in dust, and the words "Milligan Family Doctors" on the sign were peeling off.

Dr. Milligan sat wearily behind his cigarette-smeared desk, rubbing his temples. He had just finished treating a miner whose leg had been crushed by a conveyor belt; the room reeked of blood and disinfectant. He felt like a field medic who had spent three years in the trenches, utterly exhausted.

The clinic door was pushed open.

Accompanied by the sound of high heels, a refreshing citrus scent dispelled the stench of blood in the room.

Old Milligan looked up and froze.

A girl stood in the doorway. She looked like an angel who had stepped out of a magazine. Her golden curly hair, flawless skin, and well-tailored business attire perfectly accentuated her vibrant figure.

She carried two exquisite paper bags in her hands, and her face wore a smile that could melt ice and snow.

"Dr. Milligan?" The girl's voice was sweet and respectful. "I'm Jessica, a representative from Water Pharmaceuticals. Good heavens, this is a difficult journey, but I must see you because my medical school advisor said you are the best doctor within a fifty-mile radius."

Old Milligan instinctively stood up, hastily straightening his tie, which was stained with cigarette ash. He wiped his calloused hands on his white lab coat.

"Uh... hello, Miss Jessica. Yes, I'm Milligan."

"I brought you some freshly baked donuts and this week's Golf Digest," Jessica said, floating to the table like a spring breeze. She skillfully placed the items down and tidied up the messy medical records on the table for old Milligan. "I know you're busy, so I'll only take up two minutes of your time."

Unlike other pharmaceutical sales representatives, she didn't pull out a bunch of dry charts and graphs.

She simply took a delicate little box out of her bag and placed it on the table.

"This is Osh Condin. It's revolutionary." Jessica looked into old Milligan's eyes, her gaze filled with admiration and concern. "I want to talk about the miner who just went out."

"You saved his leg, doctor. But what about when he gets home? Will he be able to sleep tonight? That pain will destroy his will, turn him into an alcoholic, or even beat his wife."

Jessica gently placed her hand on the back of old Milligan's hand. The touch was soft and warm, like an electric current.

"You have the power to stop all of this. Just this one pill. 12 hours of painlessness. He can sleep well, and when he wakes up tomorrow morning, he will still be a man with dignity. And all of this is because of you."

Old Milligan looked at the small box, then at Jessica's sincere blue eyes.

At that moment, he no longer felt like that wretched old man waiting to die in this corner forgotten by God.

He is a hero. He is needed.

This feeling was more intoxicating than any alcohol.

......

"I've developed the '3A Rule'," Victor explained to Saul on the other end of the phone, "Agreeable, Available, Able."

"But is this ethical, or rather, legal?" Saul's voice trembled as he looked at the skyrocketing sales figures in his hand.

"I'm surprised you even have a sense of morality, Thor! What were our numbers in West Virginia last week?" Victor retorted.

"Last week...last week our prescription volume increased by 400%!"

"So it seems Jessica is indeed very outstanding!"

"She made good use of the 'cheerleader effect.' For male doctors who were in a high-pressure, closed environment for a long time, she was the only color, the only source of recognition. In order to retain this color, the doctors would subconsciously want to please her."

"And the only way to please her is to prescribe medicine."

......

Jessica left. Old Milligan stood by the window, watching the pink Porsche disappear into the dusty distance, and felt a strange sense of loss.

Just then, the nurse pushed the door open and came in.

"Doctor, there are ten more patients outside. They all have back pain."

Old Milligan sat back in his chair and looked at the box of OxyContin on the table. He picked up the prescription pen.

The sound of the pen tip falling on the paper was soft and scratchy.

"Give them OxyContin," old Milligan shouted. "Everyone. It's for their own good."

That week, every pharmacy in McDowell County was sold out of OxyContin.

In the trailer park where miners live, the lights seemed to stay on longer than usual late at night.

The men stopped drinking and causing trouble. They lay quietly on the sofa, their eyes somewhat unfocused, a strange, satisfied smile on their faces.