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

Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

The heatwave distorted the air, and two thousand people gathered in front of the UHM (United Health Management) building, two thousand faces contorted with pain and anger.

They blocked every exit of the UHM building.

"Give me back my medicine!"

"Pain is also a disease!"

"Insurance companies are killing people!"

The chants sounded like muffled thunder, making the bulletproof glass of the building rattle. At the very front of the crowd were rows of cameras that had been set up beforehand. CNN, ABC, CBS... media from all over the United States flocked to the scene.

Saul Goodman, like a dutiful director, is giving instructions to the most important actor.

“Listen, Mrs. Martha,” Saul knelt down in front of an elderly woman in a wheelchair and handed her a handkerchief. “When the red light comes on, cry in front of that camera. Think of your back pain, think of your dead husband. Remember what Dr. Smith said at the support group? ‘They’ve taken away your right to live like a human being.’ You just need to shout that out loud.”

The old woman gripped the medicine bottle tightly, her cloudy eyes brimming with tears. "Dr. Smith is a good man...he's the only one who cares about us. Will they really not hurt me, Mr. Goodman?"

“No, darling. Doctors all over America are behind you.” Saul patted her hand, then snapped his fingers at his assistant. “Is that veterans’ contingent ready? Have them hang up their medals! We want the whole of America to see this company abusing its national heroes!”

......

The CEO's office on the top floor of the UHM building.

"Patriot" stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the dense swarm of "ants" below. His face was colder than the whiskey with ice in his hand.

"A mob," he said with disgust. "Did they call the police?"

"Yes, sir," the secretary replied tremblingly, "but the police can't do anything. The area downstairs is full of disabled people, elderly people, and Vietnam War veterans."

"What about the public relations department? Are they just sitting around doing nothing?"

"We issued a statement emphasizing the high risk of addiction to OxyContin, and we removed it from the preferred list for the safety of our patients!"

"Nobody cares about the truth!" Patriot slammed his glass onto the carpet. "They only see those old women in wheelchairs crying! That damn Corleone, he never plays by the rules."

Patriot initially thought it would ultimately be another business negotiation. In Washington, everything is negotiable. But he didn't expect Victor to flip the table!

"Sir, there's worse..." the secretary's voice trembled. "Half an hour ago, an internal memo was leaked to The Washington Post."

Patriot's heart skipped a beat: "What memorandum?"

The secretary handed over a fax with the title: "Analysis of the Revenue from Painkiller Prescription Sets".

In this document, UHM actuaries bluntly calculated that although another older painkiller carries a 3% risk of serious gastrointestinal bleeding in patients, it is recommended as the "first-line drug" because it offers a 60% rebate. OxyContin, while having fewer side effects, is listed as "not recommended" because it refuses to offer high rebates.

At the end of the document was a handwritten note: "It's better for a few poor people to die from stomach hemorrhages than to lose tens of millions in earnings."

Patriot felt a sudden darkness engulf his vision.

There's a mole in the FDA!

This is no longer a simple business scandal; it's practically a murder charge!

......

That evening.

Victor sat in a private box at the Georgetown Club, watching the television screen.

The footage shows Capitol Hill surrounded by angry protesters. A senator is seen passionately shouting into the camera, vowing to launch an antitrust investigation into the PBM industry's monopolistic practices and opaque operations.

"What a brilliant performance," Victor said, swirling his glass of red wine. "Do you think that senator really cared about those patients?"

Saul, sitting across from him, was chewing on a steak: "Who cares if he doesn't? The important thing is that he needs votes, and we need the market. That's a win-win situation."

Just then, Victor's phone rang.

That was a number without caller ID.

Victor pressed the answer button, but he didn't speak; he just listened quietly.

"You won," Patriot's tired voice came from the other end of the phone. "Get those guys out of there. Immediately."

"I don't understand what you're talking about." Victor smiled as he looked out at the night sky. "Those are citizens who are spontaneously advocating for their rights. How can I order them around?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Corleone!" Patriot roared, losing his temper. "The hearing is tomorrow! If I'm subpoenaed, you won't get away with it! You know how dirty this industry is!"

"Calm down, old friend." Victor took a sip of red wine. "Perhaps we can make a deal. OxyContin will be back in the Tier 2 catalog, no pre-authorization required."

"......Can."

"Also, regarding transaction fees."

"I think 45% is too high. Given our current 'good relationship,' 10% is a reasonable figure, right?"

There was a full ten seconds of silence on the other end of the phone. Victor could hear the other person's heavy breathing, like that of a wounded wild beast.

"...10%." Patriot said through gritted teeth, "Deal."

"It's a pleasure working with you."

Victor hung up the phone and downed the last sip of red wine.

"Did you get it done?" Thor put down his knife and fork and looked at him expectantly.

"Notify the head of NAPPA," Victor stood up, "tell everyone that after a hard-fought battle, justice has finally triumphed over evil. The insurance company has compromised. Let them leave, and remember to take their trash with them."

......

Meanwhile, in the black sedan across the street.

FBI Agent Miller from the White Collar Crime Unit lowered his binoculars. In his briefcase lay the ticket stub he'd brought back from Kentucky three days earlier.

"Mold is still wandering around the Parkville coal mine, trying to find the non-existent 'monster'."

This week's trip to Kentucky was fruitless. Although the data was anomaly, every prescription had a legitimate medical record, and every patient had a genuine history of pain. The only conclusion we could draw was that this was a victory for "marketing."

News reports about the NAPPA march alerted him.

The uniform slogans and the well-trained pathos reminded him of a familiar scent—the scent of meticulous manipulation he had encountered when auditing the Medellín Group's money laundering network.

So he left Mulder in Kentucky to continue his search for the "X-Files" and flew back to Washington overnight.

Now, his intuition has come true.

An assistant handed over a stack of photos. Although there were no direct cash transactions in the photos, Saul Goodman was seen talking quietly and intimately with several core NAPPA organizers in a corner.

"Boss, this looks like a successful business PR move," the young agent next to him said. "The methods were a bit aggressive, but he didn't break the law. The First Amendment protects demonstrations."

No, you don't understand.

"If he were just bribing a member of parliament with money or threatening his opponent with a gun, I could handle it. That would be a crime."

"But he manipulated people's hearts."

"He's a madman. He turned a mob of desperate people into a private army that obeys only his orders. Today he can get them to surround an insurance company, tomorrow he can get them to surround..."

"These kinds of people are more dangerous than the Medellín drug cartel."