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

Summer 1986. Caribbean Sea, waters off Saint Barthélemy.

The azure sea was cleaved by a 150-foot superyacht, white waves churning on either side of the vessel. The yacht was named "Hippocrates," a name brimming with dark humor.

On the deck, the champagne tower shimmered in the sunlight. Dozens of middle-aged men in Hawaiian shirts and Ray-Ban sunglasses were raising their glasses, chatting and laughing.

They are among the top child psychiatrists, medical school professors, and presidents of major medical associations in the United States.

This is what Victor refers to as "Key Opinion Leaders" (KOLs).

"Respect and focus on excellence!"

"A salute to the great advancements in medicine!"

The clinking of glasses echoed throughout the room. Bikini-clad models carried silver trays laden with gleaming gold watches.

Rolex Day-Date, solid gold bracelet, diamond-set hour markers. Each watch is worth $5.

Victor wore a white linen shirt with the cuffs casually rolled up. He stood at the highest point of the deck, like a king looking down upon his subjects.

"Gentlemen."

Victor's voice carried throughout the yacht via the microphone. The noisy crowd instantly fell silent.

"In the past year, thanks to your efforts, three million children across the United States have been freed from the burden of 'attention deficit'. You are not only doctors, you are guardians of education, and saviors of families."

He waved his hand, and the models began handing out gold watches.

"This watch isn't a gift," Victor said with a smile. "It's a medal. It's a small token of appreciation for everyone who sacrificed their weekends with their families to fly across the country giving 'academic lectures.'"

A gray-haired professor took the watch, skillfully slipped it onto his wrist, and the weighty feel of it brought a satisfied smile to his face. He was the head of the department at Harvard Medical School and a major academic advocate for Judaism.

"Mr. Corleone, you're too kind." The professor raised his glass. "Science needs to be disseminated; we are simply fulfilling our duties as doctors."

"Well said!" Victor raised his glass in a toast.

Just as the atmosphere reached its climax, a discordant voice rang out.

"But...is this really scientific?"

The crowd parted automatically. The speaker was a young doctor, probably in his early thirties, with somewhat glazed eyes, clearly drunk. He was a rising star at Stanford University, and among this group, he was the only one who still retained a shred of academic integrity.

"What's wrong, Dr. Wilson?" Victor's smile didn't disappear, but his eyes turned cold.

Wilson staggered out, clutching the gold watch in his hand.

"I've seen the latest ingredient analysis report. The main component of Concerta is a derivative of methamphetamine. Chemically speaking, it's only one molecule different from... and the meth sold by street drug dealers."

The deck was deathly silent. The sea breeze howled, making the parasols flutter loudly.

The professors nearby looked ashen-faced, and one tried to pull Wilson back: "You're drunk, Michael."

"I'm not drunk!" Wilson shook off his companion's hand, staring directly at Victor. "Aren't we feeding the kids drugs? The side effects—insomnia, loss of appetite, heart palpitations. We're turning the kids into addicts!"

Victor wasn't angry. He walked down the steps and stood before Wilson.

"Drugs?" Victor chuckled. "Doctor, do you know the difference between drugs and medicine?"

Wilson was taken aback: "What?"

"The difference lies in 'control'."

Victor pointed to the wine glass in Wilson's hand.

"Alcohol is also an addictive substance, killing more people every year than heroin. But what are we doing now? We're enjoying it. Because we have control."

Victor leaned closer to Wilson and lowered his voice.

"Those kids, their brains are a tangled ball of yarn. They can't control their impulses, they can't control their attention. What we give them isn't drugs, it's 'order.' It's the 'control' that allows them to sit quietly and integrate into this civilized society."

"But..." Wilson struggled, "the side effects..."

"Life is about weighing things up, Doctor," Victor interrupted him, pointing towards the shore.

There was a row of luxury cars parked there, including a red Ferrari that Wilson had just bought.

"Are your children doing well at private school? I heard your eldest son just got accepted into Yale's pre-university program? The tuition there isn't cheap, it's $40,000 a year."

Wilson's face turned pale instantly.

Victor gently patted him on the shoulder.

"Without the 'consulting fees' from Tsering, do you think you could afford that Ferrari, and your son's future?"

"We are saving families, Doctor. Your family is one of them."

Wilson's lips trembled. He looked into Victor's deep eyes, then glanced at the gold watch in his hand.

That wasn't just a watch. It was a pair of handcuffs. A pair of warm, comfortable handcuffs made of solid gold.

After a long silence, Wilson lowered his head.

"You're right... Mr. Corleone," he said hoarsely, "it's for the sake of order."

He silently put the gold watch on his wrist.

"That's it!" Victor laughed, clapping his hands. "Music! Keep the music playing, keep dancing! Let the champagne flow!"

Cheers erupted again. This time, they were even more enthusiastic than before, as if to cover up the brief embarrassment and pangs of conscience that had just occurred.

...

The lower deck of the yacht.

A waiter in a white uniform was washing wine glasses. He had his head down, his hat brim pulled low, and a tiny earpiece in his ear.

He is FBI agent Miller.

He had a miniature recorder hidden on his waist, the bureau's latest technological product.

"Damn it..."

Miller cursed under his breath. His headphones were filled with the cacophony of waves and engine roars. Victor's speech on "Drugs and Order" sounded disjointed and utterly unfit for use as evidence in court.

"...The difference lies in...the tuition fee...the order..."

Miller angrily turned off the tape recorder. He had messed up again.

This Victor Corleone is not only a madman, but also a ruthless bastard.

Just then, a voice sounded behind him.

"New here? Taking so long to wash a cup?"

Miller turned around abruptly and saw Saul standing in the doorway, looking at him suspiciously.

"I'm sorry, sir. I'll take it up right away." Miller immediately put on a humble smile, picked up the tray, and walked out with his head down.

Thor stared at his back for a few seconds, frowned, but was eventually drawn to the cheers from upstairs.

"These vampires..." Thor muttered, turning and walking towards the deck. "Even I want to get a gold watch to wear."

On the deck, the setting sun dyed the sea a blood red.

Victor leaned against the railing, watching the medical elites reveling in alcohol and money.

"Is this the empire you wanted?" Thor walked up to him and handed him a glass of wine.

"This is just the foundation, Thor."

Victor raised his glass to the setting sun, as if admiring a glass of blood.

"When all the doctors wear our golden handcuffs, when all the children can't live without our syrup... then we will truly own this country."

He drank the wine in his glass in one gulp.

"Let's get ready for the next phase. Now that the children have calmed down, it's time to let them have some 'fun'."

"Happy?" Thor didn't understand.

"OxyContin," Victor uttered a single word. "That's candy for adults. But who says only adults can eat candy?"