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

Two flowers bloom, one branch each.

While Victor was raising his glass in Tokyo, Fox Mudd had already arrived in Trenton, New Jersey.

A bleak autumn wind swept through this once-powerful industrial town. Miller's annual leave had expired, leaving him all alone.

He followed the address he received and found his way here. The house before him appeared even more dilapidated than its neighbors. The lawn clearly hadn't been tended to in a long time; most of the grass was withered and yellowish-brown. The mailbox was overflowing with unopened bills—utility bills, medical bills, credit card overdue notices—plenty of paperwork, even spilling out.

Mude tightened the collar of his trench coat and rang the doorbell.

no respond.

He knocked on the door again, this time with more force.

"Get out of here! You don't believe in God, and you won't even buy a vacuum cleaner!" A woman's hysterical scream came from inside the house. "If you don't leave, I'll call the police! I have a gun!"

"Mrs. Schrader, this is Fox Mulder." Mulder didn't back down; he called through the crack in the door, "I'm looking for Agent Hank. I'm here about the 'Purple Water' case from eight years ago."

The cursing from inside the door stopped abruptly.

The silence lasted for more than half a minute.

Finally, the lock turned, and the door was pulled open a crack, revealing a security chain and Mary Schrader's wary face. She was wearing a pilling purple sweater and had heavy bags under her eyes.

"Who are you?"

"A person who wants to know the truth is also someone who was destroyed by that name." Mulder handed over a business card.

Mary glanced at the title on the business card—private investigator—through the security chain, and gave a mocking sneer: "The truth? What truth do you want? The truth is we're bankrupt. The truth is my husband is a cripple. The truth is the DEA threw him back like trash, giving him only a pittance in compensation, not even enough to repair his wheelchair. Get lost."

She made a move to close the door.

"Let him in, Mary."

A deep, hoarse voice echoed from deep within the house.

Mary's hand froze. She glanced back at the dimly lit living room, bit her lip, a hint of helplessness and resentment flashing in her eyes, but finally unchained herself, stepped aside, and made way for her.

The curtains were drawn tightly, blocking out all outside light. Only the blue light from the television flickered, illuminating the medical equipment scattered throughout the room—oxygen cylinders, a makeshift rehabilitation frame, and boxes of adult diapers piled in the corner.

Using the blue light, Mud could make out the figure in the corner.

Hank Schrader.

Eight years ago, he was a legendary DEA agent in New Jersey, known as the "Bulldog" who struck fear into the hearts of Colombian drug lords. He once single-handedly seized two tons of cocaine at a port. But two years ago, during a raid on a drug cartel hideout, he was shot three times. One of the 9mm bullets shattered his fourth lumbar vertebra, leaving him permanently paralyzed from the waist down.

That operation earned him a Purple Heart, a certificate of merit entitled "Hero," and a notice of early retirement.

Now, this former bulldog sits slumped in a wheelchair, resembling a haphazardly piled-up mass of rotten flesh. His legs, severely atrophied from nerve necrosis, dangle empty in his loose gray sweatpants. His belly, however, is piled high with flabby fat due to long-term lack of exercise and hormonal side effects.

His face was covered in stubble, and his eyes were as murky as still water, only occasionally flashing a glimmer of light when he looked at the television screen.

"I've seen your name in the newspaper, Mudd."

"That FBI agent who investigated Vought Pharmaceuticals, was subsequently charged with abuse of power, and ended up spending six months in jail. The newspapers say you harassed a prominent 'philanthropic entrepreneur' just for attention."

"Newspapers always like to tell only half the story, especially when GG is a pharmaceutical giant." Mulder ignored his sarcasm, pulled up a folding chair and sat down. "They didn't mention my partner Miller, nor did they mention the key witness, 'Fat Tony,' who suddenly died in prison. Miller was just one step away from the truth—Fat Tony originally planned to use what he knew to get a reduced sentence."

"But he died before he could even speak, didn't he? Stabbed to death by other prisoners during his exercise time!" Hank sneered. "I even arrested him myself. Murder to cover it up. The trail went cold, and then you were falsely accused of 'illegal evidence gathering.' Victor's legal team tore you apart like bloodthirsty sharks."

"Illegal evidence gathering is another matter, but that's all in the past. I took all the blame."

“None of that matters. What matters is that I know you’ve been investigating him, Hank.” Mulder looked directly at Hank. “Back in 1980, when Victor Corleone had just taken over that debt-ridden little pharmaceutical company, you had your eye on him.”

Hank's pupils contracted slightly, as if he had been pulled back to that era.

"Back then, I discovered something unusual," Hank recalled. "A pharmaceutical company that was on the verge of bankruptcy suddenly started importing large quantities of codeine raw materials. At the same time, 'purple liquid' began to flood the streets of New Jersey. All the clues pointed there, but we couldn't find any evidence."

"Because he's not just selling cough syrup," Mudd added. "He's selling 'logistics'."

“That’s right.” Hank slammed his fist on his thigh. “He didn’t sell the drug directly to the dealers. He used a complex network of shell companies—cleaning companies, logistics companies, even charitable foundations—to circulate the high-concentration codeine syrup. Each transaction had a legitimate invoice, and every receipt could withstand an IRS audit.”

"My gut feeling tells me there's an unseen conduit between the two," Hank said through gritted teeth. "And I'm the DEA's ace. I'm too confident. Instead of shutting down the pharmaceutical company immediately, I wanted to play the long game. I wanted to catch the Ganoby family directly dealing with the pharmaceutical company; I wanted to pull off a nationally sensational RICO (Richard Institutional Conflict) case."

“A cat-and-mouse game,” Mudd said softly. “I’ve made the same mistake. I was misled for three whole months by false clues thrown my way by Victor, chasing after a ridiculous ‘cure for cancer.’”

"Yes, he's a natural-born manipulator," Hank chuckled self-deprecatingly. "By the time I arrested Fat Tony, Victor had already cut ties. He'd cleaned up the mess, completely clean and spotless. All the dirty water was poured on Fat Tony. Under federal law, pharmaceutical companies aren't responsible for the illegal distribution of drugs if they fulfill their 'duty of reasonable suspicion.' His lawyers pushed that law to its extreme."

"Fat Tony died in prison, taking the secret to his grave. And Victor Corleone..." Hank pointed to the television playing financial news. On the screen, Victor was confidently discussing a "global health strategy."

"He became a business tycoon, a pharmaceutical giant. He talked about 'human health' on television and received accolades from members of Congress. Meanwhile, I could only sit in a wheelchair, watching that face shine on the screen, and even needing my wife's help to go to the toilet."

“You haven’t lost, Hank,” Mulder said. “Fat Tony may be dead, but his network is still there. The flow of funds doesn’t lie. I need your investigation notes from back then. Those clues that were sealed by the DEA, the flow of the original ‘purple liquid,’ the registration information of those shell companies, those shipping tracking numbers that you thought were ‘insignificant’ but were actually crucial.”

"Ha! You need clues?" Hank suddenly burst into laughter, which triggered a violent coughing fit that turned his face red.

"Water..." he gasped, reaching out his hand.

Mary rushed over immediately and expertly handed her a glass of warm water and an orange prescription medicine bottle.

Hank shakily poured out a small pill. It was OxyContin!

Mud's gaze was fixed on the medicine bottle.

It had a clear blue logo printed on it—Walter Pharmaceuticals. The bottle also had that famous GG quote printed on it: "12-hour continuous pain relief, not addictive."

"Look, Mr. Mudd." Hank swallowed the pill, closed his eyes, and his face contorted with a mixture of pain and pleasure.

"This is the most brilliant part of the play. This is the cruelest joke God has ever played on me!"