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

"This is the cruelest joke God has ever played on me!"

Hank held up the medicine bottle.

"I hate Victor Corleone. I wish I could rip his head off and shove it down the toilet. But... this damn spinal pain feels like someone is pouring magma into my bone marrow. Every second! Every minute! It feels like a million ants are gnawing at my nerves!"

"Only this... only this little thing made by the enemy I swore to send to prison can let me breathe like a human being. Only it can let me sleep at night without screaming in pain!"

"Hank..." Mary wiped away her tears and gently patted her husband's shoulder.

"Do you know what this feels like?" Hank stared at Mulder, his eyes filled with desperate self-mockery. "I'm a narcotics officer! I've spent my whole life arresting drug dealers! I looked down on addicts! And now, I've become the addict who has to kneel down and beg drug dealers to sell me drugs! I'm Waters Pharmaceuticals' most loyal customer!"

"Without this drug, I'll be in so much pain I'll want to kill myself. If Walter collapses, if this drug is banned, I'll have to die!"

Hank gripped the medicine bottle tightly in his hand.

"You want me to help you bring him down? Are you trying to kill me?"

Mudd fell silent. The air in the room seemed to freeze.

Fate is unfair, and destiny plays tricks on us!

The hunter has become a parasite on his prey, and the righteous law enforcers are clinging to life on the charity of criminals. Victor doesn't need to point a gun at Hank, he doesn't need to send assassins. He only needs to control the drug bottles, only needs to control the FDA's approval, to turn this once ferocious bulldog into a groveling lapdog.

"I'm sorry." Mulder stood up. He felt a deep sense of powerlessness. He had no right to ask Hank to endure hellish torment for the sake of so-called justice.

He turned and walked towards the door.

"etc."

Hank's voice came from the shadows behind him. The drug was starting to take effect, and his voice became calmer.

Mude stopped in his tracks.

A wheelchair creaked. Hank slid to a dusty old bookshelf and reached under the base of a "Agent of the Year" trophy with a chipped corner.

He pulled out a yellowed notebook with a worn cover.

"This is my surveillance footage from back then, covering Fat Tony's 'Purple Water' distribution network," Hank said in a low voice. "It contains the names of several middlemen and a few Cayman Islands account numbers. While we can't directly indict Victor, if you could find any of them still alive..."

He tossed the notebook to Mudd.

"Take it. Get lost. Don't let me ever see you again."

Mudd took the notebook and looked at Hank: "Why are you giving it to me?"

Hank looked at the bottle of OxyContin in his hand, a resolute ruthlessness flashing in his eyes, which was then swallowed up by the hazy effects of the drug.

"Because I hate the feeling of being made a fool of more than the pain," he muttered to himself. "But I'm ruined, Mudd. I can't live without this drug. This drug is my oxygen."

Mude nodded solemnly, put the notebook in his pocket, and went out the door.

The cold autumn wind swept over him, but it couldn't dispel the gloom in his heart.

Mary chased after him. She wasn't even wearing a coat for Labor Day, and the cold wind made her shiver. She stared intently at Mulder, her eyes filled with deep hostility.

"Give me back that notebook!" She reached out to grab it, but Mude dodged to the side.

"Mrs. Schrader, this might help Hank get revenge..."

"Revenge? Can revenge put food on the table? Can revenge stop the pain?" Mary screamed, tears streaming down her face. "Hank's gone mad, but I'm not! Do you know how much this bottle of medicine costs?"

She pointed inside the room: "This bottle of 60 OxyContin retails for $400! Without Waterpharm's Patient Assistance Program, we'd have to pay the full amount! That's two months' worth of living expenses!"

"Because Hank signed that damn aid agreement, we only have to pay a $10 co-pay each month. If Walter goes under, if this drug gets removed from health insurance, we won't be able to afford it! It sells for $30 a pill on the black market! We can't survive on that meager pension!"

Mulder was stunned. He looked at Mary's contorted face and suddenly understood Victor Corleone's brilliance.

He not only created patients, but he also created accomplices. With exorbitant pricing and sham charity, he bound patients, their families, insurance companies, and even the entire social security system to his chariot.

"You think you're upholding justice?" Mary pointed at Mulder's nose. "You're killing people! You're killing us! If you destroy Walter, who will take care of Hank's pain? You? Or your damn justice?"

"I just pray that Mr. Corleone lives to be a hundred, that Vought Pharmaceuticals makes money forever, and that its stock skyrockets! Because only then can this damn 'aid program' continue!"

"This is our life! This is the damn justice we've been demanding!"

After saying that, she slammed the door shut.

boom!

The loud noise was like a slap across Mud's face.

In the last second before the door was sewn shut, Mudd heard Hank's suppressed groans from inside the room, the pain of the drug wearing off.

Mudd stood in the wind, notebook clutched in his hand. The dim streetlights cast a long shadow of him. Here, justice was not only delayed, but also distorted beyond recognition.

In Mary Schrader's prayers, Victor Corleone was not a criminal; he was their God, their only source of pain relief, and their lifeline.

How ironic!