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

Hank Schrader recorded twelve names in the notebook that Mudd had given him.

Over the past week, Mudd has been traveling through slums, shelters, and cheap motels on the East Coast.

The first five names have been missing for over three years and are likely unidentified bodies at the bottom of the Delaware River or buried under some unknown highway embankment; the middle three are in serious prisons for armed robbery or drug trafficking and are rotting during their long life sentences; and the other three died from complications of AIDS or overdoses.

Only one remains.

George Williams, nicknamed "Old Joe".

Mulder drove his Ford off the interstate and onto Kensington Avenue in Philadelphia. The sky had turned a sickly leaden gray.

This is America's festering wound, a corner forgotten by both God and the city hall.

The area that should have been a bustling commercial district is now just a dilapidated shell. Every shopfront is boarded up, and the walls are covered with gang symbols and desperate curses. On the sidewalks, groups of people, looking like zombies, are everywhere.

Some of them were bent over, their heads almost touching their knees, maintaining a strange, gravity-defying posture; others lay on mattresses that reeked of urine, staring blankly at the sky.

Mude went to the old address in the notebook and found only ruins where houses had been demolished, with withered grass growing among the rubble.

After much difficulty, he managed to find "Old Joe's" whereabouts in a homeless encampment under the overpass by exchanging two packs of cigarettes. Or rather, he found the last trace left by Old Joe.

A "home" made up of an abandoned supermarket cart, a few pieces of moldy tarpaulin, and two pieces of cardboard.

Three ragged men sat around a smoking campfire. Their expressions were excited and dazed as they passed a freshly burned spoon around their necks.

In the shadows behind them lay a stiff, lifeless Gundam.

That's Old Joe.

He was curled up like a baby, seemingly trying to ward off the chill of late autumn. His skin was an eerie bluish-purple, and white foam lingered around his mouth. His left sleeve was rolled up, revealing a syringe fully inserted into the crook of his elbow.

"Who are you? Cop?" One of the men, missing a front tooth, stared at Mudd warily, clutching a rusty crowbar tightly in his hand.

“I’m an old friend of his from the steelworkers’ union,” Mulder lied, his gaze sweeping over the body. “How long…has he been gone?”

"Who knows? Maybe three hours, maybe four." The toothless man shrugged, his natural indifference chilling Mudd more than the cold wind. "Anyway, when we wake up, he'll already be meeting God. Or in hell, who cares?"

Mudd pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911.

"This is under the Kensington Avenue overpass, near Block 3. Someone died of an OD (drug overdose)..."

"Sir, could you please confirm if there has been any shooting or violent conflict in this neighborhood?" The operator's voice was cold and mechanical.

"There was no violent conflict, only a Gundam."

"Understood, sir. That neighborhood is a high-risk area and not within our priority response zone." The operator read out a disclaimer again. "The nearest patrol car is handling an armed robbery five miles away. We will notify the municipal morgue, but due to the backlog of cases, they may not arrive until tomorrow or even the day after."

"Tomorrow? There's a Gundam here! Just sitting in the open?" Mud raised his voice.

"Listen, sir. Dozens of homeless people die on the streets of Philadelphia every day. Let him line up. If you find it inconvenient, you can cover him with something."

The call ended. The busy tone seemed to mock Mudd's naiveté.

Mulder stared at the phone in disbelief. His FBI training had taught him that every citizen's death should be taken seriously, the scene sealed off, and an autopsy performed. But in this corner of reality, death was treated as cheaply as a crushed cockroach, not even deserving of a body bag.

"Don't bother, suit guy." The toothless man chuckled, revealing a mouthful of rotten teeth. "The cops don't come to this godforsaken place. Unless a white senator dies here. The rules here are set by the gangs."

After saying that, he turned to his companion and shouted, "Hey Johnny! Call 'Lock A'. Tell him we have some. Fresh."

"Lock A?" Mud frowned.

"This has nothing to do with you." The toothless man stared greedily at the shoes that looked reasonably valuable on Mulder's feet. "Listen, Old Joe was a good man when he was alive. But he was also a jinx. Two years ago, the factory laid off workers, and he lost his job; without a job, he couldn't pay his mortgage, and the bank foreclosed on his house; without an address, he couldn't find a new job, and no one would rent him a place... It's a damn vicious cycle."

"He ended up here," the man said, pointing to the mud at his feet. "Like us, he became a pile of unwanted garbage."

"But that's not the worst part," another man, who was burning a spoon with a lighter, interjected, his voice erratic. "Yesterday, we begged for food and scraped together some money to buy a batch of the latest, best stuff. But it wasn't enough to go around. So we made a rule."

"What are the rules?"

"Whoever dies of happiness first..." the man grinned, "the rest of the people will sell his Gundam. The money will be split equally, used to buy more medicine, and continue having fun. Old Joe agreed to it. If I were the one who died, they would have sold me anyway."

Mud felt a churning in his stomach.

This is the final survival logic of this group of people abandoned by society. In this corner forgotten by civilization, even death itself has become a resource that can be monetized, a fuel to prolong pleasure.

"Lock A...that doesn't sound like a real name." Mudd tried to extract more information from them. "A thug who deals in corpses?"