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

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To pass censorship, some words have been replaced; just think of it as dismantling a Gundam. This chapter is an artistic creation, please don't take it seriously.

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The black van drove smoothly on the road, with Mudd keeping a distance of three car lengths and carefully hanging behind it.

An hour later, the vehicle left the main road and turned into an abandoned industrial park in the northern suburbs of Philadelphia. It looked unremarkable, surrounded by rusty oil refinery pipes and overgrown open spaces.

The van eventually stopped in front of a low-key red brick building. A small, unassuming bronze plaque hung at the entrance: Life Extension Foundation.

Mudd turned off the car and used its momentum to coast into the shadows. He saw that Prison A hadn't gone inside, but was instead directing the bodyguards to move the dust bag containing Old Joe's mech onto the unloading platform.

A worker in gray overalls and thick-rimmed glasses pushed out a stainless steel cart to meet them. The two exchanged a few words, and then, after signing a notepad, the worker and his men got back into the cart and quickly drove away.

Mude mentally memorized the van's license plate number, preparing to contact Prison A later.

Once the van had completely disappeared into the night, Mudd opened the car door. He avoided the security personnel patrolling the entrance, crept along the base of the wall, and circled around to the back of the building.

That was the unloading door used for the handover of "goods" earlier. The door wasn't closed tightly; a gap was left for ventilation.

The sound of heavy machinery operating came from inside, a high-frequency, piercing "sizzling" sound, like something being cut.

Mude took a deep breath and squeezed inside.

Inside was a huge operating room, the air temperature was very low, and the air was filled with some indescribable rusty smell.

Mudd peeked out from behind a row of huge tool cabinets. The sight before him sent chills down his spine.

This doesn't look like a place for storing bodies at all; it's more like a complete underground car dismantling yard!

Three "Gundam" machines lay on three hydraulic lifting platforms. One of them was Old Joe, who had just been delivered.

Mud's gaze swept over the other two tables, and a wave of nausea washed over him.

On the table to the left lies an "old-fashioned home model." Her exterior is loose and covered in rust. The technicians have already disassembled her "chassis" and "main drive shaft" (spine). Those bones are neatly stacked on a tray, like a pile of second-hand parts waiting to be polished.

On the table to the right is a young "sports-type machine." But there is a terrible dent on its head.

Two technicians dressed in full anti-static suits, goggles, and double masks were busy working around "Old Joe".

"Hurry up," one of the men, who looked like the workshop supervisor, urged, glancing at the digital clock on the wall as he gave instructions. "That Penn student specifically requested that the professor need fresh 'filter' slices and 'coolant,' which must be processed within eight hours of the machine being shut down. This is an expedited order."

"Don't worry, boss." Another technician picked up an electric Stryker oscillating saw, his voice sounding like an enlarged version of a dental drill.

"Perform fluid displacement first," the supervisor ordered.

The technician skillfully inserted a thick tube into the neck of the "machine body." The pump roared, and dark red "waste oil" was drawn out through the tube and flowed into a collection bucket beside it. At the same time, another transparent preservative was injected to maintain the shape of the "machine body."

"The engine oil has a very high viscosity, so it seems that this machine was loaded with a lot of inferior additives before it was built."

"Stop talking nonsense and start disassembling the core components."

First, they looked at the area surrounding the "central processing unit." The technician carefully cut open the "helmet" and removed the "motherboard" inside.

"The motherboard is severely oxidized; only the frontal lobe section is still usable." The technician shook his head. "Throw it in the Class C recycling bin and sell it to a neuropathology lab for slide preparation."

Next is the "optical sensor".

"The optical lens is intact and has good light transmission." The supervisor checked it off the list. The technician used a fine tool to make a circumferential cut, removed the two transparent films, and placed them in a special buffer solution. "This pair of lenses can sell for 1200 yuan on the black market."

Then comes the real "disassembly" climax.

"The intake manifold has severe carbon buildup. This machine must have been a heavy smoker in its lifetime. It's ruined."

"The hydraulic pump valves are aging, but the myocardium is still relatively strong, so we can conduct pharmacological experiments."

"Drive shaft (spine)"

The chainsaw roared again, and the technician skillfully peeled the entire keel from its back, as if removing fish bones.

Just then, the technician next to him suddenly stopped what he was doing and picked up a "pressure valve" that he had just removed.

"Boss, look at this valve. There are obvious calcification spots on it, and the oil pipeline shows signs of blockage. Can this still be considered a Grade A product?"

The supervisor leaned closer, used tweezers to examine the dark red tissue, and frowned. "Damn it, the maintenance of this machine is worse than I thought. If we sell it to that dialysis center as a Grade B product, we'll lose 300 yuan."

"Then what should we do? Throw it in the trash?"

"No." The supervisor sneered, taking a bottle of chemical solvent labeled "surfactant" from the shelf next to him. "Use this to wash it and grind away the calcifications. As long as it looks shiny on the outside, no one will cut it open to see what's inside. Anyway, it's for transplantation experiments; as long as it survives 48 hours, it's considered合格 (qualified/acceptable)."

"This is called a 'refurbished part,' learn from it." The supervisor patted the technician on the shoulder.

In less than ten minutes, George Williams, who was once a living, breathing person with a name, memories, and pain, was transformed into a pile of "industrial parts" that were sorted, packaged, and labeled with barcodes.

All that remained was an empty shell, like a doll whose internal organs had been removed.

Mud covered his mouth, trying to suppress the churning in his stomach. He felt his worldview crumbling.

Click.

This is not merely a desecration of corpses; it is the complete objectification of "human beings." Here, life is no longer sacred, but raw material sold by the pound. Every single item is priced: lens $500, keel $800, and even the powdered waste is $50 per gram.

"Hey, give me that delivery slip," the technician shouted after finishing the ligament laceration.

Another manager wearing glasses came over and handed him a list clipped to a whiteboard.

"Unit serial number: X-9527. Source: George Williams. Reason for scrapping: Fuel system overload." The supervisor read it out coldly, as if reciting a car parts list, "Keel to Medtronic, joints to Penn. And..."

The supervisor paused for a moment, then pointed to a bucket of dark red liquid next to him—it was the "engine oil" extracted from Old Joe, and the "filter" sample that had been cut off.

"The engine oil sample and filter slices were immediately frozen and sent to New Jersey."

"That big client again?"

"Yes. Water Industries R&D Center." The manager closed the folder, a hint of awe in his voice. "They've recently become very interested in wear and tear data on machines that have been using 'additives' (OxyContin) for a long time. They're supposedly developing some new type of 'maintenance' additive, or maybe they're just collecting data to deal with potential regulatory investigations. Anyway, they're the quickest to pay, never on credit."

Water.

It's them again.

Mud felt as if all the blood in his body had frozen!