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

Walter first used "OxyContin" to make Old Joe dependent on it, then squeezed every penny out of him, causing him to lose his job, his house, and his dignity.

Then, after he was "scrapped," his core components were bought back through this clandestine channel for a few hundred dollars.

They investigated how he broke down.

It's not to fix it, nor to prevent the next machine from breaking down.

Instead, it's about developing "additives" that are more "perfect," less likely to be scrapped directly, or scrapped more slowly, and can extract more value to harvest the next wave of newly manufactured machines.

They eat meat while alive, and suck the marrow from their bones after death.

This is a hellish closed loop. Capitalists will dig up even the roots of leeks to extract oil, and even turn the ashes left over from burning them into bricks to sell again.

While the technicians turned to work on the next "Gundam," Mude quietly crept up to the supervisor's desk. The desk was piled high with documents, and there was a steaming cup of coffee, which seemed particularly ironic in this place filled with the atmosphere of death.

He quickly flipped through the documents on the table.

Registration Form for Recycling and Disposal of Used Machine Parts

Mudd glanced at the contents. It read in scribbled handwriting: "Source: Kensington Homeless Camp, North Philadelphia. Supplier Code: 'A'. Buyback Price: $500. Authorization Method: Unclaimed Property Recycling/Implicit Consent."

There were no family signatures, no donation agreement. The so-called "implied consent" is just taking advantage of the fact that the dead can't speak and that those "scrap machines" are unclaimed.

In the remarks section of the form, there was also a crumpled receipt that read: "$500 paid in cash. Payment settled."

Mude recalled the young man named Prison A from earlier, and the homeless people who didn't hesitate to sell out their companions for drug money.

Of course, according to them, Old Joe himself agreed. It's even possible that this was Old Joe's dying wish: "If I stall, take apart my parts and sell them to buy some good fuel so the guys can keep going."

No matter who you meet with God, it's all the same. This underlying logic of mutual harm is the most terrifying part.

For this organization that claims to be a "charity," Old Joe is just a bunch of cheap raw materials that don't require any compensation.

Mudd's hands trembled. He pulled out his miniature camera and quickly snapped photos of the customer list, price list, and the bloody scene on the counter.

Just then, a sharp alarm suddenly pierced the deathly silence of the workshop.

"Beep—! Beep—! Beep—!"

"Who's there?!"

The supervisor whirled around, his gaze instantly locking onto the shadow behind the desk. A glimpse of a blue-tinged corner of a shirt peeked out from there.

"Security! There are rats! Seal off the back door!"

The supervisor pressed the red button on the wall, and the lights in the entire workshop instantly turned a blinding red.

Without thinking twice, Mud grabbed his camera and ran. He rushed towards the unloading door he had just entered through.

"Stop!" The technician behind him chased after him, brandishing a chainsaw still covered in debris.

Mudd burst through the iron gate and rushed into the corridor. But he found that the unloading door had been locked with an electronic lock.

"Damn it!"

He could only turn around and rush towards the other side of the passage, where a sign read "Spare Parts Warehouse".

Pushing open the heavy fire door, a blast of bone-chilling cold air hit me. It was a huge cold storage room, with shelves on both sides densely packed with blue plastic buckets and transparent sealed bags.

Mudd weaved through the shelves as if he had entered a huge parts warehouse.

But he knew that those buckets didn't contain screws and gears, but hundreds or thousands of once-living parts.

He saw rows of blue plastic buckets with labels on them:

"Secondary drive shaft - awaiting repair."

"Waste filters - extraction only".

"Optical components - Grade A"

Even in the corner, he spotted a shelf labeled "Miniature Machine Parts." The containers on it were noticeably smaller, which meant...

Mud felt a churning in his stomach, but he forced himself not to look at the details.

"He's in the cold storage! Unleash the dogs!" shouted the pursuers behind them.

The heavy sound of military boots grew closer, accompanied by the excited growls of Rottweilers.

Mudd hid behind a pile of boxes labeled "Premium Lubricant," holding his breath. A huge black dog, drawn by the scent, rushed over, its claws scratching the concrete floor with a grating sound.

Just as the dog was about to spot him, Mudd grabbed a bucket of "lubricant" from the side and hurled it in the opposite direction.

"Bang!" The plastic bucket shattered, and dark red liquid splattered all over the ground, instantly filling the air with a strong smell of blood.

Attracted by the sound and the smell of blood, the dog pounced on the puddle of liquid and began licking it frantically.

Taking advantage of the gap, Mudd crawled out from the other end of the shelf and found a ventilation window leading outside.

He kicked open the window bars with all his might and squeezed out without a care in the world.

Outside the window was the cold night and the free air.

He ran frantically through the maze of shipping containers. Behind him came furious roars.

"Don't let him get away! The boss said we can't leave any witnesses!"

Just as he was about to climb over the wall and escape, he caught a glimpse of a newly posted "emergency purchase order" on the wall.

The sheet rustled in the wind, but under the streetlights, a few bolded words caught Mude's eye:

Urgently needed: Fresh blood plasma (not inactivated).

Source requirements: Must come from a living donor who has been taking anticoagulant drugs for a long time.

Acquirer: Water Pharmaceuticals/Sakura Pharmaceuticals (Joint Laboratory).

Application: Raw material for the Factor-X project.

Note: Freshness is required, regardless of whether the food is spoiled or not. Discounts available for bulk orders.

Sakura Heavy Industries? Joint Laboratory?

Are they collecting blood plasma? For what purpose?

Mudd climbed over the wall and fell heavily onto the concrete. His knees were scraped and bleeding, but he felt no pain. He got up, rushed to his car, and shakily inserted the key into the lock.

With a roar of its engine, the Ford sped out of the industrial area like an arrow.

In the rearview mirror, several beams of flashlights darted erratically across the wall; the pursuers had arrived.

A black SUV attempted to intercept him, slamming into the side of the Ford.

"Bang!"

The Ford's side mirror was knocked off, and the car shook violently. Mudd gripped the steering wheel tightly, slammed on the gas, and used the oncoming traffic at the next intersection to shake off his pursuers.

Mudd gasped for breath, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. He felt as if he were seeing the silhouette of some indescribable behemoth, and his head began to throb.