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

Lincoln County, Arkansas. September in the South remains hot and dry, with cicadas chirping incessantly.

In this wasteland surrounded by cotton fields and marshes, a brand-new building rises from the ground. It has no conspicuous signs, only a four-meter-high electrified barbed wire fence and security personnel patrolling back and forth.

This is the newly completed "Central and Southern Taiwan Blood Center" of Water Pharmaceuticals.

...

"Watch the flow rate! Centrifuge #3 is spinning too fast!" The workshop director, wearing a mask, roared.

At his feet stood dozens of huge stainless steel storage tanks in the temperature-controlled workshop, each nearly two stories high, filled with a pale yellow liquid.

That was blood plasma. Thousands upon thousands of gallons of blood plasma!

They tumble, stir, and merge in the enormous "mixing pool," like a drop of ink falling into the ocean, where the blood plasma from different individuals completely loses its identity.

There are no names here, only batch numbers.

"What is the origin marking for this batch of goods?" Jiro Tanaka, a technical consultant from Sakura Pharmaceuticals, stood in front of the control panel, frowning.

"Arkansas Department of Corrections, Cummings Farm Branch," the American supervisor next to him grinned. "That's what you commonly call a prison."

A flicker of unease crossed Jiro Tanaka's eyes: "A prison? Does that comply with FDA regulations? The proportion of high-risk individuals there..."

"Relax, Mr. Tanaka."

"This is a legal 'paid donation.' And you won't find the perfect raw materials."

He pointed to the data on the screen: "Look at these metrics. These prisoners don't drink alcohol, eat regularly, and have much lower cholesterol levels than those fat people outside who eat fast food. Most importantly, they're cheap."

The supervisor held up one finger: "We pay $7 for each donation. At commercial blood donation centers, we'd pay at least $20. And we use 'plasma collection,' transfusing the red blood cells back to them, which they can sell twice a week. It's practically a sustainably exploitable gold mine!"

Tanaka stared at the churning yellow liquid, his stomach churning. As a meticulous technician, he knew all too well the terror of the "mixing pool effect."

To extract even trace amounts of Factor VIII clotting protein, they need to collect plasma from thousands of people into a single reactor. This means that if even one of these thousands of prisoners carries some unknown virus...

"We have a virus inactivation process, right?" Tanaka asked.

"Of course," the supervisor replied casually. "Low-temperature ethanol fractionation. It's the industry standard."

"But..." Tanaka hesitated, "I saw in the latest literature that some viruses are not sensitive to low temperatures. Bayer is already experimenting with heat treatment..."

"Heating will destroy protein activity, reducing yield by 30%!" The supervisor abruptly interrupted him, his tone turning stern. "The company's directives are clear: we want production volume and market share. As long as the FDA doesn't mandate heating, we'll use cold processing. Understand?"

Tanaka fell silent.

...

Meanwhile, five miles away, at Cummings Farm Jail.

This is Arkansas's largest prison for hardened criminals. Behind high walls and electric fences, it houses some of the state's most dangerous criminals.

But at this moment, the atmosphere on the playground was unusually peaceful, even carrying a hint of eerie joy.

Hundreds of prisoners in white uniforms formed a long line. At the end of the line were several white blood collection vehicles painted with the words "Walter Medical Services".

"Next!"

The head nurse, who was sitting behind the makeshift table, shouted.

A burly Black man covered in tattoos sat down and expertly rolled up his sleeves. His arms were covered in needle marks, some of which had hardened and turned black.

"name?"

"Big dog."

"Real name".

Edward Washington.

The nurse stamped his card and handed him a $7 voucher: "Go over there to collect your money. Don't forget your juice."

Edward grabbed the voucher and whistled. In prison, $7 was a fortune. It could buy two packs of Marlboro cigarettes—cigarettes were hard currency in prison, you'd always find a way to use them, or you could trade them for something even more exciting on the black market!

He got up to leave, but a sudden fit of violent coughing made him bend over.

"Cough cough cough..."

The cough was excruciating, even carrying a hint of blood. His face was sallow, and his eyes were slightly cloudy—signs of jaundice.

The nurse frowned and stopped what she was doing. "Hey, are you alright? You look..."

"I'm fine!" Edward straightened up abruptly and patted his chest forcefully. "Just a bit of a cold. I'm strong, look, my blood is flowing fast."

The nurse hesitated for a moment. According to regulations, donors with obvious symptoms should be rejected.

But she remembered her supervisor's reprimand that morning: "We're still two thousand liters short of our target for this month. If we don't meet it, the money will be deducted from your bonuses!"

She lowered her head again: "Go ahead. Drink more water."

Edward grinned, took the voucher, and walked towards the blood donation van.

Ten minutes later, his plasma, carrying a high concentration of hepatitis B virus and an unnamed retrovirus, flowed through a transparent tube into a blood collection bag labeled "Batch No. 89-10-A".

Two hours later, the blood bag was delivered to the Water Blood Center, five miles away.

It was cut open and poured into the huge mixing pool that contained blood plasma from five thousand people.

In that instant, what might have been just "a bag of poisonous blood" turned into "five thousand liters of venom".

...

Three days later, New York, Vought Building.

Victor sat behind his desk, holding a financial statement that had just been delivered.

Saul sat opposite him, and old Jack stood beside him.

"Unbelievable." Thor looked at the numbers on the report and couldn't help but whistle. "The production at the Arkansas center has reduced our raw material costs by 40%, while the ex-factory price of 'Factor Eight' has increased by 15%. This profit margin is simply astonishing!"

"That's the effect of economies of scale." Victor put down the report, picked up his coffee and took a sip. "As long as we control the source, we control the pricing power. Now, hemophilia patients all over the United States are waiting for our medicine to save their lives."

Old Jack looked at Victor, seemingly wanting to say something but then stopping himself.

"What are you trying to say, Jack?" Victor keenly caught his emotions.

"I've heard..." Old Jack hesitated, "that some of my colleagues are saying our blood plasma sources are too diverse. Prisons, slums... it's hard to guarantee the health of people in those places. What if..."

"What if what?"

"What if there's a virus inside?!"

dimension

"Jack, you're still looking at things with outdated perspectives."

"Do you know what life was like for hemophilia patients in the past? They would bleed uncontrollably from the slightest bump, their joints would swell and deform, and they would lie in the hospital all day receiving intravenous infusions of those extremely inefficient cold precipitates."

He turned around and pointed to a sample bottle on the table, a delicate little glass bottle containing white freeze-dried powder.

"And now, with just this little bottle of powder and a little bit of injectable water, they can run, play ball, and live like normal people. It's a miracle, Jack. This is the freedom that science has given them."

Victor picked up the bottle of medicine and waved it up to the light. The white powder glistened under the light.

"As for risks... life itself is risk. A plane might crash, or you might choke on beef. We can't deprive 99% of people of their right to enjoy a normal life just because of a one in ten thousand chance. That would be throwing the baby out with the bathwater."

"Moreover," Saul interjected at the opportune moment, "we are legally invincible. The FDA has not banned the use of prison blood plasma, nor has it mandated heat inactivation. As long as we include a 'may contain trace amounts of virus' disclaimer on the packaging, not even God can sue us."

Victor smiled.

"Send the goods," he said casually.

"Deliver these 'miracles' to every patient waiting for salvation."

...

The first batch of refrigerated trucks marked "Wat Pharmaceuticals Factor VIII" drove out of the factory gates in Arkansas.

They drove onto interstate highways, like white pythons, heading towards hospitals and clinics across the United States.

The cargo boxes of these trucks contained millions of doses of clotting factors.

Each dose may harbor the ghost of Edward Washington, a notorious Arkansas convict!

-

We can change the cover now. Does anyone have any suggestions? I've seen some people complaining that the cover is too ugly.