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

The next morning.

A light rain mixed with coal dust fell on the gate of the Water Pharmaceutical Factory.

The once busy entrance and exit passage was now blocked by a yellow warning tape. The word "STRIKE" was printed in black on the tape.

"We need to survive! We need to eat!"

"Victor Corleone is a vampire!"

"No contract, no job!"

More than 300 workers, wearing raincoats and holding up cardboard signs soaked by the rain, blocked the entrance. They linked arms, forming a thick human wall—this was the "military line."

Among the crowd were not only long-time employees of Water Pharmaceuticals, but also dozens of unfamiliar faces.

These men, dressed in matching black leather jackets, were burly and had fierce eyes. They didn't shout slogans, but instead roamed the edges of the crowd like sheepdogs, shoving the workers who tried to back down with their shoulders and elbows, maintaining the "anger" of the group.

They were Frank Sheeran's "professional thugs" brought in from Detroit. To put it bluntly, they were licensed thugs.

"Back off! All of you, back off!"

Inside the gate, the engines of three heavy-duty refrigerated trucks roared impatiently.

The driver of the first car tried to move even an inch, and immediately a dozen hands slapped against his windshield.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

The sound was like the beat of drums in a downpour.

"Go back home! You scab!"

A burly man in a black leather jacket suddenly jumped onto the running board and yanked open the car door.

Before the driver could react, a heavy hook punch slammed into his nose. Blood spurted out instantly, splattering onto the pristine white refrigerated truck, a stark contrast to the glaring sight.

"ah--!"

The driver screamed as he was dragged from the cab and slammed heavily into the mud. Several feet in work boots immediately surrounded him, raining kicks on his ribs and stomach.

A complex cacophony of shouts erupted from the crowd. There were excited cheers and terrified screams.

But under the influence of the crowd's fervor, fear was quickly overwhelmed by adrenaline.

Violence spread like a plague in the rain.

……

"squeak--!"

The screeching sound of brakes tore through the rain.

Four black Lincoln sedans, like four black sharks, rushed out from the street corner and parked horizontally less than twenty meters from the police line.

The car doors opened in unison.

Fat Tony was the first to emerge. He was wearing a huge beige trench coat and wasn't carrying a gun, but rather a metal baseball bat.

Behind him, more than thirty mafia members, dressed in cheap suits and with menacing faces, filed out.

They were carrying chains, steel pipes, and baseball bats.

The atmosphere instantly froze to freezing point.

It was as if you could hear the sparks crackling in the rain.

Hey! You over there!

Fat Tony spat out the end of his cigar and pointed his baseball bat at the burly man in the black leather jacket who had just hit someone.

"Which foot did you use to kick my driver? Left or right? Tell me so I can decide which one to break first!"

The burly man in the black leather jacket paused for a moment, then pulled a folding knife from his waist, took a step forward with a cold smile.

"This is Teamsters territory, you fat pig. Go back to your pasta shop!"

"Damn it!"

Fat Tony's eyes instantly reddened. As the head of the Gambino family in New Jersey, he had never been humiliated like this before.

"Brothers! Charge! Take down these reckless bastards..."

"stop."

Victor Corleone stepped out of the last car, holding a long-handled black umbrella.

He walked over to Fat Tony, reached out a hand, and stopped the baseball bat that was about to be swung down.

"Victor! Don't stop me!" Fat Tony's face trembled with rage. "These bastards beat up our men! And they're trying to blockade our goods! Give me ten minutes, and I guarantee they'll be confined to wheelchairs and on welfare for the rest of their lives!"

"and then?"

"Then the police will arrive. The reporters will arrive. Tomorrow's Newark Star headline will be: 'Mafia Bloodbath at Sweatshops'."

Victor pointed to an inconspicuous bread truck on a street corner in the distance.

"See that car? That's a surveillance vehicle from the Department of Labor and the FBI. And over there, those 'passersby' with cameras are reporters arranged by Frank."

Fat Tony paused for a moment, then looked in the direction Victor was pointing.

"Tony, this is a trap. A legal trap."

Victor leaned close to Fat Tony's ear and whispered:

"Frank Sheeran would love for you to take action. If your baseball bat touches any worker's head, even just a scratch, this strike will immediately turn into a 'just resistance movement.' The public will sympathize with them, the government will investigate, our factory will be shut down, and our cash flow will dry up."

"In that case, it won't be them who die, it will be us."

Fat Tony gritted his teeth, his hands gripping the baseball bat, veins bulging, but in the end, he slowly lowered his arm.

"So what do we do? Just stand there and let these bastards block our way?"

"No."

Victor turned around to face the hundreds of noisy workers and the thugs mixed in among them.

He straightened his cuffs, and the family ring flashed a cold light against the gray sky.

"We will resolve this in a civilized manner."

Victor snapped his fingers.

"Sol, bring the stuff upstairs."

……

Five minutes later.

A bizarre scene unfolded at the factory gate, where tensions had been running high.

The large-scale armed conflict that had been anticipated did not occur.

Instead, several bodyguards in suits brought in a huge long table and placed it directly in the middle of the two opposing sides—right in front of the cordon.

Next, they brought over two chairs and a professional camera mounted on a tripod.

The camera's red light came on, and the dark lens was pointed at the group of workers.

A commotion began to rise in the crowd, and unease spread. They didn't know what the young boss was up to.

Victor sat behind the table, his legs crossed gracefully.

Saul Goodman, like a courteous waiter, took two black briefcases from the car, placed them on the table, and opened them with a "click."

The crowd fell silent instantly.

There's money in there.

Green, brand new, neatly bound US dollars.

That was a full two hundred thousand dollars in cash. In 1981, that was a fortune enough to drive anyone mad. The smell of ink from the banknotes permeated the humid air, even overpowering the original stench of blood.

Then, Saul took out a thick stack of white envelopes from his briefcase and neatly arranged them next to the banknotes.

That was a termination notice.

Victor picked up the microphone and gently blew on it.

The piercing crackling of electricity made everyone shrink back.

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.

Victor's voice, amplified through the loudspeaker, resonated clearly in every corner.

"I know what you want. Mr. Frank said you want dignity, you want security, you want a future."

Victor picked up a wad of banknotes and weighed it in his hand.

"I want those things too. But unfortunately, this world doesn't believe in tears, it only believes in this."

He threw the banknotes back into the box with a dull thud.

"Now, I'm giving you a choice."

Victor held up one finger.

"The rules are simple. From now on, I will call out a name every minute."

"The person whose name is called has two choices."

"First, come over here, stand in front of the camera, and sign this return-to-work agreement. You can immediately receive a $200 cash bonus, and today's pay will be doubled. After that, there will be no further consequences."

A low gasp rippled through the crowd. Two hundred dollars, equivalent to half a week's wages for them.

"Second," Victor's finger moved to the stack of white envelopes, "reject me. Then, Attorney Saul will immediately give you this termination notice. You can take it to Mr. Frank and have him support you for life."

"Oh, just a heads up."

Victor added with a smile, a smile that held a devilish edge.

"Under New Jersey law, employees dismissed for participating in illegal and violent strikes are not eligible for unemployment benefits. Furthermore, I will blacklist your names in the industry. Believe me, no pharmaceutical company in New Jersey would dare hire someone fired by the Corleone family."

Dead silence.

The only sound was the rustling of raindrops hitting the raincoat.

Frank Sheeran, standing in the front row, was ashen-faced. He abruptly pushed through the crowd and rushed to the front.

"Don't listen to him! This is intimidation! This is illegal! We must stand together! He can't start construction unless we sign!"

Victor didn't even glance at him.

He glanced at his watch and casually uttered the first name.

"Joe Martin."

In the crowd, a thin, middle-aged man shivered.

"Joe! Don't go!" Frank grabbed his shoulders. "He's trying to sow discord among us!"

The man named Joe looked at the pile of green banknotes on Victor's table, then at the stack of white envelopes beside it. He thought of the household bills, and of his sick child.

He broke free from Frank's grasp.

"I'm sorry... Frank. I need this money."

Joe lowered his head, like a child who had done something wrong, and quickly crossed the cordon to the table.

He signed the agreement and accepted two hundred-yuan bills with trembling hands.

"Well done, Joe. Go back to work," Victor said gently, as if nothing had happened.

Once there's a first one, there's bound to be a second.

David Copperfield.

"Susan Miller".

……

The dominoes have fallen.

At first, there were only a few people, but soon the line began to loosen. More and more people pushed aside the thugs in black leather jackets and rushed toward the table.

That seemingly unbreakable "police line" collapsed instantly like a sand dam under the pressure of money and survival.

The camera faithfully recorded this scene: one by one, the workers bowed their heads, took their money, and walked into the factory.

Those professional thugs who were just moments ago looking fierce and menacing now stood awkwardly in the rain, becoming clowns ignored by everyone.

Victor sat there, watching the scene unfold before him.

He felt no joy of victory, only a deep, bone-chilling indifference.

He turned his head and looked at Frank Sheeran, who was standing in the rain, soaked to the bone and with a look of despair on his face.

Victor mouthed the words.

Although there was no sound, Frank understood.

The words are:

"Game Over"