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

A month is enough time for a snow to melt, and enough time for an epidemic to spread.

But "Apollo" is not a plague; it is something far more terrible—it is an epidemic.

The production lines at the manufacturing base were groaning under immense strain. Huge mixers whirred day and night, blending and pressing white powder into blue capsules. A faint sweet smell filled the air—vanilla extract added to the excipients to mask the bitterness of the medicine itself. After all, who likes bitter medicine?

Victor stood on the second-floor inspection corridor, looking down at the busy packaging workshop below, which resembled an anthill.

"Production capacity has reached its limit, boss."

The factory supervisor wiped the sweat from his brow. "The machines have been running continuously for 720 hours, and the workers are working in three shifts (even in America, they wouldn't dare let workers work in two shifts!). They even have to time their bathroom breaks. If we don't inspect the equipment soon, the boiler might explode."

"Then let it explode," Victor said coldly. "Don't stop until it explodes, as long as it can still spit out one pill."

He turned around and looked into the supervisor's bloodshot eyes.

Do you know how much an Apollo missile costs outside right now?

The supervisor shook his head.

"Black market price, $50. One pill." Victor held up five fingers. "And there's no market for it. Crazy women will even sleep with a pharmacist to get a bottle..."

"So don't talk to me about maintenance. Every second now isn't just time, it's gold."

The supervisor swallowed hard, dared not say another word, and turned to run back to the workshop.

Victor watched the blue capsules on the assembly line, like blue bullets, shooting towards this greedy world.

But he knew that the real madness wasn't just in the factory, but in every soul yearning for redemption.

...

Los Angeles, Beverly Hills, private clinic.

A long line of luxury cars stretched out in front of the clinic. From Porsches to Ferraris, from Rolls-Royces to Bentleys, the parking lot was practically a mini car show.

Hollywood actresses and socialites who are usually unapproachable are now crowding into the waiting room without any regard for their image. They are wearing sunglasses to hide their anxious eyes.

"I'm sorry, ladies, we've run out of quotas for today."

The moment the receptionist finished speaking, the crowd erupted in chaos.

"What did you say? That's all? Do you even know who I am?" a washed-up soap opera actress screamed. "I'm walking the red carpet next week! If I don't lose 10 pounds, my stylist will kill me!"

"I have money! I can pay double!" Another jeweled socialite waved her crocodile handbag. "Call your director out here! I want to buy out all the inventory!"

Just then, the back door of the clinic quietly opened a crack.

A young man in a hoodie came out, carrying a black plastic bag. He didn't go to the front desk, but instead walked towards an inconspicuous Ford sedan in the corner of the parking lot.

Several sharp-eyed women immediately surrounded them.

"Hey handsome, is that 'that'?"

The young man glanced around warily and lowered his voice: "Shh—this is a defective product that 'leaked' from the warehouse. The packaging is a bit damaged, but the efficacy is the same."

"How much?"

"One thousand dollars a bottle. Cash. No bargaining."

"Give me two bottles!"

"I want five bottles!"

Women overwhelmed the young.

This is Victor's "hunger marketing".

He strictly controlled the shipment volume through official channels to create a sense of scarcity; at the same time, through intermediaries, he released a large amount of "unplanned production capacity" into the black market, reaping the profits from the most eager and irrational consumers at ten times the price.

...

New York, Manhattan, a luxury apartment.

The Oprah Winfrey Show is playing on the TV.

Although Victor declined Oprah's invitation, he did not stop others from going.

Today's guest is Jennifer Aniston. This American sweetheart, who rose to global fame with "Friends," is currently wearing a tight-fitting halter dress, showing off her enviable figure.

"Wow, Jennifer, you look amazing!" Oprah exclaimed. "How do you do it? Pilates or yoga?"

Jennifer flashed a charming smile at the camera, then took a small blue bottle out of her handbag.

"Actually, I don't have that much time to exercise. My secret weapon is—Apollo."

The entire audience erupted in uproar.

"I know, I know," Jennifer waved her hand. "A lot of people say taking pills is bad. But, ladies, in this industry, being fat is a sin. Apollo helped me regain my confidence; it made me feel...free."

At that moment, telephone lines across the United States were paralyzed once again.

Victor, sitting in front of the television, watched this scene and took a satisfied sip of red wine.

"This publicity campaign is worth ten million," he said to Sofia beside him.

Sophia looked at the financial statements in her hand. "Jennifer didn't take our money. She really is eating. And, according to our intelligence, at least half of the actresses in Hollywood are eating."

Victor swirled his glass. "The best spokespeople are those who offer free endorsements. Because they come from the heart."

However, Sofia's face showed little joy. She hesitated for a moment, then pulled a report from the pile of documents.

"Victor, I have a question."

"What problem? If it's because you're earning too much and don't know how to spend it, then that's not a problem."

"It's about side effects," Sophia's voice lowered. "Although we've avoided heart valve problems, there's been some feedback recently, from users who have been taking high doses of 'Apollo' for a long time."

Victor put down his wine glass.

"explain!"

"They reported...hallucinations," Sofia read from the report. "Some said they saw non-existent insects crawling on the walls, some said they heard the voice of God, and some said...they felt they could fly."

"Hallucinations?" Victor frowned. "Our pharmacological mechanism acts on the hypothalamus, how could it affect the visual and auditory cortex?"

"Dr. Arthur said that the hallucinogenic effect might be due to the overactivation of 5-HT2C receptors. Although not as strong as LSD, at high doses..."

"High dose?" Victor interrupted her. "Doesn't the instruction manual say one pill a day?"

“Nobody follows the instructions, Victor,” Sophia sighed. “Those women take three, even five pills a day to lose weight faster. Jennifer just said on the show that she takes two a day.”

Victor fell silent.

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at the brightly lit Manhattan.

"Hallucinations..." he muttered to himself, "This doesn't sound like a side effect."

He turned around, looked at Sofia, and a strange smile appeared on his lips.

"That sounds like a 'selling point'."

"Victor?" Sophia looked at him in surprise.

Victor's voice was cold and devoid of any warmth. "Unless you die of a heart attack on the operating table, unless it's an obvious, bloody physical injury, mental problems are always 'subjective'."

"If anyone complains, just say they already had depression. After all, fat people are usually unhappy, aren't they?"

"Suppress it," Victor ordered. "Let Barry handle it. If there are any media reports, say it's a smear campaign by a competitor. Also, have Dr. Arthur add a line in the smallest font size to the next edition of the instruction manual: 'A very small number of sensitive individuals may experience mild sensory abnormalities.'"

"Stir up the waters. Let the truth be drowned out by the noise."

"Understood." Sophia put away the report. "By the way, I received news from Wall Street. Vought Pharmaceuticals' stock price surged 30% today. Goldman Sachs analysts have upgraded our rating to 'Strong Buy'."