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

Time flies, and summer has arrived.

The basement of Corleone Manor.

Fat Tony sat atop a small mountain of $20 and $50 bills. He held a money counter, but it had overheated and stopped working for half an hour.

"This is never going to end!"

Fat Tony angrily threw a wad of banknotes at the ceiling, like a green rain. "My fingers are going to break! Victor, we can't keep counting like this. It's more tiring than killing someone!"

Victor stood in the center of the basement, his hands in his suit pockets, looking at everything before him.

This used to be the estate's wine cellar. But now, the wine has been collected and piled up in a corner.

Cardboard boxes, sacks, and even plastic buckets used to hold laundry detergent.

Every container was stuffed with money.

"How many?" Victor asked.

"About four million? Or five million? How the hell should I know!" Fat Tony grabbed a wad of bills and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Those laundromats and arcades are dumping money here every night. That idiot lawyer Saul even told me to hide the money in the spare tire!"

In the corner, Saul Goodman was crouching in front of a huge safe, desperately trying to stuff a bundle of banknotes inside, but clearly failing.

"Boss, the laws of physics cannot be violated." Thor stood up, spreading his hands helplessly. "The capacity is limited. Our 'bathtub' is overflowing."

"We're not laundering money, Saul. We're scooping up seawater with a spoon. These coins and loose change are drowning us."

The expansion of Zishui's business exceeded everyone's expectations.

In the underworld of New Jersey, Philadelphia, and even New York, this purple liquid has become a form of hard currency. Addicts frantically wave their banknotes, just to experience that euphoric high.

But this has brought about huge problems.

Cash. Vast amounts of cash that cannot be deposited in banks.

In 1981, if a bank teller saw you carrying a bag of $20 bills that smelled strongly of marijuana to deposit, the next second they would call the IRS (Internal Revenue Service) or DEA (Denis Agency).

“We need bigger pipes,” Victor turned to look at Thor. “Or rather, we need a completely new way of playing.”

Thor pushed up his glasses, a glint of shrewdness flashing in his eyes.

"Actually, I have an idea, boss."

Thor took a world map out of his briefcase and spread it on the barrels full of wine.

His finger traced the Atlantic Ocean and stopped at a small dot in the Caribbean Sea.

"Cayman Islands"

"And here too." He moved his finger up, "Panama."

"Where is that? A pirate's den?" Fat Tony leaned closer.

"No, that's a capitalist's paradise." Saul laughed, a laugh like a fox that's stolen some cream. "There's no IRS, no DEA, and most importantly, no KYC checks. Bank managers there won't ask where your money came from; they'll only ask if you want champagne or whiskey."

Victor raised an eyebrow: "Continue."

"The first step is to transport this cash out in batches via private jets or yachts. This is called 'Placement'."

Thor drew a line on the map.

"The second step is that we register a series of offshore shell companies locally. For example, 'Caribbean Wind Investment' or 'Panama Sunshine Trust'. We deposit cash into the accounts of these companies. This is what we call 'Layering'."

"And then?" Fat Tony scratched his head. "The money's still overseas, what's the use?"

"Good question!" Thor snapped his fingers. "The most exciting part is coming: 'Integration'."

He turned to look at Victor.

"Boss, we can do charity!"

"Charity?" Victor laughed.

"Yes, charity." Saul took a thick document out of his bag, the cover of which read "Charter of the Corleone Medical Research Foundation".

"We used those offshore shell companies to make large donations to your foundation registered in the United States under the name of 'anonymous overseas donors'."

"This money is flowing back to the United States under the guise of a 'charitable donation.' It's clean, it's noble, and it's tax-free!"

"The IRS won't investigate you; they'll even give you a certificate of merit!"

"Then, what can the foundation do with this money?" Saul asked himself, answering his own question. "It can pay hefty 'administration fees' to your consulting firms, it can buy 'expensive research equipment' from your pharmaceutical companies, and it can even sponsor local schools and hospitals, having the principals and deans who have taken the money haile you like a saint!"

There was a few seconds of silence in the basement.

Only the old-fashioned exhaust fan was humming.

Fat Tony's mouth dropped open, and the banknotes in his hand fell to the ground: "You mean, we turned the money into a donation to the orphanage?"

"It's not just orphanages," Victor continued, "but also the police department's widows' fund, city councilors' campaign accounts, and even church repair funds."

He picked up the foundation's bylaws, his fingers gently tracing the gold-embossed title.

This is a perfect closed loop.

The darkest money is often used for the most legitimate things.

"The IRS watches the people who make the money, but they never investigate the people who give it away," Victor said softly. "Saul, you're a genius."

"At your service, Mr. Corleone," Saul said with a bow.

"Jack".

Old Jack, who had been standing in the shadows, stepped out.

"Arrange the boats. Also, contact our friends in Miami," Victor ordered. "Starting next week, I'm sending this money on a trip."

……

A week later.

First National Bank of New Jersey.

The bank manager, who used to avoid Victor like the plague, is now standing at the lobby entrance with a beaming smile, greeting his VIP client like a lapdog.

An armored truck was parked on the side of the road.

Two security guards carried heavy metal boxes into the bank. The boxes were marked with the logo: Corleone Medical Research Foundation.

"Mr. Corleone! Welcome, welcome!" The manager shook Victor's hand warmly. "I heard the foundation just received a huge donation from overseas? That's truly touching!"

"Yes." Victor was wearing a suit with a white rose pinned to his chest.

"The donor was a Panamanian entrepreneur," Victor said with a smile. "He greatly appreciated our efforts in new drug development, especially our focus on rare diseases in children."

"That's amazing!" the manager exclaimed. "And this funding..."

"Deposit it into the foundation's account." Victor handed over a check.

It was a check for two million dollars. The issuing bank was a bank in the Cayman Islands.

The manager glanced at the numbers, his breathing quickening. In 1981, with its high inflation and high interest rates, banks were desperately short of funds. This deposit was his lifeline.

"No problem! We'll process it right away! We'll offer you the highest interest rate!"

Victor watched the manager's busy figure, then turned to look out the window.

Across the street, a police car had just driven by. Those were DEA agents on patrol, frantically searching for the source of the purple flooding.

They could never have imagined that the source was right under their noses, in the bank where the bank manager was bowing and thanking them.

"Isn't this world hilarious?" Victor said to his reflection in the glass.

Thor stood behind him, straightening his tie. "This is called financial alchemy, boss."

Victor smiled.

"No, Thor."

"This is called baptism."