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

Late at night. Manhattan.

Trump Tower has only recently been completed. A celebratory banquet is underway in the penthouse duplex on the 68th floor.

A top jazz band from New Orleans was playing softly in a corner, the languid notes of the saxophone lingering around the ankles of every guest.

Victor Corleone stood by the window, gently swirling a glass of Louis XIII in his hand.

"Homage to our Caesar!"

Investment banker Peter Lynch, his face flushed, stumbled over, wine glass in hand. His tie was askew, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone; he was a far cry from the sophisticated figure he had been during the day. Now, he looked more like a gambler who had won big at a casino.

"Cheers to VGT! Cheers to the closing price of $38! Cheers to this damn, wonderful capitalism!"

Peter's voice drew cheers from those around him. The men in the room were mostly Wall Street traders, lawyers, and accountants, while the women were models, second-tier celebrities, and high-class socialites.

Katie wore a backless black evening gown and a newly purchased Harry Winston diamond necklace around her neck—a "listing gift" from Victor. She nestled against Victor, her eyes glazed over, as if she hadn't yet recovered from the day's frenzy.

Saul sat on the sofa with a pile of reports spread out on his lap.

"Three hundred and eighty million..." Saul murmured, looking up at the crystal chandelier on the ceiling. "Cash. All cash. After deducting underwriting fees, legal fees, public relations fees... we still have a full two hundred million dollars in liquid funds. Victor, we're richer than half the banks in New Jersey right now."

"This is just the beginning, Saul," Victor said calmly. "Cash in the bank will just get moldy. Inflation will eat it up like termites. In this day and age, only a fool would save money."

"Of course! Of course!" Peter leaned in, reeking of alcohol, waving his arms. "We need investment! Mergers and acquisitions! Victor, the M&A market is so sexy right now. Reaganomics has everyone crazy. If you agree, I can get you in touch with Goldman Sachs' M&A team. We could buy half of the generic drug companies in the Midwest, or we could acquire an established company with a mature sales network? Like Purdue Pharma? I heard their old Sackler is on his last legs."

Thor sat up straight, his eyes shining.

"That's right, boss. We need more capacity. Orders are pouring in like snowflakes, and our run-down factory in New Jersey simply isn't enough. I suggest buying one of Johnson & Johnson's old plants in New Brunswick; they're divesting their low-end assets. I've already heard the price—only $15 million, including the floor and conveyor belt equipment..."

Victor looked at them, sighed softly, put down his wine glass, and walked to the wooden table in the center of the living room.

"Turn the lights off," Victor ordered.

Katie obediently dimmed the lights. The room was instantly enveloped in a dim atmosphere.

Victor took a map out of his briefcase and slowly unfolded it.

Peter and Saul went over, expecting to see a map of pharmaceutical companies across the United States or a global market strategy map.

But they were wrong.

That's not a geographical map.

That was a map showing the distribution of nerves in the brain.

The complex neural network is outlined by red and blue lines, with each region—prefrontal cortex, hippocampus, amygdala—marked with Latin annotations.

"What are you thinking? Factories? Assembly lines? Trucks? Warehouses?"

"Those are all heavy assets. They're a burden. They're the old ways of doing things from the last century. Once the economy declines, those factories will become a noose around your necks."

"We're not buying bricks and cement,"

What we want to buy are 'seeds'.

"Seeds?" Peter and Thor looked at each other, completely unable to follow Victor's train of thought.

Victor pulled a laser pointer out of his pocket.

The red dot travels across the map, passing through winding neural synapses, and finally stops in an area called the "prefrontal cortex".

“There’s a small lab in Cambridge, Boston called MindTech,” Victor said. “They have only twelve researchers and are barely able to pay their rent. But they have a patent that’s been sitting on the shelf. It’s a sustained-release technology called methylphenidate.”

Peter frowned, frantically searching his mind for the obscure term as a banker specializing in the pharmaceutical sector.

"Methylphenidate? Isn't that the main ingredient in Ritalin?" Peter asked, somewhat disappointed. "That stuff has been around since the 50s. Used to treat narcolepsy and depression? The market response has been lukewarm. Victor, this stuff won't make you much money. Its patent is almost up."

"There are also some rarer sequelae of brain injury," Saul added, having done his research, "the market is very small. Victor, its audience is probably less than 50,000 people in the whole of the United States."

Victor grinned.

"Fifty thousand people?" Victor shook his head. "No, Saul. Our potential customers are thirty million."

"What?" Peter exclaimed, half-sobering up. "Thirty million? That's the total number of school-aged children in the United States!"

"Bingo".

Victor snapped his fingers.

He walked up to Peter and stared into the eyes of the Wall Street elite.

"Peter, you have a seven-year-old son, right? His name is Peter?"

"Uh...yes," Peter said somewhat awkwardly, instinctively taking a half-step back. "How did you know?"

"I remember you saying that he couldn't sit still at the private school, liked to run around, didn't pay attention in class, did a terrible job with his homework, and the teachers always complained that he disrupted class?"

Peter sighed. "Boys are all mischievous. The doctor said he has too much energy and will grow out of it. Now I have to go to school every week to apologize to the principal."

“No,” Victor interrupted him, “he’s not Peter. He’s sick.”

Peter was stunned. "Is she sick?"

"This condition is called Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD)," Victor enunciated each syllable with perfect clarity. "It's a physiological disorder caused by delayed development of the prefrontal cortex of the brain. His brain lacks dopamine, so he can't control his impulses. This isn't just a personality issue; it's a physiological defect."

Victor paused, observing Peter's expression. He saw fear, the deepest fear of all middle-class parents—the fear that their children are not perfect enough, the fear that they will lose at the starting line.

“If he doesn’t get treatment, Peter, think about it,” Victor continued, “he won’t get into college because he can’t sit still. He won’t find a good job because no boss likes an inattentive employee. He might even…commit a crime on impulse and end up in jail.”

“But,” Victor’s tone softened, “if we had a medicine. A magical little pill. Just one every morning, and he could calm down. His brain would get plenty of dopamine. He could concentrate in class, get A’s, become a Harvard elite like you, and inherit your family business…”

"Tell me, Peter. Would you buy this medicine for your son so that he can have a bright future? Even if it's a bit expensive? Even if he has to take it for the rest of his life?"

Peter's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

"I will," Peter said hoarsely, cold sweat beading on his forehead, "if it's true... I'll buy it. I'll buy it no matter the price."

"This is the business we want to do."

"We are redefining 'disease'."

"In the past, doctors would first discover the disease and then treat it. This was too passive and too inefficient."

"In the future, we must invent medicine first, and then invent diseases."

Saul felt a chill run from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. He looked at Victor and thought this young man was a thousand times more terrifying than the Mafia. The Mafia only wanted your money or your life. But Victor wanted to control your mind and make you grateful to him.

"Is...is this legal?" Saul asked, trembling. "Will the FDA approve it? Giving a child psychiatric medication?"

"Legal?" Victor sneered. "As long as it's written into the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM), it's the truth. It's science."

"We will fund research, we will sponsor the American Psychiatric Association. We will invite the best experts to educate the public about the dangers of ADHD on television. We will convince teachers and parents across America that not giving children medication is ruining their future."

"Think about it, gentlemen. If we define 'hyperactivity' as a disease, 'sadness' as depression, and 'shyness' as social anxiety... then there would be no healthy person in the world. Everyone is our customer. And a lifelong customer."

Peter and Katie were also awestruck by this grand description. They seemed to see a mountain of gold made of white pills, and countless parents kneeling in front of the pharmacy waving banknotes.

"To the future!" Peter's hands trembled with excitement.

Victor gazed out the window at the Manhattan skyline at night and softly uttered his toast:

"A tribute to those diseases that haven't even been invented yet."