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

November in Washington, D.C., was shrouded in continuous rain. The gray sky hung low, seemingly within reach. The white dome of the Capitol Hill appeared and disappeared in the rain and mist, like a solitary island.

A black Lincoln sedan pulled up in front of The Willard Hotel on 14th Street.

This place is known as the "President's Residence." It is said that President Ulysses S. Grant would smoke cigars in the lobby here and listen to the requests of those who wanted to lobby him, hence the term "Lobbyist."

Victor opened the car door and held up a black umbrella.

He didn't bring bodyguards, not even Saul. This was at the request of the "Patriots."

"Mr. Corleone, this way please."

A man wearing a dark gray suit and frameless glasses walked over.

Victor followed him through the noisy lobby and into a private room called the "Round Table Room".

The private room had no windows and was surrounded by dark oak wainscoting. Several oil paintings hung on the walls, all depicting the Founding Fathers of the United States.

The fire in the fireplace was burning brightly, occasionally crackling and popping.

A man was sitting on the sofa.

He was facing away from the door, reading a copy of The Washington Post.

"Patriots?" Victor asked.

The man put down his newspaper and turned around.

It was an unremarkable face. He was probably around fifty years old, with graying hair and a professional smile. He looked like a university professor or a seasoned tax lawyer.

"No," the man said with a smile, "I'm just a messenger. You can call me Frank."

Frank pointed to the sofa opposite him.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Corleone. Tea or coffee?"

“Water,” Victor sat down. “I didn’t come here for tea. You said you could help me with the FDA issue.”

“Of course,” Frank took a document out of his briefcase and pushed it in front of Victor, “but before we talk about that, we need to confirm one thing.”

Victor picked up the file.

That was a voter registration form.

"What do you mean?" Victor frowned.

"It's just a metaphor," Frank said, picking up his teacup and gently blowing on the tea leaves floating on the surface. "Mr. Corleone, you're a shrewd businessman. You've done very well in New Jersey. You've sold painkillers to workers, truck drivers, housewives...you've made a lot of money."

"But," Frank changed the subject, "in Washington, we don't look at money. We look at heads."

Victor didn't speak, he just watched him quietly.

"Do you know why the FDA is delaying approval of your new drug? It's because some old friends don't want you to get a piece of the pie. They have friends on Capitol Hill, and those friends have influence at the FDA."

"So who do I pay?" Victor asked directly. "Tell me the name and account number."

Frank smiled. It was the look one would give a country bumpkin.

"Money? No, no, no. That's too vulgar. Giving money directly is bribery, which can land you in jail."

Frank stood up, walked to the fireplace, and looked at the flickering flames.

"In this city, there's a hard currency that's more valuable than the dollar: votes."

He turned around and stared at Victor.

"Your medicine, Mr. Corleone. Your painkillers, and your upcoming ADHD medication. They are more than just products. They are the link between you and millions of Americans."

"Imagine a million patients who have been taking your medication long-term. If they have to stop taking it because of a policy change, they will suffer. What will a person do when they are in pain?"

"He'll be angry," Victor said.

"That's right. He'll be furious. He'll write to his congressman. He'll go to the polls and vote for the person who promised to let him continue taking his medication."

Frank walked up to Victor and looked down at him.

"That's what you have to do. If you want to establish yourself in the American medical industry, you have to control two things—the doctor's pen and the patient's mouth."

"The doctor's pen determines the prescription."

"The patients' words determine their votes."

"Take your patients as your army," Frank said. "That's the real ticket to the game."

Victor remained silent for a long time. The firelight from the fireplace reflected on his face, his expression shifting between light and shadow.

He recalled scenes from his past life: countless patient groups rallied in front of Capitol Hill, chanting "We want our medication!"; pharmaceutical-funded "non-profit organizations" heavily promoted the necessity of medication in the media; and mothers weeping bitterly because they couldn't get their medication...

"I understand now. What I need are not more salespeople. What I need are evangelists."

Frank nodded in satisfaction.

"It seems we've reached a consensus."

He pulled a business card from his pocket; it only had a phone number on it.

"When you're ready to build this army, make this call. The FDA doors will be open for you."

......

Three hours later. Ten thousand meters in the air.

Victor sat in his seat on the private jet, looking out at the sea of ​​clouds.

The setting sun dyed the clouds blood red.

He held the business card in his hand, glanced at it, and then put it in his wallet.

"Just as I expected, the highest levels of government in this country have never treated people as human beings, but merely as votes. They control the doctors' pens and the patients' mouths..."

He pressed the call button on the table.

"Connect Katie. Now."

A few seconds later, the call connected.

"Victor?" Katie's voice sounded surprised. "Are you still in Washington?"

"I'm on my way back," Victor's voice was unusually calm, carrying an undeniable determination. "Listen, Katie. I need you to come up with a new plan."

"What plan?"

"Expand recruitment. I want to increase the size of the 'cheerleading team' tenfold."

"Ten times?" Katie exclaimed. "We don't need that many pharmaceutical representatives! Our current sales team is enough!"

“No, we don’t need salespeople,” Victor said, looking out the window at the blood-red sunset. “We need to hire the prettiest, smartest, and most understanding girls. We need to put them in every community clinic, in every family doctor’s office.”

"We're going to start a 'National Pain Patient Support Group'," Victor continued, his speech quickening. "We're going to fund it. We want every patient who takes our medication to feel like we're their saviors. We want them to feel that if the government touches our medication, they're killing them."

"We need an army, Katie."

"They're not an army with guns. They're an army with medicine."

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone, then Katie's trembling, excited voice came through.

"I understand, Victor. I'll make the arrangements."