#sodium pentathol

[giraffe44]

High Wall, 1947, Is Playing on TCM on May 16

High Wall, 1947, is playing on Turner Classic Movies on Friday, at 1.15 p.m. est. I highly recommend this film.  Robert Taylor is playing totally against type as an injured war veteran who has a haematoma on his brain that is causing him to act irrationally.  This is so far from the glamorous Taylor we know and love and demonstrates his amazing range as an actor. High Wall is a departure for…

[appalachianapologies]

Wrote an expansion of the fic!

Ether Way, It's No Good

Because @impossiblepluto's tags had me in a chokehold and I couldn't not write a bit more...

For your prompt, then maybe a broken bone? Or passing out? Whatever you prefer, no certain fandom, you decide✨

decisions are hard :( i'm thinking about mash now though so i think it'll be mash 😅

“...Hawkeye?”

“Put a mask on, Radar.”

“Oh-” the kid reaches for his face for a second before shaking his head. “You’re not in surgery anymore, Hawk.”

This time when he opens his eyes, Hawkeye actually looks around. “Why the hell not?”

“Oh, gee, do you not remember?”

“Gimme the footnotes. And help me stand up.”

“I don’t know Hawk, you’re lookin’ really pale.”

“Dammit, Radar-”

“Colonel said it was the ether. ’Cause you ran out of the- the- look, I don’t know to say it. The sleepy drug.”

“Did it start with an ‘s’?” Before Radar has a chance to answer, Hawkeye waves him off. “Forget it. Tell me I didn’t fall in my patient.”

“Oh, no sir. You fell backwards. Into Hunnicut.”

“Oh, good, a damsel in distress falling into the man of my dreams.” Eyes still slightly glassed over, Hawkeye reaches out for Radar with one hand, the other pushing up on the wooden box currently keeping his body off of the ground. “Help me up- how many left in pre-op.”

“Colonel said to bring you to the swamp.”

As if he didn’t hear the last sentence, Hawkeye adds, “And grab me a new mask, wouldja?”

[suittokill]

So here’s a fun fact for you guys: this comes off as just another wacky line in-game, but it’s actually foreshadowing.

Sodium Pentathol, in real life, is a fast-acting anesthetic first used in 1939; a spritzer is a form of cocktail.

For those of you who may not know, this is the same lady who later that offers you a drink that turns out to be spiked…

[jujurose222]

Question: When did you start writing poetry?

Jim: "Oh, I think around the fifth or sixth grade I wrote a poem called ‘The Pony Express.’ That was the first I can remember. It was one of those ballad type poems. I never could get it together, though. I always wanted to write, but I always figured it’d be no good unless somehow the hand just took the pen and started moving without me really having anything to do with it. Like, automatic writing. But it just never happened. I wrote a few poems, of course.

Like, ‘Horse Latitudes’ I wrote when I was in high school. I kept a lot of note books through high school and college and then when I left school for some dumb reason — maybe it was wise — I threw them all away. There’s nothing I can think of I’d rather have in my possession right now than those two or three lost notebooks. I was thinking of being hypnotized or taking sodium pentathol to try to remember, because I wrote in those books night after night. But maybe if I’d never thrown them away, I’d never have written anything original — because they were mainly accumulations of things that I’d read or heard, like quotes from books. I think if I’d never gotten rid of them I’d never been free."

JULY 26, 1969

Jim Morrison: The Rolling Stone Interview

[skullcandy11111198]

Leveragetober23 Day 5: birthday

It was his birthday. Ugh.

Yet another humdrum day of feigned well wishes from silly little sycophants that just want to be as high up as him, hoping to step on him on their own way up. (He knows he's better than all of them, but do they really need to remind him every time they open their mouths and let drivel pour out? NO. But they do it anyway. *Sigh*) Yet another backpack from the higher ups as a show of "appreciation" for his dedication to the organization all these years. Yet another pointed text from his ex-wife reveling in his advanced age -- congratulations waylaid and thrown over a cliff long before she ever got to the "happy" part of happy birthday.

The only joy this day brings him is the wonderful dinner his daughter treats him to every year. Since she was 7 she decided it was her job to get her dad to show one real smile (not solely aimed at her) at least one day a year, so she always sends him some sort of surprise gift when he leasts expects it. Ironically, he has therefore come to completely expect it, but she still manages to surprises him every year (though it really shouldn't given the type of woman she has become) with caring and thoughtful gifts that mean the world to him. She may never understand how much, but she is the reason for his joy, and if she wants him to be happy, then he will, simply for her.

Therefore, he was excited (deep, deep down in his gut, probably somewhere behind his left kidney), and not all that suspicious, when he came back from yet another meeting on this damnable day to find the CD port of his computer popped open, with a disk lying in the slot, topped with a large pink bow. On the CD, someone had written "SURPRISE!" and beneath it, "Happy Birthday!"

Feeling a small bounce of excitement within him (that he will forever deny on pain of death or sodium pentathol), and wondering what his daughter had gotten him this year, he moved the bow aside and pushed in the disk.

BOOOOOOM

Confetti explodes from tubes hidden throughout his office! His plants somehow start singing happy birthday songs, each in a different language! His blinds act on their own accord, closing to reveal another birthday message across the shutters! A party hat descends from a pulley machine lowering down from the ceiling tiles, to hang jauntily off the side of his head! His drawers pop open to reveal a cake that looks like it was baked, iced, and decorated in his desk! And his computer! Oh his computer…

His screen has been taken over by a repeating video of Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, and Parker, all in party hats, blowing kazoos with shrieking noises emanating from his speakers, and hoisting red solo cups and cupcakes at him mockingly from under a banner declaring "Happy Birthday!" in joyful, bright font. At the bottom of the screen, once the video had replayed enough times and he could hear again after the confetti pipe bombs stopped exploding in his face, a small message appeared at the bottom of the screen.

"Check the confetti." He scowled. He checked the confetti.

"Your birthday present is in your couch." He scowled. He checked his couch.

A close examination revealed the cushions were not at the exact angle he always left them in (to allow any interlopers who dared one, enter his office or two, sit on his furniture, to immediately slouch and slide forward in an unbecoming manner). Pulling away the cushions revealed a large streamer acting as a pull tab to open the base of his couch, and when he pulled it (cringing inside at the thought of any more…surprises) it revealed…A man. A man, wrapped in wrapping paper and ribbon (is that duct tape?), in a surprisingly secure manner to keep him from escaping. A man with a bow on his head and a USB taped to his forehead, along with a note. A note that read, "This is Colin Mason (also know to very few people as "Chaos," and to many more as "that asshole"). Please feel free to detain him at your leisure, you will find proof of many of his more embarrassingly simply hacking crimes on the USB (see: forehead)."

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, and a young blonde woman hesitantly stepped inside while the rest of the floor looked in behind her, attempting to see what had transpired in his office in the past two minutes. Looking around curiously, having missed the start of the party, she finished her look-about to give him a small smile and said, "Heyyy, Dad, what's going on in here? And…nice…hat?"

He growled.

It is Jim Sterling's 53rd birthday. Ugh.

[bogwitchlesbian]

I am harringroving house in Nebraska.

Steve and billy hooking up in secret

They find hoppers old cabin abandoned in the woods and make it their own

They tell their fathers they’re on dates, or at parties, or working late

In reality, they’re falling in love on hopper’s old mattress that they flipped to hide the mould

Learning each other’s bodies and secrets

Steve tracing Billy’s scars

Billy running his fingers through Steve’s hair, removing the product

Giggling into each other’s mouths at Billy’s stupid dirty jokes

Steve watching the sunrise shine on Billy’s hair, illuminating him from behind like a halo as he sits and smokes in front of the window

Billy asks Steve to leave with him

Steve’s heart drops

He wants to more than anything, but he can’t leave the kids

He tells billy he’s not ready to leave Hawkins yet. He has things to do

Billy flips, as billy sometimes does

He storms out of the cabin and peels out of the drive in the Camaro

Leaves Steve standing there in the doorway in Billy’s Metallica shirt, tears dripping down his neck and wetting the collar

That was the end of June

Steve doesn’t see billy again until July

He doesn’t even register the car he’s slamming into, just sees blue in a haze of sodium pentathol

Stares in horror as the kids pelt the lovecraftian horror in the food court with fireworks

Watches his ex girlfriend aim a gun at his love’s head

He can’t move

He’s stuck to the ground, watching billy lift el into his black-veined arms

Collapses to his knees when max screams

There’s no air left in his lungs

He can’t hear Robin yelling his name

Can’t feel Erica shaking him

The paramedics take him to the hospital

He doesn’t speak

After a week he is released

He walks straight past Robin in the hospital lobby, ignores the outstretched bag of clothes

Leaves the hospital in his bloodied Scoops uniform

Walks past the wreckage of Starcourt Mall

Walks past a weeping Carol, and doesn’t meet Tommy’s knowing eye

Walks straight into the woods, into the cabin, onto their bed

The smell of hopper’s tabacco long since covered with weed and Dior sauvage

It’s theirs

It’s been theirs for months

But now it’s not even his

He can’t move without some reminder of billy there

His lighter on the nightstand

His hair gel in the bathroom

Dishes in the sink

Frozen meals in the chest freezer they managed to hook up to the generator

Billy’s fingerprints etched in grease on the doorframe, after fixing Steve’s transmission in the drive, shirt off and hair tied back

Everything is there except him

Steve can’t breathe

He runs back through the woods, collapsing on his own deck

Stares across the pool at the spot Barb was taken

He feels like it’s him

That he’s cursed

That he can’t have good things without them getting ripped away

He holes up in his room, knowing that max is doing the same on cherry lane

Wonders if she went into Billy’s room

If she found Steve’s green polo under the bed

He thinks she knew anyway

Not that it matters now, when billy has no fall to take

He never goes back to the cabin, but he knows it’s there

A home he can never go back to, and one he can never regain

[wrestlersownmyheart]

Seth Rollins: Drabble #4

“What are you talking about?”

You asked the question again, but felt sure you’d come no closer to getting an answer than when you first asked the question.

You watched him as his finger came out to trail over your lips. 

“I am going to ask you a question. And you’re going to answer honestly. And then you can ask me a question, and I’ll answer you honestly.”

You gulped. “And how do we know the other is answering honestly?”

“Easy. We’ll both take a dose of sodium pentathol, it’s a truth agent.” 

“No! Please Seth, no more drugs.”

“What are you so afraid of? Telling the truth?” His dark eyes challenged yours.

You shook your head frantically, “No, it’s not that!” Even though it partly was, depending on what he asked you. “It’s the needles. I don’t do needles very well.”

“I’ll be gentle, I promise,” Seth said soothingly. “I’ll even go first, okay?” 

With that he pulled out a loaded syringe, and quickly injected his forearm with the medicine.

“That didn’t hurt at all,” he commented, getting your needle ready. 

“Seth please, don’t do this,” you cried. “I’m scared.”

“Shh…Shh…” He brushed your bangs out of your face. “It’s okay.”

The next thing you knew the needle was pricking your skin and you felt the medicine pumping into your muscle.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

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Tagging:

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[sunshineandrosesnoraincamemyway]

Aproaching Joey my beloved with the sodium pentathol ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 💉

oho! Such fun!

[my-manic-machinations]

If my memories of tommorow check out

And if the sodium pentathol so does loosen my tounge enough to tell

Showers will befall the morn like a blanket of wet falling from the hellish sky in freezing droplets and awful words

Word vomit dribbling in disgusting lines cause ghat only my a camera and a mind

It makes me sick I’m always sick I’m so Fucking sick

G but I’ll always be a liar, sodium pentathol or not, as honest as I try to be my you he produces not but honey and my mind produces not but rain

[the-firebird69]

Huge piles of bodies here more shortly of morlok. Thier troops, the Macs, enter. They pull tons out. Huge numbers. Piles in town and from mild gas attacks the suck back up. Deteriorates in one day ok. It's a knock out gas but not sodium pentathol. Most morlok die. Ok. Can't take anaesthesia. Landrigan used too much is a dead man Max's and us say today too. He reminded them all day. He was hit, ten times,thusfar. Shortly out. Will be on trial in NYC shortly today possibly. Georgia soon after. Then three others finally January 6th and Mar a Lago. This criminal case stormy Daniels kicks it all off. They push for it now. Need to. Most morlok nope most Macs yes.

Huge loads of them in town. Tons out died from gas. We use it no. Need to well in some areas try it now ok. Fast screens too. Now. Here are sloppy we help now

Olympus

Thor Freya we said most of the above

I'm on this now they dwindle here and globally. Need them out asap

Hera

The ships depart waves all day started this a.m. at 11:00. More shortly but launched hourly. The middle area here is plugged. Waves occur each hour, 500 million ships awake. Most are one mile some five a few ten several 20. It's inhumane how many depart. Brought tons of arms leave fast. Mb reach one million octillion today. Huge forces getting up nowof morlok now. Another million octillion mb. Thusfar about two million octillion tried to take over the USA. Starting two months ago. Add one million for daimonds giants ships. Add 2 million octillion for infighting. So after tonight if 2 million octillion thus 7 million octillion tonight in total. It's about half of the morlok population

Thor Freya

Huge deal. The new deal. This stuff is horrid.but works is working. There are not many morlok on Earth oh yes there are. Soon they will be out if they continue.

Hera

We said it. Most of it but now we have an alert.

THE AREA OUR SONS APARTMENT IS IN IS UNDER STRICT ATTACK ALL TROOPS ARE TO ADHERE TO OUR ORDERS REGARDING OUR SON. FOLLOW SOP OF OURS NOW.

Morlok are piling it on thick here in punta Gorda FL. We use it now

Too many pour into his nieghborhood. We halt it

Olympus

[giraffe44]

High Wall, 1947, Is Playing on TCM on January 22 (USA)

High Wall, 1947, Is Playing on TCM on January 22 (USA)

High Wall, 1947, is playing on Turner Classic Movies on Friday, January 22 at 3 p.m. est. I highly recommend this film.  Robert Taylor is playing totally against type as an injured war veteran who has a haematoma on his brain that is causing him to act irrationally.  This is so far from the glamorous Taylor we know and love and demonstrates his amazing range as an actor. High Wall is a departure…

[donnerpartyofone]

WHOOPS I may have been spotted wearing my favorite goofy little devil hat around the neighborhood by one of my fellow parishioners from Mary Star of the Sea. It was only a matter of time before someone found out I'm a demon!

But I still think I should get points for coming to church regularly on weekday mornings, researching the things I hear, and independently learning all the steps and lyrics that everybody else was taught in childhood. I mean I don't know what I would say to these people if they hit me with the sodium pentathol, about what I'm doing there. It's hard to describe. I can at least say that I'm not being ironic.

But I'm also definitely not doing what everybody else is doing there. I started going because it's a way to connect with the neighborhood. I started going because Star of the Sea fascinates me and the only way to see the inside was by going to mass. I started going because I saw the procession of the sword-pierced Dolorosa and it blew my mind. I started going because I was plunging down an increasingly freaky rabbit hole regarding the theory that certain types of Marian iconography are coded with ancient vestiges of pre-christian goddesses like Isis and Hecate. I kept going because it's so beautiful inside, and because of the people who I would never meet otherwise who all have such unique energies, and because I always hear something interesting.

I still think about when the monsignor said the commandment against murder is not just about killing, it's about being aware of the conditions that lead to violence, such as material deprivation, family dysfunction, neglected mental illness, and bigotry. I love it when the priests speak out about how scripture is misinterpreted to inspire antisemitism, which is wrong. I love it when they compare the descriptions of God's generative powers to the principles of alchemy. I love the weird little coincidences, like when I saw the shadow of a bird fluttering for several seconds behind the dove in the Annunciation window.

But of course, I believe things I wouldn't want to bother anybody about. I don't believe Jesus has a monopoly on divinity. I believe some forms of Satanism offer great inspiration for extreme personal responsibility for your own circumstances and the consequences of your actions. I believe in total reproductive autonomy for each person. I believe every person should have access to assisted euthanasia if they cannot maintain a reasonable quality of life, physical or mental. I am profoundly suspicious of the Church as an authoritative entity.

But nobody has to know this stuff. I take religion seriously as a general principle. I'm interested in the way people create meaning for themselves. I have been severely anhedonic my whole life and I don't create meaning very naturally. I have to look for it, to train myself to do it. One way to find it is by experimenting with allegorical mirrors and symbols, the languages of abstract or numinous experience. I don't even have to be literally or dogmatically attached to what I'm doing, I just have to participate and observe what comes of it. Maybe it's like coding, or something. I know I am privileged to enjoy these experiments because nobody used religion to abuse me when I was young, at least nobody but society at large. The Satanic Panic remains fresh in my mind.

This morning I stayed after mass with the ladies and said the rosary. I've never done it before but I studied to get ready. Nobody wanted to speak by themselves, surprisingly, so me and this probably 80 year old woman took turns leading the decades. It was fun. I like the ritualized chanting, it has an invigorating effect, and so does participating in something so old that has been imbued with meaning through repeated collective thought and action. Egotistically, it's interesting to hear my own voice echo in the church, repeating these stylized phrases. I'm sure I'll do it again.

[thebestcomicbookpanels]

Now Lois has to tell Superman the truth! by Kurt Schaffenberger

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“Defends Ottawa Doctor’s Technique,” Ottawa Journal. March 18, 1942. Page 12. ---- Dr. K. M. Heard Testifies in Damage Action  ---- Dr. K. M. Heard, anaesthetic specialist from Toronto, testified this morning at Ontario Supreme Court non-jury session.' that technique of Dr. Harold T. Jost Ottawa anaesthetist, in administering an intravenous injection of sodium pentathol to Mrs. H. A. Hughston, 225 MacLaren street on January 18, 1942, was "as nearly perfect as any medical procedure could be", and that the "strength of the drug used was perfectly safe".

Mr. and Mrs. Hughston are seeking damages for injuries to Mrs. Hughston's right arm, alleged to have been caused by an intravenous anaesthetic given by Dr. Jost at Ottawa Civic Hospital. The action Is being heard before Mr, Justice Hope. Introduced Drug in 1935. Dr. Heard said he had introduced the drug into Canada in November 1933. If the solution had gone into the tissues instead of the vein the patient would have had instantaneous pain and could not have gone to sleep, he said. 

If administration had been partially in the vein and partially in the tissues, that while the patient may have lost consciousness she would not have been "surgically anaesthetic" and the operation could not have been performed. 

He suggested a probable cause of the condition was that Mrs. Hughston's tissues were very susceptible to irritation by sodium pentathol. . 

In cross examination by Walter F. Schroeder, K.C.. representing the plaintiffs, regarding his statement that a probable cause was susceptibility of tissues. Dr. Heard stated he was "advancing a theory". 

Dr. Fred MacKay, of Montreal, neurology specialist was next witness called by D. L. McCarthy, K.C., of Toronto, representing Dr. Jost.

‘Normal Arm’ He told the court he had examined Mrs. Hughston and said that during his examination he found all movements of her arm could be carried out, but weakly. There was no atrophy of the forearm and no sensory loss, be said. 

"I was unable to discover anything in the physical make-up of the arm that had caused the condition", he said. His conclusion was "This is a normal arm". 

Cross examination of Dr. Jost by Mr. Schroeder was concluded. Dr. Jost testified he had used two syringes for the injection. Asked if there was a danger of the needle having pierced the wall of the vein while syringes were being changed, he replied great care had to be exercised while performing that part of the injection. .

He said that despite the care he had taken in administering the drug, and "considering the reaction, there is a doubt in my mind that some of the solution may have got into the tissues". 

Asked if he thought it was a probability that the condition of the arm was due to escape of the fluid Into the tissues, witness said he "had no satisfactory explanation of what had caused the condition". 

The action is continuing this afternoon.

[yourheartonfire]

I desperately need a continuation of the betrayed hero caught by their spy of a partner pleaseee

Ooh interesting. Thank you for the request!

First part here. CW for aftermath of a catastrophic injury, broken bones, threats of torture, non-con touching and reference to past dub-con by deception.

The enemy was back bright and early the next morning, this time with the cell keys jangling in hand. Their old partner hadn't started great and a night on the bare stone floor had left them worse for wear; breath shallow, forehead beaded with sweat, eyes dull as they looked up at their former partner. The enemy let themselves into the cell with a flourish.

"Good morning; you were wrong!" they said cheerfully, pulling their equipment cart along in a rattle of metal instruments. "Turns out my superiors are going to let me do anything I want to you."

The hero turned away, but not before their old partner saw their eyes sweep across the trays of knives and pliers and needles, saw their jaw clench under the bruised skin. "That's nice," they breathed as the enemy knelt beside them. "Nice of them to, uh. To trust you. A spy. Do you find it hard? Keeping all the pieces of yourself in separate little boxes?"

"Are we making small talk?" The enemy firmly wrapped their finger around the hero's bicep, pulling the arm free of where the hero cradled it against their chest.

The hero shuddered as they enemy slid their hand across that horribly shattered limb. "Well," they gasped out. "You know everything about me. And this is the first time I've met you."

"Oh you," the enemy chuckled. "And thats not true. There is so much information locked up in that cute skull of yours I've been dying to ask you about." The hero's arm was hot to the touch but their shoulder and hand cool. Which was about as good as the enemy could hope for. They lifted the hero's arm and stabbed the needle hidden up their sleeve into the hero's leg.

"Just a little painkiller," the enemy hummed as the hero yelped in shock and pain. It worked fast; almost immediately the hero sagged against the wall, the lines of stress and pain across their face easing. The enemy eased them to floor and set to work splinting the arm.

"Why?" the hero croaked.

"I've always thought you look gorgeous a little roughed up," the enemy said, going through the practiced motions quickly. "But I've never actually liked hurting you. This will be better for both of us, really, if you just answer my questions."

"Oh god." The hero tried to pull away. "You fooled me, okay? I believed you were... I gave you everything. I don't have any other secrets to confess."

"That's sweet but give yourself more credit for tradecraft," the enemy chuckled, drumming their fingers over the bandages. They could feel the two way mirror looming over the two of them, could feel the suspicious eyes watching. "Those ciphers, for example. I spent weeks searching for your code books before I realized - you're carrying it all in your head, aren't you?" They flicked their finger against the hero's forearm. The hero cried out again as the sudden jolt of pain and the enemy went back to that soft tapping. "Now, pay attention, love. Because if you don't talk to me, they'll just send in the next guy."

The hero opened their mouth to respond - and then their eyes went wide, staring into their enemy's. Neither looked down, at the enemy's hand tapping that arrhythmic pattern on hero's arm. Morse code. W I L L S A V E Y O U. B U Y T I M E.

"And I suppose the next guy isn't as nice as you ?" The hero managed a sneer, even as their speech slowed, a new spark in their eyes, a new puzzle before them. "I should just trust you?"

"I don't see that you have many other options," the enemy said.

The hero scoffed. "It's too late. They switch the codes every night - all I've got now is an outdated cypher."

"See, we're learning things already!" The enemy smiled. "Nice to see the sodium pentathol working. Now dont give me that look, I do have a job to do here," they protested at the hero's shocked, betrayed face. The enemy reached back and grabbed a knife. "Don't take it personally. You'd do the same to me if things were reversed."

"Oh no. No. Give yourself some credit for tradecraft," the hero said with a blistering glare and tears in their eyes. "I could never, never do this to you."

Window and observers be damned, for a moment the enemy let the mask slip, looked at hero as themselves. When had that happened, that the version of themselves that was the hero's partner, protector, lover had become so real?

Then the moment passed and enemy shook it off. That wasnt who they had to be right now. Hero was in no condition to save themselves so it was up to enemy to make this look good. So then they got into character and got to work.

[totallycorrectjediorderquotes]

[Mace, Plo, and Commander Ponds are held prisoner. Mace is unconscious and mumbling about something.]

Ponds: Poor General. What’d they dose him with? Sodium pentathol?

Plo: Solid food and water. His body’s spent years wrestling nutrients out of Caf and painkillers.

Plo: I expect it thinks it’s been poisoned.