hypodermic syringe

  • sourced from the seed capsule of poppy plants - opium is the extract
  • 16% morphine, 4% codeine
  • poorly absorbed orally - potential realised with the invention of hypodermic syringe 
  • used as an analgesic (pain relief/tolerance) eg american civil war - addictive potential realised 

Morphine interacts predominantly with the opioid mu-receptor. 

  • high densities of these receptors in the posterior amygdala, hypothalamus, thalamus, nucleus caudatus, putamen, and certain cortical areas, also in substantia gelatinosa of the spinal cord and in the spinal nucleus of the trigeminal nerve
  • Provides analgesia and sedation
  • Euphoria, dysphoria, and drowsiness commonly occur
  • respiratory depression by direct action on brain stem respiratory centres.
  • Morphine binds to and inhibits GABA inhibitory interneurons
  • Which inhibit the descending pain inhibition pathway
  • Metabolism = primarily hepatic (90%), -virtually all morphine is converted to glucuronide metabolites; less than 5% = demethylated.

Side effects

  • Drowsiness, disorientation, nausea, vision blurring (avoid driving)
  • Constipation and dysuria
  • Dry mouth.
  • Itching, sweating, flushing or rashes.
  • Mood changes
  • Hallucinations 
  • Headache
  • Loss of appetite and indigestion or abdominal pain
  • Slow, shallow breathing
  • constricted pupils
  • Low blood pressure.
  • Rigid or twitching muscles.
  • Awareness of heartbeat (palpitations).

The Antidote

Straight out of a cliche horror movie I couldn’t resist combining a green Tritium tube into my version of a hypodermic syringe.  Unlike glow in the dark pigment, Tritium glows continuously without the need for “charging” from another light source.  It’s harmless to humans and used in many applications that require illumination like watches and gun sights.  I’ve been using it in designs for over a year now and I’m yet to grow another arm or mutate - damn it….

Update: Etsy in their wisdom have decided I can’t sell my Tritium designs.  I don’t agree with their decision but while I play in their sandbox I have to play by their rules.  So if you are interested in one of my Tritium pieces please contact me.  This piece is US $165 plus $7 flat rate shipping.


- Eleven pornographic films from Denmark, all featuring underage boys.

- Pornographic books with titles like ‘Satan Says Submit’ 'The Gay Guide to Minneapolis-St Paul’ and 'Men Who Worship Boys’.

- Six sets of leg irons and wrists cuffs with keys.

- Thirty six polaroids of various pizza joints.

- Eighteen dildos and butt plugs of various sizes; a few were stained with blood and fecal matter.

- Two huge Mason jars filled with Snickers candy.

- A rubber executioners hood with matching boots.

- A twenty foot length of chain (bloodstained)

- Four hypodermic syringes filled with an unknown liquid.

- Rubber jock straps with chains attached and a Spandex piss gag.

- Marijuana and rolling papers (found stashed in an ornament shaped like a clown).



Anonymous asked you: 
November 4th 2013, 12:22:00 am

I preach about things like feeling pain is better than feeling nothing at all, yet I find myself doing nothing but lying in the stagnant puddle of what my life has become. People have stopped telling my how much I could achieve because it’s been years now and I haven’t lived up to anyone’s expectations, most of all my own. I only keep falling even more behind.

grub-daddy  asked:

Do you have any experience with wet preserves? I've started experimenting with it, mostly with baby corn snakes and baby bearded dragons, and my biggest issue so far is the color changes so drastically after a few weeks. Any suggestions or links to people who give tips for wet preserves? Thanks!

When it comes to preventing colors from fading in your wet preserves you have to do two things pre and post preservation. First, the specimen must be fixed formalin prior to being set in the alcohol, and second, the specimen must be kept out of direct sunlight (ideally in a dark and cool environment) after the preserve had been completed.

To fix an animal in formalin, take a syringe, hypodermic needle, and the formalin (fixative), and inject the animal with as much of the fixative as you can. After that, you set the animal in the container you wish to display it in (ideally a glass jar that can be sealed), and pour the fixative into the container. Let the animal sit for a either a few days, weeks, or even months depending on the side of the animal and shake the container every few days to  agitate the fixative and encourage fluid exchange. Once the animal had been fixed in the formalin properly, pour out the fixative and replace it with 70% isopropyl alcohol. Even after an animal has been fixed, it can still fade if exposed to direct sunlight so make sure to care for the wet preserve by keeping it in the proper environment. As a general rule for all dead specimens, dry, dark, and cool are the ideal conditions to store any collection whether it be furs, taxidermy, dry and/or wet preserves.

You can find a more detailed explanation of the fixing process and preparation of wet preserves here

I hope this helped and good luck ;o;!!! 

Twenty rules for writing detective stories

Originally published in the American Magazine (1928)

  1. The reader must have equal opportunity with the detective for solving the mystery.  All clues must be plainly stated and described.

  2. No willful tricks or deceptions may be placed on the reader other than those played legitimately by the criminal on the detective himself.

  3. There must be no love interest.  The business in hand is to bring a criminal to the bar of justice, not to bring a lovelorn couple to the hymeneal altar.

  4. The detective himself, or one of the official investigators, should never turn out to be the culprit.  This is bald trickery, on a par with offering some one a bright penny for a five-dollar gold piece.  It’s false pretenses.

  5. The culprit must be determined by logical deductions — not by accident or coincidence or unmotivated confession.  To solve a criminal problem in this latter fashion is like sending the reader on a deliberate wild-goose chase, and then telling him, after he has failed, that you had the object of his search up your sleeve all the time. Such an author is no better than a practical joker.

  6. The detective novel must have a detective in it;  and a detective is not a detective unless he detects. His function is to gather clues that will eventually lead to the person who did the dirty work in the first chapter;  and if the detective does not reach his conclusions through an analysis of those clues, he has no more solved his problem than the schoolboy who gets his answer out of the back of the arithmetic.

  7. There simply must be a corpse in a detective novel, and the deader the corpse the better.  No lesser crime than murder will suffice.  Three hundred pages is far too much pother for a crime other than murder.  After all, the reader’s trouble and expenditure of energy must be rewarded.

  8. The problem of the crime must he solved by strictly naturalistic means.  Such methods for learning the truth as slate-writing, ouija-boards, mind-reading, spiritualistic se'ances,  crystal-gazing, and the like, are taboo.  A reader has a chance when matching his wits with a rationalistic detective, but if he must compete with the world of spirits and go chasing about the fourth dimension of metaphysics, he is defeated ab initio.

  9. There must be but one detective — that is, but one protagonist of deduction — one deus ex machina. To bring the minds of three or four, or sometimes a gang of detectives to bear on a problem, is not only to disperse the interest and break the direct thread of logic, but to take an unfair advantage of the reader.  If there is more than one detective the reader doesn’t know who his codeductor is.  It’s like making the reader run a race with a relay team.

  10. The culprit must turn out to be a person who has played a more or less prominent part in the story — that is, a person with whom the reader is familiar and in whom he takes an interest.

  11. A servant must not be chosen by the author as the culprit. This is begging a noble question.  It is a too easy solution.  The culprit must be a decidedly worth-while person — one that wouldn’t ordinarily come under suspicion.

  12. There must be but one culprit, no matter how many murders are committed.  The culprit may, of course, have a minor helper or co-plotter;  but the entire onus must rest on one pair of shoulders:  the entire indignation of the reader must be permitted to concentrate on a single black nature.

  13. Secret societies, camorras, mafias, et al., have no place in a detective story. A fascinating and truly beautiful murder is irremediably spoiled by any such wholesale culpability.  To be sure, the murderer in a detective novel should be given a sporting chance;  but it is going too far to grant him a secret society to fall back on.  No high-class, self-respecting murderer would want such odds.

  14. The method of murder, and the means of detecting it, must be be rational and scientific. That is to say, pseudo-science and purely imaginative and speculative devices are not to be tolerated in the roman policier.  Once an author soars into the realm of fantasy, in the Jules Verne manner, he is outside the bounds of detective fiction, cavorting in the uncharted reaches of adventure.

  15. The truth of the problem must at all times be apparent — provided the reader is shrewd enough to see it. By this I mean that if the reader, after learning the explanation  for the crime, should reread the book, he would see that the solution had, in a sense, been staring him in the face-that all the clues really pointed to the culprit — and that, if he had been as clever as the detective, he could have solved the mystery himself without going on to the final chapter.  That the clever reader does often thus solve the problem goes without saying.

  16. A detective novel should contain no long descriptive   passages, no literary dallying with side-issues, no subtly worked-out character analyses, no “atmospheric” preoccupations.Such matters have no vital place in a record of crime and deduction.  They hold up the action and introduce issues irrelevant to the main purpose, which is to state a problem, analyze it, and bring it to a successful conclusion.  To be sure, there must be a sufficient descriptiveness and character delineation to give the novel verisimilitude.

  17. A professional criminal must never be shouldered with the guilt of a crime in a detective story.  Crimes by  housebreakers and bandits are the province of the police departments — not of authors and brilliant amateur detectives.  A really fascinating crime is one committed by a pillar of a church, or a spinster noted for her charities.

  18. A crime in a detective story must never turn out to be an accident or a suicide. To end an odyssey of sleuthing with such an anti-climax is to hoodwink the trusting and  kind-hearted reader.

  19. The motives for all crimes in detective stories should be personal.  International plottings and war politics belong in a different category of fiction — in secret-service tales, for instance.  But a murder story must be kept gemütlich, so to speak.  It must reflect the reader’s everyday experiences, and give him a certain outlet for his own repressed desires and emotions.

  20. And (to give my Credo an even score of items) I herewith list a few of the devices which no self-respecting detective story writer will now avail himself of.  They have been employed too often, and are familiar to all true lovers of literary crime.  To use them is a confession of the author’s ineptitude and lack of originality.  a) Determining the identity of the culprit by comparing the butt of a cigarette left at the scene of the crime with the brand smoked by a suspect.  b) The bogus spiritualistic se'ance to frighten the culprit into giving himself away.  c) Forged fingerprints.  d) The dummy-figure alibi.  e) The dog that does not bark and thereby reveals the fact that the intruder is familiar.  f)The final pinning of the crime on a twin, or a relative who looks exactly like the suspected, but innocent, person.  g) The hypodermic syringe and the knockout drops.  h) The commission of the murder in a locked room after the police have actually broken in.  i) The word association test for guilt.  j) The cipher, or code letter, which is eventually unraveled by the sleuth.


Above: the tip of a hypodermic syringe needle.

Below: the tip of a fang from the cobra Naja kaouthia.

Both are designed to pierce the skin and admit fluids into the bloodstream, although it is often the case that the intended effects are polar opposites.

Artificial designs frequently imitate those of nature; in this case, mankind was approximately 25 million years late. 

SNK Readthrough: The Titan Serum Syringe

I was at a small comic con recently where I found a vendor selling a vintage hypodermic syringe with finger grips and a glass barrel. I was reminded of the one in Rod Reiss’s possession. I was impressed enough to take this photo, but not to part with the $50 needed to own it.

The vendor and I chatted briefly. He told me these were often used on the battlefield, explaining that the design added speed and control. When I thought about Frieda injecting herself - terrified, alone, hands trembling - I could see why this might be necessary.

It’s a tiny detail but it stuck with me. I appreciate the thought Isayama puts into each panel. And I was left wondering if the syringe currently in Levi’s possession will be used on the battlefield like the real life examples it was thoughtfully patterned after.

canberra gothic
  • it is hot and raining. it is raining black feathers. the houses strip back to reveal the sun. it is raining black eucalyptus leaves.
  • you are walking down londsdale street. there are beards everywhere. you have a beard. your ankles have a beard. your leather shoulder bag has a beard. your bicycle has a beard. that’s not your bicycle. this is your bicycle. these are not your ankles.
  • the brutalist architecture drowns on days like this. look - the national library is drowning. all the books come to the surface like marsh gas. the national gallery is drowning. the national museum is drowning. the museum of democracy is drowning. the national national drowns. the nation drowns in the lake. you smell marsh gas.
  • where there were basil and tomatoes and chicken coops are dead branches and red brick.
  • you hail the bus, but the bus isn’t for you. the next bus will come in sixteen years. it isn’t for you.
  • telstra tower plunges into the sky like a hypodermic syringe and injects signal. nobody is getting the NBN now.

Electron micrography of bacteriophages and schematic drawing.

Bacteriophages are a diverse group of viruses capable of attacking and infecting bacterial cells. The bulbous but curiously geometric head of the organism contains a DNA payload, which encodes the genome of the virus. 

After alighting on a bacterial cell membrane of a specific target species (pictured, uppermost), the bacteriophage contracts its insectoid tail fibers, and delivers the strand of DNA through the membrane of the host in a manner akin to a 100-nanometer-long, spindly-legged hypodermic syringe. The newly injected DNA inside the host may then propagate further virions, continuing the cycle of the virus; the assembly of an entirely new bacteriophage virion can take as little as 15 minutes within the host.

Some species then explosively release the new virions from the cell, whilst others employ a further-reaching technique: their DNA seamlessly integrates with that of the bacterium fairly harmlessly, until the host begins to die of its own accord. At this stage, the dormant phage DNA initiates the same process described above, with a key difference: any offspring of the original bacterium that it may have produced during its healthy lifespan are also infected with bacteriophage DNA, and will ultimately meet the same demise.

On December 13, 1978, after obtaining a search warrant, investigators searched serial killer John Wayne Gacy’s home. Gacy was not home at the time of the search. Police found the following objects:

A jewelry box, in which law enforcement found two driver’s licenses and two rings. The first ring had “Maine West High School, Class of 1975″ etched onto it while the other had the initials J.A.S.

• A box containing marijuana and rolling papers

• Seven pornographic, Swedish movies

• Various types of pills, such as amyl nitrate and Valium

• A switchblade knife

• A stained rug

• Pictures of pharmacies and drugstores

•An address book

•A scale

• Plenty of books, most notably “Tight Teenagers,” “The Rights of Gay People,” “Bike Boy,” “Pederasty,” “Sex Between Men and Boys,” “Twenty-One Abnormal Sex Cases,” and “The American”

•A pair of handcuffs, complete with keys

•A 3 foot, 2x4 wooden plank with two holes drilled on each end

•A six mm Italian pistol

•Various police badges

•An 18-inch rubber dildo, which was found in the attic buried under insulation

•A hypodermic syringe and needle alongside a small, brown bottle

•Clothing that was irrefutably too small for Gacy

•A pharmacy receipt for a roll of film

•A nylon rope

anonymous asked:

Imagine Brianna gets shot some time when they're at their place in America and Claire has to save her

Claire was in her garden pulling up weeds, enjoying the silence and solitude. Brianna and Roger had gone to visit Fergus and Marsali for a few weeks, intending to take care of several errands while there—and they’d taken all the children with them. Germain was eager to see his parents again and Claire thought it was good for Fanny to get some time away from the Ridge and see more children her own age—she’d spent too little of her childhood playing with other children and though having Mandy as a playmate helped, Joanie and Félicité were much closer to her own age.

Weeding her herb garden was a task Claire constantly meant to do but hadn’t yet gotten around to accomplishing. Fanny and Mandy had both taken an interest in helping Claire with little chores about her surgery so she had begun educating them both regarding the different herbs she grew but they still had a long way to go. There had been too many times when one or both of the girls had mistaken the weeds for the plants themselves and rather have them assist her in tidying the garden—which she feared would result in the far more upsetting prospect of her garden being plucked of herbs with the weeds left behind to flourish—Claire had chosen to take advantage of their absence to finally complete the task to her satisfaction. Jamie had even made up little markers for the different sections to help prevent future catastrophe.

The silence was abruptly broken by a high voice screeching, “Grannie! Grannie, come quick!”

Claire started from her kneeling position and got to her feet, dusting dirt and plant matter from her skirt and hands.

“Mandy?” she called.

The dark-haired girl had been running up the path toward the house as fast as her little legs could carry her but she stopped abruptly when she heard her grandmother’s voice. Claire hastened over all too aware of how stiff her knees and hips were from her time kneeling—one of the good things about having the girls around was that they prevented her from getting so bogged down in a task she forgot to move and stretch.

“Grannie!” Mandy exclaimed breathlessly as she collided with Claire’s legs. “Ye have to come right away. Mam got shots!”

It took a moment for Mandy’s words to sink in but as soon as they did, adrenaline burst through Claire’s system. She tore up the path to the house and into her new surgery. It was a long ways to carry her heavy medical box if she were to go on foot—and there was no way she was going to waste the time it took to saddle a horse when the distance could easily be covered on foot regularly. Luckily, she wouldn’t need everything from the medical box and once she had Brianna stabilized it would be easy to send Roger or one of the boys back to fetch it. She would need a scalpel and forceps for retrieval, sutures and a needle to close the wound, bandages and distilled alcohol to dress and disinfect it.

“Where, Mandy?” she pressed the child who had followed her into the house. “Where’s your mother shot?” Even the a general idea of where Brianna had been struck would help Claire to know what to expect, what materials could safely be left behind as unnecessary.

“At home,” Mandy answered with an uncertain look on her face.

Claire cursed under her breath—it wasn’t the information she was looking for but pressing Mandy further might waste valuable time and it wouldn’t help to frighten Mandy as Claire would lose more time trying to calm her down again.

Claire settled on a bottle of laudanum—ether would be better but it was far too dangerous to attempt to move it so far and in such haste. She slung the bag over her head and arm so that the strap cut across her chest leaving her hands free to hold her skirts out of the way.

Mandy was too slow to keep up with Claire as she flew down the path towards Roger and Brianna’s cabin. It was difficult to strike the right balance—on the one hand, trying to prepare herself for what she would find might enable her to reach that space of detachment she would need in order to do what was necessary medically to save Brianna; on the other hand, any attempt to picture what had happened to her daughter and how she might be injured caused a new wave of fear and panic to wash over her.

It obviously had to have happened while they were making their way back—and close to home if they managed to get her all the way to the cabin. Thieves on the road, perhaps or a raiding party waiting for preoccupied travelers—and with the children there, Claire had no trouble believing Brianna would willfully put herself in harm’s way to protect them. Jamie… someone would have to go fetch him—and Ian—from the fields—Germain would likely be quickest.

Finally the cabin was in sight. The lack of visible activity caused her chest to constrict with terror before plunging ahead, refusing to even consider the fact that she might be too late.

She burst through the door, her eyes going to the table in the middle of the room that offered the most promising workspace.

Brianna stood at the table unpacking crates of wares from the shops—most of them supplies they couldn’t get at the Beardsley trading post, items only available in a city. She turned at the commotion of Claire’s entrance and grinned.

“There you are, Mama. I was wondering… wait… where’s Mandy? Why do you have your bag with you?”

Claire crossed to Brianna and took hold of her upper arms, turning her from side to side in disbelief as she caught her breath from her hasty flight along the path.

“You’re… you’re not hurt? You haven’t been shot?” Claire panted.

“What? No. What’re you talking about?” Brianna helped Claire sink into a chair before moving to fetch her a drink. Claire set her medical bag on the floor beside her.

“Mandy,” Claire remarked looking towards the door. She could see a small speck running along the path. “She said I was to come quick and that you’d been shot.”

“Shot? What… why would she say such a thing?” Brianna moved out to the yard to meet her daughter and question her.

Claire swallowed the water Brianna had given her, the cup trembling in her hand as the sense of urgency faded and her system sought an outlet for the nervous energy that remained. Roger soon joined her in the yard with another crate of goods in his arms. He brought it into the house with a nod of greeting for Claire.

“The lads went off to find the Higgins boys to show their haul and Fanny followed after ‘em,” Roger explained to Claire when she asked why he seemed to be unloading everything himself. “I wager folk’ll be round soon after that to pick up the odds and ends they asked us to fetch them. But I hear Mandy had something to do with why you came by so quick.”

The lass in question had reached her mother and a scolding, the voices of the two rising but not carrying far enough for Claire and Roger to make out how Mandy chose to defend herself. Then they heard Brianna’s rich laugh as she scooped her daughter from the ground and carried her to the house.

“Apologize for scaring your grannie,” Brianna gently encouraged Mandy as she set her down on the floor.

“I’m sorry if I scared ye, Grannie,” Mandy said mechanically. Her attention was on her mother, the girl seemed upset by her mother’s amusement over the whole situation.

“It’s all right, Mandy,” Claire assured her as she reached out to pull the girl to her for a quick hug. “I just don’t understand—”

Brianna set a small wooden case down on the table before Claire, the sharp rap of the wood on the tabletop interrupting her thought.

“Open it,” Brianna instructed.

The case was relatively new and the latch opened smoothly. Nestled securely inside was a pair of carefully wrought hypodermic syringes—Brianna had helped Claire draw up the designs so that when an opportunity to have them made arose, they would be ready.

“When I mentioned having them made, Marsali was able to point me in the right direction,” Brianna explained.

“I told ye Mam got shots for ye,” Mandy insisted.

Claire smiled at her granddaughter as she closed the lid to the case. “You are absolutely right, Mandy. And you remember these from going to the doctor, I bet.”

The curly head nodded. “When we stayed with Joe before looking for Da. He gave us lots of shots because Mam asked him to,” Mandy turned to look at Brianna who was trying very hard to contain her mirth—the girl didn’t like the idea of the grown-ups laughing at her when she wasn’t trying to be funny. “She said we’d need ‘em where we were going.”

“Well, thank you, Mandy for coming to tell me,” Claire thanked Mandy graciously. “You’ll have to help me find a safe place in the surgery to put these—somewhere Adso won’t be able to get at them.”

“I ken just the place, Grannie,” Mandy exclaimed as she jumped up. “Come and I’ll show ye.” She started to run to the door again but Roger caught her before she could make it out.

“I’m afraid I need to rest a bit more first,” Claire entreated. “Let your mother show me the rest of what you lot got while you were visiting with Uncle Fergus and Auntie Marsali, then we’ll head back up to the house and my surgery.”

The Merge Trophy (part 1: He’s pure evil)

Writer: Me (pikitanita.tumblr.com) 

Ship: Kai x Reader 

Plot: Kai kidnaps you, and it appears you’re not just leverage, but that he thinks you’re part of his victory. He wants to claim you, while you still hate him. 

Timeline: The day after he kidnapped Elena to practice magic. 

Warnings: Evil Kai (pre-merge), violence, swearing, 4354 words (long), written by non-native english speaker (I do my best! :) )

Note: To be continued…

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

How about a drabble of bree bringing a gift from the future for Jamie and Claire

There was a small wooden box in the bottom of the pack Brianna had brought with her through the stones. It had remained carefully locked all through the ordeal of finding Roger.

After Jem and Mandy had been sent to bed, Brianna pulled it out and unlocked the box, handing it to her mother to open.

“It’s all that I would let Joe give me,” she said watching as Claire pulled out four bottles of penicillin tablets, a small case with three hypodermic syringes, vials of sterile water, quinine tablets, and a variety of other medicaments to supplement her stores.