Sedating kissa

Sedating and anesthetizing the animal patient. Some of the investigations, tests, sampling, or care procedures may require sedation. Other animal patients may be so afraid or aggressive that sedation becomes a necessity to make the patient feel relief and so that the procedure is successful. Sedating and anesthetizing the animal patient. 15.7.2016 Comments Off on Sedating and anesthetizing the animal patient. Some of the investigations, tests, sampling, or care procedures may require sedation. Other animal patients may be so afraid or aggressive that sedation becomes a necessity to make the patient feel relief and so that the ... preparations have a sedating effect on the central nervous system. In general, H1 antihistamines are indicated for all d iseases based on t he release o f histamine, ... Nag yE., Feher-KissA., ... Zylkene Capsules can support cats and dogs when in stressful situations such as: Moving house. on palvelu, joka kokoaa kuluttajien arvostelut, arviot ja kokemukset. Seorang ibu sedang memberikan berbagai olahan pangan lokal kepada anaknya... On Tuesday Kate brought the girls over and we went to jump school. Miss Kissa decided she was broken and couldn’t jump so the rest of us puttered and I started puttering over some of the fences with Packy. After they finished puttering I started to string together fences and then aimed at Kate’s skinny gate. Then they give me the slightly sedating medication (versed) and some pain med (demerol or fentanyl) via IV. Soon I feel a little tired and relaxed and the doctor begins the procedure. If doing just one level he first injects a bit of xylocaine (acts like novocaine) and then injects the Radio Frequency Ablation tool. Painkillers (analgesics) can generally be classified in three main categories: 1. Paracetamol Panado and Tylenol are well-known brand names. One of the main attractions of paracetamol is that it ... Manuel fucks both mouths and shaved pussies. As one slut rides his massive, uncut meat, the other sits on his face, licks balls, tongues his bunghole, sucks feet, eats pussy and/or rims the second girl. Amid more oil, the aggressive stud fucks Maddie up the ass, slapping face and tits; Kissa gives an ass-to-mouth blowjob. kissa brown October 23, 2018 at 3:43 AM. Thanks to Dr OSE I am so happy today, I have been suffering from Fibromyalgia for the past 8 years now, and i have spent a lot on western drugs which has all proved abortive, i have tried all means in life to become Fibromyalgia free , but there was no answer until i decided to try herbal solution and i ...

[PI] - What Makes A Good Man - September Contest

2012.09.26 23:59 mo-reeseCEO1 [PI] - What Makes A Good Man - September Contest

i'll try to not screw it up this time. comments welcome.
What Makes A Good Man
Under the sallow flickering glow of a fading light bulb, its stuttering filament as erratic and convulsive as an epileptic firefly in its death throes, Alcides Mayorga surveyed himself in the mirror. A modestly adorned man, he had opted for simple chinos a tight fitting black shirt, so closely fitted to the sculpted contours of his compact frame it gave the impression of a second skin. His spare sensibilities extended beyond wardrobe to the rest of him—he was athletically lean, hair still neatly trimmed in a high and tight, taciturn in speech, and nearly expressionless to boot, his only affectation the hard look of the demobilized—which gave the impression of a man of simplicity and direct manner that engendered trust. Aside from intriguingly garnet colored eyes, his only accessories were two pairs of tattoos on his neck and a gun metal colored right arm.
He docks his handset and runs a diagnostic. The elbow servo was burning out. Motion range restricted to one hundred sixty degrees. Exposed wiring in the wrist by the battery house also promised to wear out soon, if the battery itself didn’t give out sooner. At best he had one charge left. After that he’d need to start burning six thousand calories a day to keep it running. Rations hardly made eighteen hundred. Better make it count. Alcides needs some servicing soon. He needs to get paid tonight.
Putting away his handset, he catches himself uncomfortably in the mirror. His right shoulder twitches instinctively. It’s a memento of the last tick he ever fought. Big drone came in and clipped his wing in its mandibles. Last thing the army ever paid for was his tin arm. They kind of paid for the Low City hole he lived in and made sure he had something to eat, but they did that for all the creeps, so long as they didn’t try and sneak into center city or get to the upper floors. Clocking in at about twenty pounds despite the light weight alloys and parts, he thought he detected an ever so subtle asymmetry between right and left sides. Shit. Lose an arm and gain neuroses about your body being out of balance. Of all the fucking problems to have—
Deep breath. He draws himself up like a soldier. Chin out, arms drawn in, he’s got all the comportment of a specialist at inspection. No ma’am, I just play one on the vids. Exhale. Whatever, time to make some monopoly.
Stocktamento sulks in the late summer night. Low City is slung in the mid-nineties, giving the sulfurous perma-fog a volcanic character. Here and there dim street lights hang in the air like disembodied wisps, casting the odd cavernous shadows on doorways, burned out cars, and the lurkers walking the streets. Yeah, the Deeps ‘n’ Creeps are out in force tonight and why not? It’s Friday. Everyone’s got a hustle or a fix and something they need in return. “Fat kissa,” someone hisses in the slum cant and though Alcides still doesn’t get most of it, he knows enough to know that he doesn’t need paper to pay for one the man is offering. He smirks. I’m on the same side of the dodge, buddy, not your mark.
Alcides heads to the comrail station in south Lodi. He’s gonna take the Golden Rail to some club north of Yuba, way on the outskirts, close enough to see the north emplacements with their fifty cals and rocket batteries and its famed multivariant armor units—Holding the Line is their Sacred Duty—but first he’s gotta get through security. Right at the entrance he gets his mug snapped along with some shuffling tweaker who’s circling the station lights like a wounded moth. Then it’s down towards the turnstiles, filmed in panaroma from eight angles, to the ID pad where he’s got to drop his citizen card in, lean into the eye reader, and slide his right hand against the panel so the near field can register his prosthetic. Mayorga Mendoza, Alcides. AMM94SF04478. Resident Community Park 84, 2126 Century Boulevard, Room 0166. Cleared for Outer Ring travel. Curfew exempt. Community park privileges revoked. Warning, vitamin d deficiency. Warning, government issued prosthetic in need of service. Yeah, yeah.
And just like that he’s allowed into the true undercity. Black and red police commandos greet him on the other side with machine gun wariness. Their Dutch language trained canine partner emits guttural disapproval while his robotic counterparts glare at him flat faced with three red eyes from the other side of uncanny valley. Some respect they got for vets, he thinks as he takes the escalator down towards the track. It’s a slow ride but walking down quickly is just the thing that draws suspicion. Besides, the train knows to wait anyway.
On the platform it’s just him and this cute young thing wrapped up in a miniskirt and latex bodysuit with cut outs just close to all the right places. Alcides stared. No way she was a creeper. Make-up was on in all the right places without the clownlike proportions and there weren’t and bruises or tracks that he could see. She could be an undercover pop-it looking to slum her fix rather than pay her Middle Thirty premiums, but the apprehension in her eye wasn’t quite wild enough to be from a junkie. No, it was quite rational, smacking of the middle class and a good education. Doing the Lord’s work here, honey? Taking some pity on the Low City scum before you hit the sky lounges?
The train comes and there’s only one car open to the two of them. His lucky day. She sits with her legs crossed, a true disappointment, but let’s not get distracted here. Girls like that, they’re not for you, Al ole pal. They’re for the lawyers, doctors, system architects, urban engineers, and maybe the right kind of officer if he’s got demob orders or they were high school sweethearts or something. Can’t buy a girl like that with money or bravado or with a fucking metal arm and over amped right side.
Silence is their only commerce on the lonely ride north. She’s looking away the whole time as the ads flash in from the track walls or the LED panels in the train turn over. He’s under no such obligation to pretend she’s not there. She gets off just north of the river in Arden-Arcade. A black and red and his three eyed robopal make sure that Alcides doesn’t surreptitiously disembark. Hasta eternidad, chica, he thinks, look for me in your dreams, cuz you’re gonna be in mine.
Another twenty minutes and he’s at the end of the line in Yuba. Six thousand credits later and he can confirm the Tierra Buena stop is anything but, a practical wasteland where you couldn’t hardly find even the ubiquitous octagonal towers of government housing. No, this place was too poor for even the iron clad distinctions of Low, Middle, or High Cities. Just flat and barren. Pill boxes and watch towers are set across the northern horizon amidst the chain links, razor wire, and mined countermeasures just beneath the surface. He can’t help but sigh. Even on a Friday, someone’s gotta be worried about the damn bugs. And if they aren’t worried about them, they gotta watch out for the creepers. A few decades in and you gotta wonder why they even bother with the twenty second century.
His pause here is more wistful than Alcides would prefer. Free Land Armor Exoskeletons sit majestically in artillery repose under the pale moonlight. Half tank and half walker, the FLARE is the backbone of the Multivariant Armor Corps. The roaring engine overhead might be its winged equivalent, humanity’s MV-cum-savior Land Air Rapid Response Interceptor. But it could just be an automated drone, looking for any movement on the other side of the fence.
Not that it matters to him. They bounced him out of the MV Corps with a 4-F on a psych eval that meant there was no way they were going to plug him into a transformable tank and no circumstance where they’d pay him to shoot a weapon again. Paramilitaries wouldn’t touch him and he was deemed unlikely to transfer into civil professions. That left harvy or scavy, and when it came down to the choice between an unarmored combine outside the city limits or combing through San Francisco’s bug lands for salvageable material, well, shit. It was the dole for Alcides. Fuck the army. He gave them his arm and six years of his life. They gave him a dark hole to disappear into, complete with protein paste, vitamin chips, and a whole lot of encouragement not to crawl back out.
Club Patroklos was not a place deserving of a fancy and hard to pronounce name, but it was discreet with little camera coverage or police patrols. It was full of pop-its and lowlife degenerates, the latter of which he stood out as a prime cut. He’d been casing the place for about six weeks, in and out on weekends and week nights, making himself a familiar face without quite being a regular. Sergey at the door knew him enough to let him in without the customary intimidation. It was not his kind of place but it was the kind of place where he could find someone else who felt out of place. And that mattered.
Lights in Patroklos need to be dim. Everybody’s waif thin with bags so heavy under their eyes you’d think they could carry a second pair of peepers to replace bleary red-rimmed set above. Sweat soaked bodies, shaved heads and three day scruff are on nearly every cheek and he’s not quite sure if it’s the pot that masks the body odor or the other way around. Psilocykos and spiceheads every last one of them, rocking out on pills cut in equal parts phenethylamene and mephadrone, it was hard to tell if they were actually enjoying themselves or biding their time in continuous chemical ecstasy until bug or fatal exhaustion took them. The dance floor is thin tonight, each strobe revealing so few revelers that their twisted and gyrating limbs evoke a burnt out forest. Aside from some East Asian eye candy trafficked in by the ownership, there’s not much to look at.
Alcides heads to the bar to wait and drink. His little paper and familiar face will carry him for a few hours. One finger signals a ‘cocktail,’ barely palatable Patriot Whiskey cut with a homemade fruit mash, and he looks out towards the floor. They twist like willows caught in a breeze, he thinks as the heavy bass drop catches him in the chest. He admires this. They bend but they do not break. He wants that to be a metaphor for his life.
Cocktails come and go and his gag reflex is pretty worn out by the time he sees him. Tall, easy six foot and change, he’s perfect. Right arm and right leg move in sync with the natural gait but there’s something about the mechanics that don’t quite add up. The baseport below the back of his skull, close cropped hair, and eight tattooed mandibled heads on his neck fill in the rest of the details. A fellow vet with an impressive kill record. Alcides would know. He was proud of the four on his neck but they in no way measured up to eight notches. He only knew one guy who had a record anything close to that.
“Hey there, killer,” he oozes as he slides up next to him at the bar. A face sardonic and bemused and very familiar gave a half turn.
“Specialist Mayorga… Al?”
“Sergeant Lee?” he recognizes with a shit eating grin. Of course it would be that one guy.
“Lieutenant Lee, now. It’s been ages!” and David Lee reaches in for a hearty shake between mechanical arms, when he pats him on the shoulder he realizes for the first time that Alcides’ doesn’t fully extend.
“Only one sixty degree movement. Haven’t made it round the VA lately.”
“Well, what’s twenty degrees between war buddies anyway? And I see you’re going au natural, too.”
“They didn’t have a skin tone that matched me,” he lied. Alcides couldn’t afford the fake skin.
“Ah, who cares? A real man owns his battle scars.” Real men have no choice. It was in Atlanta, that doomed city, when that damned worker caught Specialist Mayorga from behind and clipped his right arm in the middle of the bicep. Sergeant Lee, an uptight by the book asshole of an NCO, seeing one of his subordinates in mortal peril charges from cover and kills the tick with two shots to the eye. He then pulled Specialist Mayorga back to cover where he was tended to by the company medic until he could be extracted by VTOL. At a field hospital in Dalton they removed the remainder of his arm so he could be fitted for a full arm prosthesis. Four months of physical and integrative therapy—not to mention a failed psych exam—later, Specialist Al Mayorga ended and the broken Alcides Mayorga, Resident Community Shithole eightywhatever, was left with the pieces of his life.
“How have you been?” Lee continued, lightning flashes of spotlight illuminating his genuine interest.
“Getting by,” Alcides said, because what else is there to say in a loud bar with a guy you know and memories you thought you were over, “How about you? Last time I saw you, you were all meat and there were only seven of those… You join MV?”
That question was especially painful.
“Nah,” Lee says, getting a couple more cocktails, “I’m infantry for life. After Atlanta I got into an experimental power armor unit. They tried to scale down some of the MV tech for human-armor integration and ditch the transformation aspects.”
“How’d that go?”
Lee takes a gulp of infused grain liquor and pruno and then a second, drinking like Alcides feels.
“Recon drop north of Liberal. Looking to scout enemy positions and expand the EZC north to Garden City,” Alcides had heard of those kinds of missions, taking armor units and mechanized infantry into the badlands to expand the Effective Zone of Control, aka the land around the last cities we hadn’t lost. None of them came with positive reports, “We were at a power station in some burned out burb called Ulysses when we came across several soldier types.
“It was a quick firefight. I mean, they’re always kind of slow and then when they’re over they feel quick but this… wasn’t right. We had a few quadruped pups for support, but each side made hell of the other. The bigger castes, their mandibles cut right through the armor. Snapped mine at the elbow like it was a twig. One of the legs pierced me a little below the pelvis,” he pointed at his right leg, perilously close to the groin, “I lost my rifle but was able to shoot an explosive charge from the arm cannon into its thorax. Blew the bastard in half.”
“Damn,” Alcides said, but he could have just as easily said nothing. It was a kind of story that didn’t need a response.
“They gave me up for lost. My comm booster was damaged when the tick pinned me to the ground. Those suits, if they’re damaged or they don’t detect vitals, they only transmit a low frequency retrieve signal. The rest of the unit came under heavy swarming and pulled out.”
“They left you?”
Lee nodded, “Shock set in pretty quick. I was screaming bloody murder till I couldn’t breathe and then the suit took over. Wrapped emergency tourniquets, cauterized the, the… stumps. Starting sticking me with fluids and transfusions to keep me alive… but, you know, those suits are like anything else. Got a mean battery pack but it doesn’t last forever. Especially not when they’re in full emergency mode. When I saw the HUD flicker and die, I thought I was a goner.”
Shit, Alcides thought. He tried to think back to Atlanta. Specialist Mayorga, he only hurt. It wasn’t until he was Alcides Mayorga, lowlife, that he had wanted to die. In the four months he adjusted to the arm and trained to qualify for the MV entrance exam, he had been focused, determined, eager to get back into the fight. It wasn’t till demob that he realized that only a part of him had come back. The not very good part.
“How’d they find you?”
“Meat detail came back to pick up the pieces. They got there just after I passed out, I guess. Were able to power the suit and keep me going till a doc could revive me and they could start fitting me for new pieces,” he had finished his cocktail and was halfway through another, “Demobed after that. Got a PTSD diagnosis and that was that.”
Alcides could relate, “What did you think about?”
Lee was glassy eyed and silent for a while. He took his drink pretty hard and had to force it down with a fist to his mouth.
“I thought about, fucking up. They gave me command and they… died. I wondered about bugs, if they, you know, felt? We killed a bunch. Did they, regret? Miss… things? I don’t know, I was delirious. Mostly I thought about overriding the medical protocols and taking all the morphine in one shot. Going to sleep and never coming back.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I wanted an eighth tattoo on my neck. I wanted them, someone, to know that I had killed that motherfucker and we had won,” he slapped the bar with a solid sound of metal on scrap metal. The bartender looked over and Alcides gave him a nod and a hand across the neck. Their night had ended.
“Let me get it,” Lee stuttered generously.
“No, let me,” Alcides insisted, “I owe you.”
Outside the predawn was arid with the evaporation of old dreams. With Lieutenant Lee draped over his shoulder, he looked at the silhouettes of the FLAREs in the graying sky. Even in the hope of a new day it was hard not to look and think that they had lost something that couldn’t be repaired or replaced. He didn’t have a name for it. Maybe it was the promise that the next day would be better than the last. Maybe it was simply the illusion that the promise was true.
With his right hand, Alcides tapped out a brief message on his handset.
“I was only a brevet lieutenant. I wasn’t ready.”
“C’mon buddy, let’s get you home. I got a bottle of good stuff, from before the war. We can have a few drinks and relive some of the good times. Hey, Sergey, do you mind popping in and grabbing us a little something to smoke while we wait?”
The party has ended. For those inside, stuck in their capsule born dreams, perhaps it never ends. Perhaps the spice really does stretch seconds into eternal dreams, eradicating the waking moments and filling them, instead, with spiritual euphoria and a oneness that obliterates circumstance with its totality.
Without the expectation of more guests for the morning, the obliging bouncer went inside to procure whatever illicits were to be had. Moving swiftly with a well-choreographed grace, Alcides Mayorga touched a secret button in the center of the palm of his mechanical hand. The tips of his middle and ring fingers retreated to reveal two metal prongs. Without hesitation he thrusts the two prods directly into Lee’s chest, discharging six thousand kilovolts into his comrade. The shudder is rapid and one-shot-effective. Brevet Lieutenant David Lee’s weight doubles with unconsciousness. A van prowls from around the corner, pulls up quickly with the side door open, and takes its two occupants well from the sight of Club Patroklos’ doors by the time Sergey Hadjiev returns with a joint in hand.
“It was good hardware,” Jayne says, “Military grade, top notch stuff. The baseport itself will be worth a fortune.”
“I’m glad,” Alcides responds, meaning he expects to be paid very handsomely for his work.
“Real good condition too. You could tell it was well taken care of. The donor too. Quite a catch.”
He lets the double entendre break on the shores of his indifference, like an important title or a story about someone else’s dreams.
“Probably will fetch a lot on the market.”
“That’s good.”
“I suppose you expect to be paid well for it,” Jayne sighs, looking up from the macabre assortment of equipment. That goes without saying, but Jayne likes to say it.
“It only seems fair.”
“It only seems fair,” Jayne repeats. Removing the clean suit, a hand drops into deep pockets and pulls out a wad of cash. It is thrown in Alcides’ general direction. His right arm doesn’t extend far enough to make the catch, but Jayne probably supposed that too.
“I can fix that,” Jayne says as Alcides bends back up with the money.
“How much?”
“Ninety thousand plus parts.”
“Ninety!—What the fuck, Jayne? There’s only three hundred thousand here. I brought you a port and two limbs. I expected at least twice as much,” Anger, if nothing else, still has a vibrant home in the heart of Alcides Mayorga.
“I don’t have that kind of paper monopoly. No one does unless they’re a big time spice dealer. You know that.”
“I know that you owe me,” he shouts and brings his heavy hand crashing loud upon the operating table.
“Okay, okay, look, Al. Let me throw in the fix for free. I got a spare servo and can do the rewiring. That is one fifty easy. The rest I can give you in merchandise.”
“Merchandise? What am I supposed to do, tote these guys around at every chop shop in Low City till I get a fair price?”
“Fair price? C’mon, you’re getting a fair price here, Al, let me throw in two ounces of mélange. Four grams in pills, the rest powdered. You can push it at the clubs and get another three, four hundred easy.”
It made economic sense. It was dangerous as hell, he surely couldn’t head to Yuba City any time soon and he wasn’t going to mess with that stuff close to home. Still, out in Auburn, there were a few clubs. Some spice, a rep as a good dealer, no bullshit, a fellow member of the disadvantaged “enhanced” with a friendly ear… could work. He also had to admit the unspoken message here. Jayne was granting him a kind of protection and in return demanded a certain kind of flexibility.
“Fine, and a battery charge too.” he deadpans.
“And a battery charge too,” Jayne drops a shoulder bag. He checks the stuff, weighs it in his hand. Two ounces alright. He turns to go.
“You know… we didn’t have the sedatives ready when he came to. He called out for you. Called you by name. Said you were buddies.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah. Said you were friends.”
Alcides thought about this for a moment.
“I said everything to him that I needed to. What time should I come back?”
“Tonight,” Jayne says without looking up from the appendages he’s cleaning. Alcides squints at him as he thinks it over. Jayne seems awfully eager to give him something for free.
“Tomorrow,” he counters.
“Sunday, then.”
As he walks out the door, Alcides Mayorga thinks that he’s not at all sure what tomorrow will bring. And while three hundred thousand can’t buy you much these days, it’s gonna buy him a hell of a night in the sky lounges of Arden-Arcade.
[edited for continuity, grammar, formatting.]
submitted by mo-reeseCEO1 to WritingPrompts [link] [comments]


Birthday Queen & Jumping Bean The Vermont Eventer

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