But Atchmon had experience with this kind of plant before; he knew the signs and choreography of its attacks. And in the moment the plant had committed to its assault; Atchmon thrust his spear forward and skewered the mouth-trap. A small amount of digestive fluids sprayed on the hunter's arm as the plant snarled and hissed in anger, while it wriggled and clapped its mouth-trap around the pole it was impaled upon; still trying to consume its prey despite its mortal wound. 