With a final push for survival, Atchmon suddenly rose up and hurled his blade into the mouth-trap in front of him; sending it away with a pained screech. Then body tackled the second with his weight, throwing every ounce of his strength to wrestle the wriggling vine down. Muscle memory took over as the farmer of the past rose to the forefront of Atchmon's psyche, and guided his hands around the black vine--that was the rope he used to truss up an uncountable number of calves in practice and in rodeo competitions--leaving the carnivorous plant in a knotted ball; completely unable to untangle itself. 