What you don’t know about the transdimensional properties of the komodo dragon can kill you in more than one place. They can scent your wound through time, through space, sporling out before them like a mist that curls and beckons. While you, you’re more like a rabbit with a pocketwatch who’s been stuffed with sawdust, and it’s falling out of you in chunks, and you’re feeling more and more like part of the scenery. Everything’s receding. Except the komodo. The komodo’s getting closer and closer. Reeling you in through its sixth, its seventh senses. That tongue, forking out. The bandy-legged rude walk over rough terrain. The smell of rotting flesh that you can’t quite tell. Is it you, or the komodo? Is it your life on his breath? Is this the last thing you’ll ever see? That ugly pitted bullethead. That shit-eating grin.
Because the thing is, you have to die to escape a komodo. You have to let your wound take you. Are you up for that? I wasn’t. I wasn’t ready yet. I’ve always tried to save dying for Plan B.