We were somewhere outside the tour vehicle on the edge of Isla Nublar when the drugs began to take hold. I remember telling the pilot I felt a bit lightheaded and maybe he should drive.
And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us.
The plan was simple enough. Fly in on a free press pass, scribble some notes about corporate bio or medical engineering, maybe milk a few piña coladas from the bar by the visitor centre.
But then I saw the raptors. Christ, the eyes on those bastards.
They said the park was safe. "We spared no expense."
Sure, old man, tell that the the cow they hoisted up like some kind of symbolic sacrificial lamb, late-stage capitalist tech bro hubris strapped to a free-ride meat crane.
The cow had no idea it was about the be a footnote in genetic history.
Then there was the goat. Thick syrupy symbolism with this lot. The Tyrannosaurus rex snorted rain off its snout like some kind of half drunk post football game brawler at a drive through getting the last snow in his face before a late feed.
And I, low paid hack in a Hawaiian shirt just walking face-first into the reptilian id of man's doomed obsession with playing god.
Everywhere there was thunder. Not the good kind, not mescaline or the mesmerising heartbeat of a casino floor. No, the boom boom boom of something bigger, older. Wetter.
I saw the 'rex destroy a toilet block. More symbolism of the ultimate worth of low-brain capitalists at work. All come to as much as Gennaro ending his life as a snack.
He deserved it. all the lawyers do. Nature finds a way to humiliate the best and worst of us even on the shitter.
By the time the power went out I'd eaten three packets of questionable gummies from the visitor center. I’m still not sure if adrenaline had mixed with the sugar or if someone had slipped something a little more interesting in the pack.
I knew the former made more sense but hoped for the latter.
The fences shorted. The paddocks were open.
The only thing separating me from the lawyer's fate - the lizard king's greatest hit - was my total commitment to radical cowardice.
God bless the children i thought, as i hitched a ride on a jeep with two kids, a palæontologist who should have known better, and his sweaty chested partner glistening like some B-movie god by the dashboard light.
Thankfully the command centre stopped voicing any kind of confidence in where we went wrong when Alan Grant shot out the console.
I fled the island at dawn.
No souvenirs. No feature story. Just a pocket of melted gummies and scribbles on a notepad lost somewhere in a pile of dilophosaurus shit, or spit, or hallucination.
And a healthy respect for the velocity that a raptor can disassemble a man.
Back to the mainland, and an editor with teeth less sharp.
And the only thing that made sense was beginning to run when the thunder started. The lesson here? We are all the goat, and somewhere out there is something bigger. Meaner. Older, just waiting for the power to flicker out and civilisation to take a pause.
God help us all.