Horror - Short

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs.  No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.

All rights reserved. Great Big Sucker Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

GREAT BIG SUCKER

The clatter-clang and continuous verbal rumble worked the soundtrack of Mimi’s Quarter Moon Café on Ninth Avenue in the same way the clatter-clang and verbal rumble worked the background of any busy coffee shop. The dessert special was key lime pie. The waitress, Bonnie, had stuck a candle in a slice at the request of one of the retired regulars who sat in a booth by a window. Next to this regular was another regular who’d turned seventy-one that morning.

The café being relatively small meant every patron was within easy earshot when the waitress began singing Happy Birthday to You in a low, gravelly voice. Ray Coyle sat on a chair at a two-seat table—alone—flipping through a National Geographic magazine left behind by a previous customer. Surprisingly, it was the current month’s issue.

“…happy birthday, dear Isla…”

“Holy shit!” Ray was on his feet and holding the magazine open, astounded, like his wife had somehow posed for the centerfold.

Only a few singers continued, but they, along with everyone else, had turned toward Ray. “…happy birthday, to you.”

Ray did not notice the lull in volume and in a rather dramatic flourish, dropped the magazine down next to his coffee mug and withdrew the phone from his pocket. While the phone rang, pressed to his ear, he finally drank in the scene. Twenty-seven eyes were on him, some faces chewed food, others sipped coffee, but all remained fixed, gawking. Ray’s attention darted from face-to-face-to-face until stopping on Leroy Muggles, the one-eyed calico that spent most of her days asleep beneath the counter but had then settled in the mid-afternoon sun pouring through the window next to a shelf and an umbrella stand, staring at him.

The line finally connected and an out of breath Jenny Coyle said, “Yeah?”

“Hun, I found it,” he said low, made suddenly paranoid by the attention.

“I’m busy, you wouldn’t believe what—”

“The goddamned silver weaver. I found it!” Ray whisper-yelled.

“Say word?”

—

Here is where I’ll jump in to save you time, I mean reading stories is tough, and who has the attention span for roundabout history lessons? Anyway, for three years Ray and Jenny Coyle burned through two moderate familial fortunes in search of the silver weaver orchid described in three eighteenth century explorers’ diaries and another diary from the nineteenth century. (Note: some orchids are worth a fortune—the rarity, the scent, the beauty. Many orchids have evolved in a physical sense to draw pollen from specific insects, to detract potential predators, and, in some cases, to attract prey.)

Ray and Jenny were amateurs when they began the hunt, they had no way of knowing they’d hired guides who’d taken them in wide circles and laughed in Bahasa Malaysian amongst themselves while they patted the pockets of their humble trousers. By the end, they figured it out and understood a good deal about the Borneo jungles as well as how to read maps and compasses.

Since then, they’d returned to Canada and moved into a rundown condo only three blocks from Mimi’s Quarter Moon Café, six blocks from the Staples business supply store where Jenny worked afternoons, and eight blocks from the Home Depot where Ray worked overnights. Their current financial status wouldn’t take them to Borneo, but Ray had been forming a plan since the first boxed patio furniture set that he’d grunted onto a stack of other boxed patio sets.

—

Jenny was in the middle of a battle when Ray called. Sweat had congealed on her skin in the time it took her to answer the phone, but with the call through, she could resume her duty.

“All right, you nasty bastards, how many are left?”

She pressed the switch on the green Panasonic vacuum cleaner and held out the nozzle attachment. Before moving into the rental condo, she’d never heard of a hobo spider. In the jungle, big spiders were the norm, but in a condo…?

“Okay, come on out now.”

She’d sucked up three already and knew there to be, at minimum, five of the damned things. Abdomens bigger than golf balls. Legs long and spindly. They lumbered instead of ran. The buggers.

She yanked back the cotton laundry basket and two spiders broke into motion—one left and the other right. Like a gunslinger, she swatted the nozzle one way and then the other, sucking up the bastardly creatures.

“You’ll just stay in there, too. That bag, that’s Thunderdome for hobo spiders, but nobody leaves.”

She had finished checking the bedroom and the living room and was about to move onto the kitchen and then storage before finishing in the bathroom when Ray broke through the door waving a stiff, yellow National Geographic.

“Look at this.” Ray held it open. A photo spread over a page and a third, showing an orangutan making a silly face.

“An ape, so wh—holy shit!” Jenny said, seeing the giant, never before photographed, silver weaver orchid about thirty feet into the background of the shot. “So, so, so, so how do we…?”

Ray sat down on their thrift store sofa and withdrew his phone. “I know you thought I was joking, but I made connections when the idea first came up.”

“Finding the orchid?” Jenny fell into the seat next to him, slumping deep into threadbare cushions riding over stretched springs.

“No. Well, yeah, looking again. But the idea. I was moving a teal on wicker Martha Stewart Home Collection, seven-piece, patio set when I wanted to burn down the whole damned store. But then I got to thinking about how nobody pays attention to shit and the overnight manager is Jack…”

—

To interject for clarity, Jack Thompson’s mother is the store manager of this particular Home Depot. Nepotism got Jack his job, and he’d been written up three times for watching porn on company computers before his mother bought him a laptop. Jack hates working and loves getting stoned to the point it hinders his ability to mind his duties. Also, porn.

—

“…so it’ll be no trouble for me to take a grocery list and cart it outside in the middle of the night. I barely have to think about it, hell, I could even load a truck and get paid for the shift. Nobody would know until morning and we’ll already be in Borneo. Since we know where the flower is, all we have to do is cultivate, call around quietly, and be back where we started; plus a comma and a few more zeroes.”

Jenny pounced, latching onto Ray’s neck. Ray shuddered and leaned away. He blew at the spider crawling over Jenny’s back.

“Off! Off!”

“What?” Jenny said and then saw the sonofabitching thing from the corner of her eye and jerked her shoulder, sending the spider sprawling to the floor in an awkward barrel roll. She popped up and raced to the hall closet—which was closer than the kitchen, where she’d left the vacuum—and grabbed the handheld Dirt Devil. The spider did a fare job of running as if caught on a deadly treadmill, but eventually succumbed to the pressure and found itself imprisoned in a tinted plastic cell.

—

The police were everywhere and Ray began shouting for Jenny to wait. Ray was ten feet from the car and twenty feet from the officers on foot chasing him when she pinned the gas pedal to the mat and peeled out of the Home Depot parking lot. She shook her head the full eight seconds it took to get to the airport lounge where her flight to Borneo was already boarding. She ran along the conveyor floor to reach the Air Canada desk only to find the cops waiting. One held her Dirt Devil and waved it at her. He said, “This is cruelty! This is cruelty to animals and you’ll pay, pay in kind—!”

The car door opened and Ray fell in. They shared a 1999 Honda Accord with 399,201 KMs on the odometer. It cost them $500 and needed a new wheel bearing, meaning it clunked like crazy whenever either of them drove above twenty-five.

Jenny swallowed the remnants of her dream and said, “How’d it go?”

Ray’s smile told it all, but he proceeded to reiterate. “A quarter-million bucks worth of stock gone like poof.” He blew into his fingers for dramatics.

“And we only got twenty-grand?”

“It’s not like they’ll get a quarter-million, who cares? We have the money, we have the GPS coordinates, we have a fortune just waiting for us. Now get us out of here before Jack has a moment of clarity.”

Jenny started the engine. MC Eiht spun in the CD deck and they rolled the thirty-nine minutes it took to get to the airport—wheel bearing whooping and thumping alongside DJ Premier’s beats.

—

I know, but-wait-a-minute, right?

The National Geographic listed the photographer and author of the article. Ray and Jenny looked up the name, found the woman on Twitter, messaged her, and she gave the GPS coordinates after Jenny used a semi-clever, but wholly functional ruse: “Hey, did you shoot this shot at…?” They then called VISA and arranged a credit limit increase of five thousand dollars, they used twelve hundred of that to buy one-way tickets to Borneo. The rest they took out in a series of cash advances, purchasing American traveller’s checks of small remunerations.

—

Tired, but unable to sleep, Ray and Jenny travelled back the way they’d come after seeing a Montiac adventure and sports store on the cab ride between the Sandakan Airport and the Pavilion Hotel where they booked a room for the whopping sum of thirty American dollars. Fatigue drained the fun from the shopping and by the time they got back to their room, they could hardly move.

“Have you thought about how screwed we are if we don’t find it?” Jenny said.

Ray picked at noodles from a polystyrene tray with chopsticks, his eyes on the little iPad screen where he watched the local news from back home. They hadn’t yet mentioned the Home Depot robbery. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“We live here, or wherever. Can’t go back.”

“Just like that, huh?”

Ray nodded. “Doesn’t matter, we’ll find it and we’ll be millionaires.”

“Just like that, huh?” Jenny said, again, head on the pillow, eyes glaring blankly at a wall.

—

Surprising both of them, they awoke at four in the morning—local time—feeling equal parts fresh and tired of the trail where the conversation was leading them the evening prior. On the iPad, the reporter spoke of a grand heist at the local Home Depot where the manager stated more than half a million dollars’ worth of inventory had been lifted.

“Typical,” Ray said and rolled from bed. They’d each take a last shower for a minimum of four days before heading out.

—

I suppose, this being a pulpy horror story, I should talk about the nudity, a raunchy shower scene perhaps. I guess, uh, she soaped under her boobs and in her vagina, and he soaped his penis and beneath his scrotum. Both soaped everywhere else, including butt stuff.

—

The ride to Sabah took close to six hours in a car driven by a man who never quit smoking and listened to talk radio in a language his passengers did not understand. It wasn’t so bad, it gave them time to think until they pulled over and got into another vehicle.

“How do we move it?” Jenny said.

She was looking out the window of the 4X4 truck they’d climbed into for the next leg of the journey, the part that took them on mountain roads and would let them out in the middle of the rainforest.

“We hire locals.”

“Remember the last locals we hired?”

Ray pouted his lips. “We’re wiser now.”

“Sure, but how do we know we’re getting trustworthy help from the start?”

“We were obvious rubes before—”

“Rubes?”

Ray nodded. “Yeah, rubes. We had a target on us before, rich white people looking to blow their wad. Now we don’t have a real wad because if this goes to shit, we need to live off the little bit of cash from the Home Depot thing.”

“Okay. So, we won’t hire bad help because we can’t afford to hire bad help. Got it.”

Ray rubbed his eyes. He was sweaty and annoyed. A bug had bitten him in the ear and it was swollen and tender, almost impossible to keep a finger from prodding. “I hope it’s more complicated than that, otherwise I’m just fooling myself, and the Home Depot thing was pointless.”

Jenny reached over and rubbed Ray’s shoulder. “Let’s call it a jack move. The Home Depot jack move. It sounds cooler.”

Ray laughed a little. “That gangsta shit to keep ya hangin’.”

“How many hoes in ninety-four will I be bangin’?”

Ray laughed a little more and Jenny laughed a lot. The driver grinned at them in the rearview mirror.

—

Let out of the vehicle, Jenny and Ray both held programmed GPS units: one Magellan and one Garmin. Just in case. Jenny carried the food, medicine, the shovels, and additives. Ray carried the tent, the bed rolls, the machete, and the three cans of Mosiguard insect repellant. The plan was to make the trek in, locate the silver weaver orchid, come out for help, extract the plant, sell it, live the high life in someplace that didn’t have extradition treaties with anywhere too friendly with Canada.

They had three hours until sundown but lacked the energy after a day burnt riding roadways. They settled in the first open knoll that appeared mostly unoccupied by local Animalia—aside from birds, the birds were everywhere.

They spent the night in the tent where they rested their bodies, but again found good sleep to be unattainable. The humidity had them swimming in their bed rolls and the apes in the trees sounded only inches away.

“I forgot about this part,” Jenny said.

“Me too,” Ray said.

Jenny sighed after a few minutes of jungle soundtrack, she then said, “We really are asking for it, huh? Coming back, I mean.”

“No. This time we’re smarter and…I don’t know, I hope not.”

—

At first light, Jenny slipped on her rubber boots. She squatted in front of a small monkey-like creature with bug eyes. She said, “Creep,” as she pulled up her trousers. The temperature was already hot and the air was muggy, making everything more difficult beneath a sheen of sticky sweat. Her feet boiled as her white rubber boots squelched in the soft rainforest mud.

“Hungry?” Ray asked, holding out a calorie enriched breakfast bar in a biodegradable wrapper.

—

The rhythm of the jungle jogged their memories quickly and without mention, both moved in avoidance of the potentially dangerous surroundings. The snakes and mosquitoes were the biggest worry—venom and malaria.

“Further than we thought, huh?” Jenny asked. Her breaths came in and out on harsh rasps. “Looks like we’re only about halfway.”

“A little better.” There was a game trail—belonging to what? They didn’t really want to know—but it involved much slashing and Ray’s arms had gone to jelly. “You want to take the lead a little while, or break for an hour?”

“Break.”

They sat and the world around them seemed to creep from shadows. Eyes tracked their movements, but as far as either could tell, it was nothing serious. In some places, animals didn’t fully understand that capitalism meant more than life to this sort of interloper and approached with trepid ignorance.

The humans ate two bars each and drank collected rainwater ran through purifiers. At least they’d never go thirsty in the jungle.

“What you want to buy first?” Ray asked, legs stretched out before him, a stream of direct sunlight finding its way through the canopied ceiling to shine against the toes of his white rubber boots.

“A proper house…and a maid to vacuum.” Jenny smiled at the thought. “What about you?”

“Thinking of getting a face tattoo and a grill.”

Jenny laughed and Ray smiled.

They got up after another half-hour and moved their sluggish feet through the sloppy jungle for eighty-minutes before Ray waved his arms and said, “I give. I give.” The pack dropped from his back and he moaned in relief.

“Says we’re close.” Jenny held the Garmin GPS unit before her, as if willing to push just a little bit further.

“Yeah, but this is a good spot and I don’t want to be out stumbling in the dark. So, tomorrow, okay?”

Jenny sighed. “Okay.”

—

Now is the opportune time to turn away if you’re squeamish about things. What things? you might ask, but if you’re that type, you’ll read on. And really, if you’ve been following along, I’ve sprinkled plenty of crumbs of foreshadow. There shouldn’t be any real surprises coming, not if you’ve paid attention at all.

—

Ray exited the tent in front of Jenny and took ten steps before unzipping to piss on the frond of a low-lying plant. As he loosed his bladder, his eyes cleared and he drank in the scene.

It was the picture, minus the orangutan…and minus the orchid.

“Jenny!”

“Yeah?” Jenny was on the far side of the tent squatting, using her boot tops as a ledge seat. “What is it?”

“This is the spot,” Ray said and looked around, still holding his penis. He shook off a dribble. “This is it!”

In seconds, Jenny was up and rushing to his side. The morning sun remained a dull promise and only the birds seemed up and active. None of the apes from the National Geographic article were present.

“Where? Where?” Jenny ran in circles around where Ray had begun walking. She seemed crazy with anticipation or perhaps fear of total ruination.

“Slow down, should be right there, in the clearing.”

“I don’t see it! Where is it?” Jenny was livid.

“I don’t know!” Ray began jogging.

—

According to legend—not a real legend, something I made up for the story—the silver weaver orchid stands about eight feet high, has a long, stiff stem that reflects like polished steel, and a red bulb head like a tulip. The topic of why this particular orchid has taken this shape has never really been explored beyond supposition.

—

The clearing was a drier space featuring a separation of the overhead flora, which let the light shine down directly upon them. The floor was mossy and the mud beneath was firm as a kid’s Play-Doh left on a counter. To the right were trees, many stretching more than one hundred feet. Straight ahead were more trees, same size. To their left were more trees yet…and a dirty tunnel dug into the mud with a ceiling of filthy branches slung over top like an arboretum.

Ray started toward it and then stumbled a bit, stepping into an indent. The indent was a hole with a gully trailing into the tunnel. “What’s that, do you think?” He stepped closer.

Jenny lifted the tiny, but powerful, flashlight that had been clipped to a belt loop on her pants. She shined the light in and the light banked back, reflecting off something tall, straight, and metallic looking.

“I think…I think…” She couldn’t finish and lifted the beam to touch against a red bulb. “God. I think…”

Ray’s heart went into hummingbird mode and he looked around like he’d just spotted a fat wallet on the floor at the airport. Nobody was watching them, but now that he knew the shape, he saw a half-dozen tunnels around the periphery of the clearing.

“It moves. It moves away from threats,” Ray whispered, smile wide enough to impress a rodeo clown.

“How is that possible?” Jenny whispered back, as if they were going to sneak up on the orchid, as if they hadn’t just been shouting their heads off.

“Root structure. Evolution. Probably both.” Ray started closer, wiping his sweaty palms on his pant legs. “Put that light right in there.”

Jenny reached over Ray’s shoulder where he stopped at the mouth of the tunnel to shine the light in. That red bulb up top was tantalizing. Lulling.

“We’re gonna be rich,” she whispered.

“There’s more of these tunnels,” Ray whispered back, his eyes pinned to that red bulb. “We’re gonna be Lil’ Wayne rich.” He took a step into the tunnel, shrugging down a bit despite the ceiling being more than eight feet at its highest point.

“Whoa,” Jenny said. “It moved.”

Ray put his hands out, palms up, as if the universal sign of I-mean-no-harm was truly universal, even between species. The red bulb swayed some and then, impossibly, the stock of the orchid lifted from the mud floor. The shine banking back faded, and Ray said, “What in the fuck—?” The tip of the stem was about eighteen inches in diameter, and hollow, mostly. It lashed out and enveloped Ray’s head.

Jenny stumbled in reverse before falling to the ground at the mouth of the tunnel.

A great wailing keened and Ray was lifted high into the air as the not-orchid began to emerge. Jenny scrambled to her feet the moment she saw that wall of eyes and those furry legs—fur so coarse it resembled porcupine quills—exit the tunnel. She turned to run, but in every direction were other enormous spiders with silvery proboscises jutting from their fantastic red maws. Behind her, a great big sucking, slurping sound echoed over the quieted jungle.

Jenny made a Hoo-ahh! noise before darting toward her original entry point, giving not a thought to her husband who had become spider food—though that wet gushy noise was beyond ignoring. She made it ten steps before the great lumbering spiders converged.

Two of the not-orchid proboscises lashed out, one to her left and one to her right, like gunslingers, and sucked up her arms. They began pulling and Jenny wailed and wailed, kept wailing even as her arms dislocated and then her ribcage split open, she kept wailing even as her flesh tore up the middle between her breasts and her organs spilled out, she kept wailing even as she was only a head and a slippery red spinal column falling to the jungle floor.

—

The trip wasn’t a total loss, and Ray and Jenny came to do something good for the land they’d attempted to rob. The very afternoon of their shared demise, four exploring orangutans converged on the tent the deceased pair had left behind. Together, the apes carted the Coyles’ packs several miles through the jungle and home to the Sepilok Orangutan Rehabilitation Center.

As was customary, a manager investigated the find, and considered a dilemma only momentarily before he knew what he’d do with the contents of the packs.

 The money from the Home Depot robbery pitched into the fund and the names from the passports—Ray and Jenny Coyle—went onto a plaque, thanking them for their contribution, and I went on to read more pre-code and bronze age horror comics, which is how I came to be thinking about jungle adventures and giant spiders in the first place.

XX