The Big One

“Warning: the raccoons have noticed your eating habits. The big one will be your death.”

Dianne almost threw the tiny slip of paper away—twice—before studying it more closely.

Normally, she dismissed fortune-cookies on principle, the same way she dismissed her horoscope. They were either vague enough to apply to anyone—An opportunity awaits you—or so aggressively cheerful they felt like threats—Believe in yourself.

But this one was something else entirely.

“What the hell?” she asked.

The restaurant was nearly empty: a few plastic-topped tables, a humming drink fridge stocked with off-brand soda, and the sour-sweet smell of old fryer oil permanently trapped in the curtains. 

Rain ticked against the front windows, blurring the neon OPEN sign into a red smear across the glass.

Dianne crumpled the fortune and waited for the owner to return with her to-go box.

At the table beside the register, the only other customer looked up from his soup. He looked older than time itself, with a liver spot on one cheek and a single long hair curling from it.

Dianne immediately regretted speaking aloud. She had come in for sesame chicken, not conversation. She tried to pretend she had not noticed him, but from the corner of her eye, she could feel him studying her.

Finally, she scowled at him, hoping it would drive the point home.

Instead, he smiled oblivious, revealing a gaping mouth with only three teeth.

“You should watch for that one,” he said.

“The raccoons?” She asked.

“The big one.”

Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled hard enough to rattle the windows, the sound like a train steaming full speed down Main Street.

The man pointed toward the glass and she followed his gnarled finger. Through the rain-streaked window, a raccoon stood on its hind legs, bathed in the red neon glow. Its small paws were steepled beneath its chin. The dark mask around its eyes made it look less cute than calculating — like an evil genius watching a plan finally come together.

Lightning flashed again, revealing the street and an alley across from the restaurant – her short cut home. A green commercial dumpster at the end of the alley rocked in the wind, apparently unsecured. 

The man gave a sound somewhere between a cackle and a choking cough.

Outside, the raccoon began rubbing its paws together, and Dianne could have sworn it was smiling.

She dropped the crumpled fortune onto the linoleum. Whoever had written it was probably an overworked employee trapped in a miserable job, using fortune-cookie slips as their only form of rebellion.

“Aw. Poor guy,” she muttered, unexpectedly sorry for the imaginary worker she had just invented.

The owner, who had been shouting in Cantonese at someone in the kitchen a moment earlier, suddenly went quiet. A crash of pans came from the back, driving Dianne’s nerves closer to the edge.

Click. Click. Click.

The stranger tapped one pointed fingernail against the table, steadily and without looking away from her.

There were too many sensations. She was getting overstimulated, and she knew she was about to snap.

“You should go,” he said.

That settled it. He was a creep, but he was right. Dianne would rather take her chances with a vague fortune and potentially murderous raccoons than spend one more minute in this place. She was probably overreacting anyways. If she could get home she’d be just fine. 

She crossed to the glass door and paused.

Outside, rain poured down hard enough to turn the streetlights into smeared halos. Water raced along the curb, carrying cigarette butts, crushed receipts, and a flattened takeout menu toward the storm drains. Across the alley the dumpster was rocking harder. 

Dianne rolled her eyes.

“Of course.”

The raccoons were still there, their fur plastered flat by the rain. They looked less like sinister woodland creatures now and more like fat otters in ski masks.

She took one final look at the stranger, pulled up her hood, and pushed into the storm. Her apartment was only a few blocks away.

She made it halfway across the street before she felt something tug at her senses. Then turning against her better judgement she saw the racoons following her. 

Her breath caught—maybe from the cold rain, maybe because the fortune suddenly seemed several percentage points more likely to be true.

There were now four racoons forming a loose line beneath a flickering street lamp. Their squat bodies like black lumps against the wet pavement. The one in the middle was the same from the restaurant window.

She had not understood its size from inside, but now she realized it was as large as a pitbull with soaked fun handing in ropes from its back. It’s beady black eyes did not blink.

Dianne considered running. Instead, she cursed her own cowardice and spun to face them.

“Shoo!” she shouted over the thunder and hammering rain.

The raccoons paused. Their heads tilted in near-perfect unison but they did not retreat. 

“I said, shoo!” This time she stomped towards them, lifting her arms as if she might charge. This time the smaller racoons scattered backwards a few feet but the large one remained unmoving. 

Behind her, from the mouth of the alley, came the slow metallic squeal of wheels turning over wet pavement.

Dianne took a slow step backwards towards the alley and the raccoons took one forward.

“Nope,” she said. Then she turned and ran.

Behind her came a burst of chittering, then the slap of many small paws against wet pavement but she did not look back. She cut down the alley, where the buildings leaned close enough to turn the rain into a cold silver curtain.

“Leave me alone!” she screamed.

The alley answered with thunder.

A garbage bag split beneath her shoe. She slipped, caught herself against the brick wall, and turned expecting to see the racoons with fangs bared about to leap onto her. Instead they had all stopped at the alley entrance – even the big one. 

She realized they were not looking at her but past her. Dianne followed their gaze.

At the far end of the alley, the green dumpster was rolling toward her.

At first, it moved almost lazily, its wheels squealing over the flooded pavement. Then it struck a pothole, lurched forward, and gathered speed.

On the side barreling towards her someone had spray-painted a cartoon raccoon face with black eyes, jagged teeth, and little paws raised beside its cheeks.

The painted face bobbed in the flashes of lightning.

Black eyes.

Jagged teeth.

A grin.

Dianne sat in the trash unable to move as it picked up speed.

“The big one,” she whispered.

The last thing she saw was the painted raccoon’s face filling her vision.