I’m no entomologist, but even if I were, this guy would freak me out. The name itself is the stuff of science fiction, as this book cover suggests. The devil’s coach-horse is a beetle one hopes does not really exist.
The troubling thing is that this thing really does exist; I collected this specimen just outside my office door.
I thought at first this was a large ant. After closer inspection, I realized for that to be true, it would have to be an ant on The Mother of All Steroids. It measured fully one inch long, with jaws that could disassemble a Tonka Toy model dump truck with a single chomp.
I gingerly tried to gather the specimen in an empty plastic jar that used to contain Folgers coffee crystals. Suddenly, my mini-monster raised its tail straight into the air, as if to strike like a scorpion. At its end gleamed two white menacing tips, looking as though they could launch some sort of secret weaponry. Its mouth opened up like a Vise-Grip pliers, ready to sink into its next meal: me.
Dropping the Folgers jar, I clawed for the wall behind me, like a child clinging to its mother’s skirt; this one-inch mystery monster had me cornered. Pulse throbbing, I grabbed the disassembled Folgers lid and jar and did what any red-blooded male would do: I prepared to tromp him, leaving nothing behind but beetle pudding, a set of giant mandibles, and a tail full of venom or puss or poisonous juice that he would have injected into a vein. I imagined my death to be slow and painful, the poison probably first paralyzing my vocal cords as a precautionary measure, so that I could not squeal for help.
Then the unexpected happened. The cold-blooded vermin dropped his tail, turned, and attempted to retreat. It was now or never, life or death. I sprang at him, Folgers lid and jar in hand, and, mercifully, in his confusion, he did not kill me. He was my prisoner.
I kept my captive overnight, wondering just what chemical or radiation exposure had created my monster beetle.
What on earth was this miniature monster all about??
The Google search began. Eventually, I found him out:
“The other popular name for this beetle is ‘cocktail’, because of its habit of raising its tail like a scorpion when it feels threatened. It cannot sting like a scorpion, but it does have another, rather bizarre defense mechanism. At the end of its abdomen are a pair of white glands which can emit a foul smell. It can also squirt a stinking brown fluid from its mouth and anus.
“The ‘devil’s coach-horse’ name came from Irish mythology where this particular beetle was considered a symbol of corruption. It was believed to have the power to kill on sight, and that it would eat sinners. When the beetle raised its tail, it was thought to be casting a curse. The foul smelling fluid emitted added to the effect.”
Mystery solved, but no more comforted, I nervously peered into his big, cold, expressionless bug-eyes. I wondered what that beetle-brain thought about the kind of creature that was staring back at him.
And still, I pondered how he yet planned to end my life.