Son of a Nightmare

If you're reading this, my name's Lyell and, though I'm almost ashamed to admit it, I'm a unicorn. People nowadays hear that and, immediately, there are certain ideas that come to mind. To clarify things, I don't sparkle, I don't shit rainbows, and I am as masculine as a pile of highly combustible bacon playing poker while driving a tank.

I'm not really sure where humanity got the idea that we unicorns are sweet little things that will fly you off to Candy fuckin' Mountain just to enjoy your company. Charlie was the closest thing I've seen to the real deal but even he was a complete pushover, not to mention a whiny prick with close to no common sense.

An average day for me is at least seven times more epic than any shitty internet meme would lead you to believe. I wake up in my cave which, in accordance to unicornian tradition, was carved by yours truly. Four hours a day for a year of scratching my horn -five times stronger than diamond- against a limestone cliff until there was enough space for myself, my potential mate, and whatever prey serves as dinner that night.

I guess that's another big thing; people never expect unicorns to be carnivorous, but there ya go. I hunt the woods around my humble abode like a mothafawckin falcon, skewering small squirrels and rabbits as I gallop over the forest floor before returning to my lair with my game-kabob.

It's said that we unicorns look the way we do as a result of the first horned horse discovering the glories of fresh meat. They say the red blood stained his horn like a ruby and ran down his sides, striping his pelt with streaks like the flames of hell. The red is the same on all unicorns though our manes and pelts can vary in color. I happen to have a mane as black as a hipsters coffee and my red stripes glow against a steely gray coat, call me a mustang, baby.

My ma told me we were descended from the original Night Mare. Ya ask me, it’s a load of horse shit but my ma says our ancestor was the first unicorn to actually kill a human. Not sure if I believe that but damn, you should see the fools unlucky enough to catch a rare glimpse of me. They run like the devil were riding me (as if I'd let that tool place his rank, sulfurous ass anywhere near me) until they find themselves pinned to a tree, looking with dismay at their blood coating my horn. I pride myself on my accuracy and can spear a running man's heart 8 times out of 10.

There is some truth in the rumors however. When met with a beautiful maiden, most of us will at least consider giving her a free ride. What can I say? We unicorns are suckers for pretty faces and we're pretty open-minded creatures. You ain't experienced life until you've felt the warmth radiating from between the fair legs of some dame as she straddles you, knees clinging to your sides as she bounces along to the beat of your hooves on the dirt. And I do mean bounce because you can be damn sure I ain't gonna miss that opportunity.

So, as you can see, I'm no pony boy. A studly, natural born killer with a fuckin' dagger growing out of his skull, that's me. I make an orcish street gang look like a daycare class so you better believe I will fuck you up if you even suggest I have anything to do with glitter, or sunshine, or god forbid, those punk-ass Fey. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a lovely mare waiting on me and let me tell ya, that horse is even more horny than myself and I'm a full 19 inches (my horn is 12). Peace out meat-bags and spread the word; we unicorns ain't no Barbie sidekicks.