The Unicorn And Its Horn

“Excuse me, sir. Have you seen my horn? I know that sneaky rat-bastard’s around here somewhere.”

Dave, still staring forward after opening his door, craned his neck up at the stallion standing before him. A stallion that had just talked.

“Sir? I know you have questions, but this is an emergency.”

Dave looked left and right around the corners of his porch, studying them very carefully.

“What are you doing?” it asked.

“I’m just checking for whoever’s talking, and for them to take their fucking horse off my porch.”

“I can assure you, sir, that I am indeed a unicorn and my horn is missing,” it said, its lips enunciating with a perfect posh British accent.

“Okay ‘talking animal,’” he said, angrily looking the stallion in the eyes and making air-quotes, “Are you a horse?”

“No, I’m a unicorn missing a horn.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Well, for one: I can talk. And I’m asking you about a horn. I figured that would throw you a bit.”

Dave scanned its forehead a moment, a pristine snout staring back at him.

“And why is there no hole or slot for a horn to go?” he asked.

“It was a very clean detachment.”

Dave rubbed an eye, painfully aware of how early in the morning this was.

“Look, I’ve seen some shit in my time. I worked at the Ministry of Fantasy Affairs for a bit. But I’ve never seen a unicorn.”

“You have now, sir.”

“What I see is a trumped-up white horse bothering me first thing in the morning. I haven’t seen your horn. Goodbye.”

And with that, he slammed the door, sighing. He calmed himself with the visions of being back in a comfortable bed, and he turned around, the click of a gun unmistakable. The man stared at a horn, perched on his 70s deco glass table in the hallway, with a gun to its side, barrel pointed square at his eyes.

“There we go,” it said, beaming the words directly into his brain, “Don’t make any noise. We don’t need any talking horses or horn-less unicorns to know we’re here.”

Dave shot his hands into the air, suddenly very awake.