Chapter One: Attack of the Killer Unicorn

Attack of the Killer Unicorn

Chapter 1

The killer unicorn stalks the streets of Dallas, stealing ice creams from street vendors and giving guerrilla blowjobs to unsuspecting closet cases so far in denial that they blame their same-sex inspired arousal on drinking too much passion fruit iced tea at lunch. There is a cult that meets in the basement of a tiny coffee shop in Deep Ellum every Thursday night to worship the killer unicorn, burning cheap patchouli incense and leaving offerings of churros and forget-me-nots. We don't talk about them.

I first encountered the killer unicorn at the Market Diner, over off of Harry Hines. Not the hookin' part of Harry Hines, but the part that runs through the medical district. He was eating an egg white omelet with a side of biscuits and gravy, and flirting with the waitress. The killer unicorn flirts with everybody.

She re-filled his coffee and moved on. He started chatting up his neighbor, a meek-looking young man in a t-shirt and jeans who had been reading a newspaper as he ate his Breakfast Special #4. My best friend, Janet, leaned over our table and her syrup-drenched plate of French toast to whisper,

“Wow, that guy’s impressive.”

“Yeah, he kind of epitomizes douche-baggery, but without losing his cool factor. You don’t see that everyday.”

We were there to celebrate being on our periods, rejoicing in being 23 and not pregnant while drowning our bloated discomfort in bacon and starchy breakfast foods.

“Heh. I don’t understand how people can get away with that. I mean, you’d think that after a while everyone would stop falling for it.”

“Well see, that’s the thing. The people who don’t fall for it either aren’t around or don’t get targeted. I’m sure that guy has quite a few tricks up his sleeve. He’s been around the block so many times, he has a sidewalk named after him.”

“Not like the one last night. What was his name? Franz, or something?”

“Yeah, it was something like that. Maybe Fritz. Do people still name their kids Fritz? It sounds like a Jack Russell terrier.”

“No, it was Franz. Ugh, why is it that only the creepy guys will approach me?”

“Aw, he wasn’t creepy. Just…awkwardly obvious. He was nice, though.”

“Yeah, and about 17 years older than me. Who picks up girls at a swing dance?”

“Creepy guys named Franz. But seriously, I totally get it. A dance is a great place to meet potential partners. You have fewer chances for awkward silences and a given excuse to approach someone.”

Janet forked a huge bite of French toast and held it up contemplatively. Syrup dripped slowly onto the table.

“Okay, so I guess a lot of guys do that. But it’s still creepy! I mean, if he were super hot, or closer to my age, I guess I wouldn’t mind so much, but even then...if you’re being that friendly, that fast, without openly propositioning for a one-night stand, it sends out hella bad signals. Way too desperate. ”

She looked down at the sticky mess before her, and stuffed the forkful into her mouth. Still chewing, she mumbled,

“Whaa time iffit?”

I glanced down at my Batman wristwatch. $1.49 at the Dollar General, bitches.

            “Eh, 10:28. Why?”

Janet swallowed and took a large gulp of Diet Coke.

“I gotta run. I’m meeting my sister in 20 minutes to go wedding dress shopping.”

“Cool. See you around, then. Tell Charissa I said hi.”

            Janet’s little sister Charissa was getting married in 3 months, one week, and 5 days. Her fiancée, Quentin, had proposed to her one afternoon 4 months ago at Burger House over milkshakes and fries. He got down and one knee and presented her with an onion ring- classic. Quentin is a pre-law student at SMU. He’s pale, neurotic, and a hopeless romantic with ambitions of a career as a public defender. I don’t envy him in the slightest for that; it’s a very noble desire, but it’s also going to be a lot of thankless, depressing work for very little pay. All of his friends want to go into business or contract law. Like I said, he’s a hopeless romantic. Fortunately, Charissa wants to be an accountant, so she should be able to keep them afloat financially. Emotionally, too.

            Well, it’s more than I can say for myself and my man. I’m trying to make it as a lighting designer, and the guy I’m dating is a painter. Graham works at the Container Store and I’m a barista at the Starbucks on Lemmon Avenue. It's a living.

I stare gloomily into my coffee cup. The food here is great, really tops, but the coffee…not so much. I should have just waited until I go into work later, but sometimes you just need your fix and damn the consequences. Add enough creamer and sugar and it’s fairly tolerable.

My thoughts turn back to Graham, my lover of 3 months. We went out for drinks last night at the San Francisco Rose with Janet and a few other friends, after the opening for my most recent show. It was the first time I’d really been able to spend time with him in two weeks, because between tech week for Arms and the Man and his younger brother staying with him to visit colleges in the area, plus our day jobs, we’d both been super busy. He would stop by and get coffee during my shift and say hi, and we had lunch together once or twice, but there had been no opportunities for “alone time”. If you know what I mean.

Anyway, the long and short of it is that after a stressful opening at a low-budget theater, I was ready for prolonged, wild, impassioned, uninhibited sex. And prolonged, wild, impassioned, uninhibited sex did not happen. Not even a little bit. Call me superstitious, but I’m pretty sure I jinxed it by masturbating before I got out of bed that morning. Well, that and the fact that when I’m on my period, I’m either super horny or repelled by human touch, and which mood will take me when is a wildly unpredictable phenomenon.

And sure, it was fun to be with our friends. And after we went back to his place, we talked and talked and drank some more, and it was wonderful. Romantic, even. But he works the morning shift, and really it had been a long day for both of us. We fell asleep on his sofa, and I awoke to find that I had drooled a little on his shoulder. I’m so attractive sometimes. Then I had to get up and meet Janet, who claimed she couldn’t handle wedding dress shopping on her period without some sustenance and support. Graham had to work at nine. My shift doesn’t start until 11 on Fridays (Pretty sweet, am I right?). Speaking of which…

I check my watch. Shit, I have 10 minutes to get to work. It’s only a 5 minute drive in minimal traffic, but I’m definitely going to be late by the time I pay my check and get out of here. Nodding to the waitress, I toss a few bills on the table and head for the register.

In my car, a white 2003 Honda Accord named Ferdinand (Yeah, I like to name my cars. I bet you have a cat named Mr. Bubbles.), I check my watch again (6 minutes; maybe I can make it) and head out to the gay-borhood.

As I pull out of the parking lot, “Aqualung” thundering out the half-open windows, a royal blue sports car screeches past me, performs an impressive hairpin turn, and careens away squealing.

It had to be him.

The killer unicorn, that is. A perfect amalgamation of idol and noxious shitbag, the stereotypical “cool guy” who haunts everyone’s high school memories. That fucker.

I wish he was my friend.