The Unicorn Hunters Come Out At Night
I met up with the Bigfoot at 5:00 a.m.
The sun had yet to rise. The forest was blanketed in fog, and cold as shit.
He walked up to me, and I shook his hairy hand.
“You’re the journalist right?” He asked, his voice deep and gruff. His English was excellent.
I nodded. “Steve Welch, Toronto Globe.”
“Call me Tom.”
I know that’s not his real name, but he probably didn’t want to deal with some ignorant human, struggling to pronounce his name.
“You want to see a unicorn?” He asked.
I nodded. “You already found one?”
“The unicorn hunters come out at night and like to be done before morning to avoid the rangers.”
I nodded.
Tom the Bigfoot led the way, over the frosty ground, under a canopy of leafless branches, and a cloudy, starless sky. We’d walked for an hour when Tom stopped.
“There it is.” He said.
The unicorn lay on its side in a ditch, its white body lined with claw marks. The mane was stained red. The horn had been sawn off the head, leaving only a stump.
Tom and I walked over to it. It was still alive, eyes twitching, breathing shallow.
