Unicorn Frappuccino

by Tym Greene

A wizard causes a little transformational pandemonium at a franchise coffee/sandwich shop.

Like distant thunder or the rumble of a stampeding herd, the motorcycle gang pulled in to the truck stop. Minivans and tiny electric cars fled in apparent terror, seeking safer pastures in which to graze. One lone Prius lingered in the parking lot, apparently oblivious to the danger.

A few of the bikers noticed the bumper stickers, with sayings like “my other car is a dragon,” and “my cat is black, not my magic.” They snickered, elbowed one another, and surrounded the tiny mint-green car, a cloud of stationary locusts blocking it in.

The leader, who rode under the moniker of Ironclad Clyde, raised a fist into the still summer air. As one body, his crew shifted their weight to one side, swung their boots, and let their bikes rest on their kick stands. Further hand signals indicated that he was going in first, to check out the truck stop’s amenities.

In the single building, like some kind of malignant growth in the middle of the desert, were the usual facilities for truckers: showers, a small laundry, and a lounge where they could stretch out and smoke while watching spotty satellite TV. The stop also had a large shopping area, with a combination Subway/Starbucks franchise tucked into one corner amid a scattering of high-top tables.

Ironclad Clyde strode in with a creaking of leather chaps and a clump of heavy boots. The place seemed deserted, with no employees manning the register, nor any behind the food counter. He was just about to bang on the scratched laminate surface when he noticed the sole occupant of the shop.

A lean beanpole of a guy, with a long curly goatee and a tracksuit made of purple velvet, was perched on one of the tall chairs, knees tucked up like a stork. He had paused in the act of spearing a freshly-unwrapped straw into his Frappuccino.

“You! ‘Ya work here, squirt?” Clyde used his usual dominance tactic, drawing himself up to his full height (just shy of six feet) and sticking his chest out over his prominent gut, presenting a gorilla-ish wall of solid meat.

“Nope, just on my way to a convention,” the guy replied cheerfully. Clyde noticed that the nerd had something tucked behind one ear, just the way his old girlfriend—a diner waitress—used to do. But instead of a stumpy pencil, this was a knobby stick about as long as a hand. He resisted the urge to reach out and flick it onto the ground.

“Well where are they? My gang needs service, and I wouldn’t want them to get…rowdy.” With a wolffish snarl of a grin he leered at the younger man. “I’d hate for you to get caught up in the middle of something like that…you and your pretty car.”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that, my friend. And as for the staff, they’re under my protection.”

“Your protection?” Clyde laughed, it’d been years since he’d seen this kind of idiotic bravado from one of his targets. “You couldn’t even protect—” he looked around quickly, eyes lighting on a likely victim. “Couldn’t even protect your own drink!” And with that, he snatched the plastic cup from the other man’s hand.

He took a long, loud slurp from the straw, and was caught off guard by just how fruity it was, like drinking a mango-flavored SweeTart. The magenta sprinkles fizzed on his tongue, and the sudden change from sweet to sour and back caught him off guard. “The fuck is this shit?” He lifted it up, as though winding up to pitch the cup in his victim’s face, then paused, slowly bringing the straw back to his lips for another long draw.

“It’s a unicorn Frappuccino,” the purple-clad man commented calmly. “How do you like it?” “It’s the gayest thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.” The venti-sized cup was already half-empty now.

“Up until today, no doubt,” Clyde’s victim remarked quietly, as though to himself; Clyde didn’t notice that the tip of the stick was glowing, nor that the skinny guy’s eyes had gone totally black. “Go ahead and finish it off, buddy, this one’s on me.” Then he stood and made like he was dusting off his tracksuit, using the sweeping motion to readjust his thickening shaft—he always got hard with this sort of thing, but couldn’t afford the slackening of energies that an orgasm would create. Instead, he promised himself that he’d “check in” later, once he was better able to enjoy the results of his handiwork.

Leaping over the counter like a frog, he deftly twirled a timer sitting atop the sub-toasting oven. Five hours should be sufficient, he thought, re-working the spell he’d cast several minutes ago. Then, with a snap of his fingers, he vanished.

Meanwhile, Ironclad Clyde was too busy obediently sucking on the straw to notice the fact that he was now alone. His mouth and throat seemed to pulse and ripple in almost exactly the same way he liked his whores to do when they blew him. He didn’t make the connection, too busy with slurping up every last creamy drop of the magenta-and-teal concoction. He felt a stirring in his jeans, a tension and growing pressure.

As his straw gathered the last gobbets of sprinkle-dusted whipped cream, he straightened up, rolling his shoulders. Well, it had been a long drive, he mused, suddenly painfully aware of how full his bladder was. He chucked the empty cup in the general direction of a trash can, missing by several feet, then made his way through the eerily-abandoned truck stop towards the nearest bathroom.

The men’s room was empty too, with nothing out of the ordinary except a half-unrolled roll of toilet paper sitting on the floor of one of the stalls, and one of the showers along the back that had been left running. Ironclad Clyde clomped up to the urinal trough running along one wall, his black leathers reflected dully by the stainless steel backsplash. He unzipped his jeans, pulled down the waistband of his well-worn briefs, and waited.

Relief refused to come. He glanced down and saw why: his cockhead was still tucked behind the elastic of his underwear, leaving his shaft bent almost double and stifling any flow. His other hand grabbed the meat, not really registering just how hot and smooth it felt as he pulled it free. Even still, nothing happened.

He was starting to sweat now from the discomfort, and wiped a hand across his forehead. He didn’t notice the glitter sparkling in the smears of perspiration that quickly soaked into his skin and sleeve. “Come on, buddy, not now,” he murmured to himself. A few tugs—as though trying to straighten out kinked inner plumbing—coaxed his shaft to swell. The skin was losing its normal latte-colored shade, growing pinker as though working up to a fullblooded red or a choked-off purple; his foreskin had shrunk away to nothing more than a bumpy ridge around the head.

Desperate now and utterly oblivious of his changing cock, he ripped his pants open, letting them fall to the dirty tile floor. Both hands stroked and tugged at his shaft, occasionally reaching down to heft his sac. The bathroom was filling with a tangy mango scent that overpowered its more…biological aroma.

“Nngh, come on buddy,” Clyde muttered, “and I promise I’ll get that prostate exam when I get home. Don’t hold out on me neiiigh—now,” he corrected himself as though he’d merely coughed mid-sentence; “don’t hold out on me now.” The shaft between his hands appeared to be responding to his encouragement, shifting and lengthening, dripping a pearly fluid as thick as honey. The fruity smell was now overpowering.

He shook the offending member, trying anything at this point just to get a little relief.

Spatters of the sweet and sticky precum were flung all over, including across Clyde’s face.

“Oh come on! Fuck, I gotta piss like a racehorse,” he grumbled, stepping out of his pants and underwear. In his desperation, he yanked a foot or two off the roll of toilet paper, not caring that it had been sitting on the floor, just needing something to wipe his face clean.

Of course, all the paper did was smear the syrupy goop over his face, a big gob now resting squarely between his nostrils. He felt them flare as he inhaled deeply. “Oh, daddy…” he moaned, shuddering. Beneath his fingers, his cock grew a medial ring and a velvety sheath to hold it on the rare occasions when he wasn’t aroused. A splitting headache briefly broke his ecstasy and reminded him of just how full his bladder had become.

He staggered back to the urinal wall, leaning against the cool metal, feet spread wide to give his junk as much space as possible. A random breeze from the bathroom’s fan tickled his bare ass, making him spread his legs wider and stick his rump out. He didn’t want to think of how slutty it made him look, not as long as it alleviated some of the pressures that were wracking his body. His skin tingled as the sweat started to eat holes in his shirt and socks.

Meanwhile, the biker gang outside was starting to get restless. The bare, unclouded sky offered no protection, and black leather glinted in the hot summer sun. A stocky man with a long handlebar mustache—as though to compensate for the bald head under his helmet—dismounted and stood to his full five-foot-three. “Ok, guys, I’m gonna go check on Ironclad. He probably just found himself a piece of ass and forgot all about us,” he joked goodnaturedly to keep his crew’s spirits up. As the gang’s second banana, it usually fell to him to be a buffer between Clyde’s selfishness and the good of the troop; a role he excelled at.

Just like everyone else in the gang, his black leather vest was his uniform. On the front was his name patch—showing simply the word “Mudflap”—while on the back was the name Rattlers and an enlarged and embroidered bit of clip art showing the snake coiled and ready to strike. He hung his helmet from his handlebars, pulling a black handkerchief from his right pocket to wipe his sweating brow.

He too found the store portion of the truck stop to be deserted; the only signs of life were the empty cup that had splattered on the ground and the pervading tang of tropical fruit.

Mudflap shrugged, thinking that it wouldn’t be the first time Clyde had found a piece of ass to tap, willing or less-so. He had a way of overpowering women that many of the gang secretly envied. A sudden pressure reminded Mudflap of just how long it had been since their last rest stop. “Gotta pee, gotta pee,” he mumbled, scanning the ceiling for the sign pointing to the bathrooms.

As he drew near, he could hear grunting in the deep bass voice he usually heard shouting over road noise; now there seemed to be a whining, begging tone to it. “Hey Clyde, ‘s that you?” He said as he pushed the door open.

His timing was impeccable: the door swung aside to reveal Ironclad Clyde, naked apart from his boots and vest, both hands clasped around an inhuman tool, as long as his arm and as pink as his skin was becoming. The shaft swung around as Clyde turned, now pointing straight at the intruder. “Mu—oh fuck…oh Mudflap! Nngh I—I love you buddy!”

The shorter man was taken completely off guard. He’d never heard his leader and best friend say anything like that, not without at least a sarcastic tone and a punch to the shoulder. But now, he could see the sincerity in Clyde’s face, as well as the desperation and the way his nostrils seemed to be pushing forward, questing after his own scent. “W-wh—”

The blast of cum caught him straight in the face, mostly going in his open mouth. His mind was overpowered with the taste of mangoes and horse and male. The semen seemed to sparkle as it flowed down his throat. He licked his lips, finding his tongue suddenly longer, thicker, his jaw opening wider than it ever had. He needed more.

Mudflap lunged at Ironclad, but tripped over the remains of the the discarded pants. He fell to his knees in a puddle of precum that started to eat through his clothes too; he didn’t even notice. He was now eye-to-eye with Clyde’s ass, and his mind changed: he didn’t want to suck his best friend off, he now realized. His long equine tongue hung out like a panting dog’s as he grabbed a butt cheek in each hand, spreading them wide to reveal the gangleader’s pink protruding hole, which clenched and twitched in the cool air of the bathroom. He took a tentative taste, his tongue barely grazing the taut skin.

Neither man had ever experienced rimming, but now they both craved more. Clyde stuck his hips out, pressing his ass into Mudflap’s head, even as the smaller man quested forward, his handlebar mustache tickling the sensitive flesh. “Oh god Mudf—” a loud whinny interrupted Clyde’s moan as orgasm once again overwhelmed him. The blast from the shaft kicked his hips back, while his hole relaxed. Mudflap’s head was sucked into his hole.

The hot breath and pressure so deep inside him sparked off another strong blast of ecstasy. Mudflap’s hands were up on the hole now, gripping the muscular ring as through it were the neck hole of a stuck sweater. Another orgasm blasted Clyde back further, and it took him a moment to gather his bearings.

In front of him the stainless steel trough had been dented by his firehose blast, filled to overflowing by his body’s productivity. He was leaning back as though resting on a tipped barstool…a barstool he could feel as part of him, a barstool with two legs and a heavy horsecock and a quivering, hungry hole. Beneath his hands he felt his belly—just as thick and muscular as ever, but coated with a downy fur—and below that some odd bumps, two long hairy tendrils, and an opening that seemed to be moving on its own.

He turned awkwardly and caught a view of himself in the bank of scratched mirrors. His body had mutated, becoming an inhuman mass with the bulk of two people. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he realized first that he couldn’t feel his toes. Looking down he could see that his thick black boots were now a part of him, the heels having lifted up, like something a kinky horse would wear.

What was growing out of his former groin caught his full attention, however. He could see now—both by looking down and by glancing across at the mirrors—what he’d felt before: he had a face below his stomach. A familiar face, the face he’d grown to rely on in the years they’d known one another: Mudflap’s face.

It had been distorted by the merger, pushed forward into a short muzzle similar to his own blocky snout, and was covered with the same silky-soft pearly fur. His drooping handlebar mustache was still there, even though it was cream-colored instead of russet. Behind him what was left of Mudflap’s body shifted restlessly, the long ropy tail telegraphing Clyde’s confusion.

He looked back to the mirror once more, taking stock. He now had four matching boothooves, the thick legs he’d seen on the Budweiser horses, an ass bigger than his ex-wife’s, and a face that would have looked good mounted on a trophy wall…two faces, he reminded himself, looking down at his trusty second banana. He stroked Mudflap’s chin. “Hey buddy, you ok down there?” He tried to keep his voice from shaking, now that he was down from his orgasmic high and the haze of transformation had faded.

The horsehead growing from between his front legs swiveled its eyes up at him, tried to nod, then opened its mouth as though about to speak. But no words came out, only a long pink horsecock, sprouting from where Mudflap’s tongue had been. It waggled limply, not yet hard, dripping an occasional drop of pearlescent fluid.

Clyde reached down with both hands, wrapping his fingers around the blunt muzzle, almost in tears with sudden compassion for his mute and mutated friend. Then he heard something in the back of his head. It wasn’t a voice, but it definitely felt like Mudflap; it felt like Mudflap was content, happy even, with his new role. Clyde smiled at him, stroking the horse face and toying with the mustache. “I love you too, buddy,” he muttered with a warmth he’d never felt before.

Then he doubled over in pain, four legs spread, rubber hooves easily keeping their purchase on the slippery bathroom tiles. His hind cock thrummed and pulsed, growing warm. The cock pushing apart Mudflap’s lips swelled as well, and if either man had been able to see, they would have noticed the pink shafts glowing with teal blotches…the exact same colors as had been in the purloined Frappuccino.

A splitting headache shook him, making his hole quiver and his shafts bounce. Ironclad Clyde bellowed an inhuman cry—halfway between an elk’s call and a donkey’s bray—and tore at his scalp. Like an awl piercing leather, a foot-long horn spiraled its way out, leaving a ragged hole that was healed instantly, making it look as though Clyde had always been a unicorn. His body felt energized, his blood tingling and itching, one fore-hoof pawing at the floor.

Outside, the other bikers were growing restless. Many had to piss, most were hungry, and all of them were hot, sweating in their black leathers under the merciless sun. Grumbling to one another, they all felt the sudden tingle of static in the air, but if they thought of it they thought it was just the wind. None of them noticed as their vests began to change. The embroidered rattlesnake shifted, angry hiss becoming friendly smile, fangs shortening into blocky herbivorous buck teeth, limbs growing from the coiled body, a horn sprouting from the forehead. In a matter of minutes, the fearsome Rattlers were now re-branded as the Monocerans.

Further changes spread through the gang, beginning with their mentality: no longer were they the scourge of the western highways, they now prided themselves on being an example to other motorcycle clubs, a group of cycle-riding good Samaritans who obeyed all traffic laws and spent their weekends planting trees. They also had an undying loyalty to their leader, Ironclad…Ironshod Clyde. One or two thought they remembered things differently, but as they hugged one another and cheerfully discussed their plans for a next Saturday (planting desert-tolerant flowering shrubs on a stretch of Nevada’s I-80) they forgot all about it.

But as the change progressed, it also became more random. Unicorn magic is an unpredictable thing, and the fact that some of the bikers were now sprouting horns of their own was complicating matters. By the time Ironshod Clyde had clopped out of the truck stop, he was presented with a very different gang, and yet a gang that he instantly recognized as his. My herd.

Some of the bikers were now tall-standing, long-necked graceful creatures, half-unicorn, half-man; others were milling around on all fours, long tails occasionally lifting to reveal their pink puckers and smooth hefty sacs. A few had gotten even closer to their machines, and were now centaurs too, of a sort: from the waist up they were horsey men, from the waist-down they were motorcycles; oil flowed in their veins and they could taste gasoline on their tongues. One of the bikers, Big Bubba, had ballooned out until he was no longer recognizable as having ever been human. He was now a pearly-white horse trailer, with plenty of room for all the feral bikers (it’s hard to steer a Harley with hooves), and a horn of his own, sticking up from the front of his roof.

The gang cheered as Clyde strode into view, with a few whinnies and engine revs thrown in for good measure. His motorcycle had changed too (after absorbing one of the newer gang members), becoming a broad four-wheeler big enough to handle his bulk and strong enough to pull the Bubba trailer. “Mount up, boys,” Clyde ordered, a gentle avuncular tone warming his previously-gruff voice. “And I don’t mean mount each other,” he chuckled, “at least, not yet. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us before we can do that.” Almost four hours after they’d arrived, they left.

For the next hour and three minutes, the truck stop was abandoned. A desert breeze pushed against the doors, stirred dust in the parking lot, shifted the leaves of a few potted plants.

Then other things started to shift.

Pebbles and chunks of gravel in the parking lot bounced and juddered as though shaken by an impending earthquake; a bar of soap, left beneath the shower’s spray, started to bubble; a wind-up robot in the gift shop area whirred and rattled.

Then the timer dinged, and—just like in the climax of Beauty and the Beast, but with fewer sparkles—people started to emerge from the “object camouflage” the wizard had sent them into when he sensed the bikers impending arrival. Unlike in the movie, however, they returned to humanity frozen in the position they’d been in when he’d cast his protective spell over the truck stop. It would be a few more minutes before they regained consciousness; and not one of them would notice the missing five hours.

They also wouldn’t notice the fact that not one of them was returning to reality unchanged: the wizard had forgotten about the effect of unicorn magic on his own spell. He zapped himself back to watch, and realized his mistake as soon as he noticed the parking lot. The cars and trucks of staff and patrons alike had been shrunk down to pebbles and gravel, but since they had been shifted by the bikers, they came back in different spots. The wizard knew from experience that this would cause some families to drive away in different cars, to different locations and different lives.

He strolled through the building, watching as people appeared from their hiding places, still momentarily frozen, as though he’d simply paused reality within the truck stop. This was his favorite part, walking through a living waxworks or a three-dimensional portrait gallery. The first human to reemerge was the manager of the Subway/Starbucks franchise.

The wizard saw the gears and cogs that now showed in the joints between the manager’s plastic body panels. Where his name tag had been was now a clockface with the same tickdown numbers he’d seen at several old train stations and airports. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d become a stickler for schedules and logins, now that he had time running through his veins.

In the men’s room, the bar of soap on the floor had once more become showering trucker. From the look of his lean body his time under the spray had washed away some of his original bulk. He exuded a fresh clean smell that the wizard suspected would last quite a while. The toilet paper roll resumed its original form as a man sitting on the toilet: thanks to Clyde’s use of several squares, he ended up dumber, but happier too—if his dopey grin was anything to judge by.

On the patio space outside, three potted plants and a bee buzzing around them had once more regained their human aspect, but they to were affected by the magical cross-contamination. The bee was once more a wasp-waisted woman, the plants her husband and twin sons. But as he peeked out the window at where they sat frozen in the act enjoying their lunch, the wizard could see the differences: the husband now sported a massive belly, the result of him being pollinated by his bee-wife while they’d been camouflaged, and the sons were nearly as bulky as their dad. Their video game t-shirts and now pudgy forms indicated the cause: being rooted as plants made the three of them more sedentary, one big happy gamer family, with the mom likely flitting from man to man while her hubby spends time with the boys.

Looking back in at the store, the wizard noticed a beefy trucker standing in toy aisle with a big key sticking out of his shoulders. He’d been changed into a windup toy, identical to the one he’d just been about to select for his son’s birthday present. From the trucker’s eager expression and the “Property of Billy Harlan” ownership badge, he suspected that the trucker was now his own gift.

The last person to return was an employee, who had been cleaning up the lounge area. He’d become a trash can, sitting across the room from the one already in there. His wide mouth and shiny aluminum skin—not to mention the stale popcorn still stuck to his tongue—suggested to the wizard that this man will now start sneaking snacks from the dustpan. Perhaps he’d even go so far as to start licking stale popcorn & candy wrappers from the floor, or begging customers to feed him their used napkins and empty cups.

The wizard shrugged and muttered as he finished inspecting the truck stop. “Unicorns. Whatcha gonna do?” Chuckling to himself as the now-changed people began to reawaken to their new existences, he pushed through the doors and strode out to his car. Satisfied with a good deed done, he climbed in and started the ignition. As the car began to sprout scales—the same mint green as its glossy paint job—it rose from the ground and then simply winked out of existence.

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