Do Unicorns Pay Taxes?

Content Warning: This story contains themes of systemic injustice, implied threats of harm, and depictions of stress and paranoia within a bureaucratic and oppressive system. Discretion is advised for readers sensitive to these topics.. 

Do unicorns pay taxes? A hell of a lot more than Jeff Bezos. Shit we all do!

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz like a dentist’s drill. I feel it behind my eyeballs. My cubicle smells like stale coffee, and the fake woodgrain on my desk has a permanent mug ring burned into the laminate.

I’ve seen it all. Farmers losing their land because they filed late by one day. A preschool teacher fined into oblivion for claiming school supplies as a deduction—supplies she bought for her class out of pocket because the school couldn’t afford glue sticks. And my favorite: a retired vet audited for underreporting income from his Etsy birdhouse shop.

And now, a unicorn.

Her name’s Solstice, according to the file. Failure to report magical assets under 26 U.S.C. § 61—Gross income. If you have it, the IRS can tax it. Her crime? Not declaring the gold in her hooves. Not the rainbows she farts out or the glitter trail she leaves behind when she trots. Just the gold. Value appraised by our Assets Division.

The fine? $1.2 million. For context, I’ve seen hedge fund managers get off with less for playing footsie with offshore accounts. The case file is full of breadcrumbs—references to “special procedures for non-human entities” and citations to UCC § 9-109—Secured Transactions.

I flick ash from a cigarette I’m not supposed to be smoking in here.

Rules are for people who still care.

I should care. I used to care.

Instead, I open Solstice’s file and dig in. The numbers are obscene. The fines? Predatory. The language? So convoluted it could choke an attorney. 

The case burns in my head all night. By the time the sun rises, I’m sitting in the interrogation room, staring at her.

The room is gray. Not just the walls—the air, the table, the cheap, faux-leather chair bolted to the floor. Even the fluorescent lights manage to buzz in muted gray. It’s the kind of room where secrets don’t echo, and hope feels like a distant concept.

Across from me sits Solstice. She’s radiant in a way that feels offensive here, her shimmering mane reflecting back every ugly thing this room wants to hide. Her polished, golden hooves rest delicately on the ground, like she knows their worth and refuses to let this place demean them.

"You’re really going to make me say it, aren’t you?" Solstice’s voice cuts like a scalpel wrapped in silk. “Gold. Hooves. Income. What next? Are you going to tax my horn for potential resale value?”

“That depends,” I say, flipping through her file. “Do you use it for business purposes?”

Her laugh is sharp, humorless. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me deduct it as a medical device.”

“It’s not personal,” I lie. “It’s the law. The IRS defines income broadly. Commissioner v. Glenshaw Glass Co., 348 U.S. 426, ever heard of that case? Gross income includes ‘all accessions to wealth, clearly realized, over which the taxpayer has complete dominion.’ Your gold hooves fit the bill.”

Solstice leans forward, her eyes narrowing. “Gross income,” she repeats, mockingly. “You people will tax anything if it stays still long enough.”

Her gaze locks onto mine, sharp and unrelenting, like she’s peeling back my skin to count the lies underneath.

“You think this is about taxes? You’re feeding the dragons, Vince.”

I feel my stomach twist. “Dragons.” I almost laugh. “What?”

Her tone sharpens. “Don’t act stupid. The IRS has been their front for decades. Every dollar you collect, every audit you sign off on—it all goes to the same place. Humans and magical creatures like me keep feeding the system that oppresses us.”

I don’t respond. She’s insane!

Her voice softens, almost pitying. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you? The names. The accounts. The Trust.”

I snap the file shut like it’s a trap about to spring. “This conversation is over.”

She doesn’t argue. She just leans back, watching me with those too-bright eyes, her silence loud enough to follow me out of the room.

But her words stick, like a rat stuck on glue paper trap.

By the time I’m back at my desk, the office is empty. The cleaning crew has already been through. The faint lemon-scented air doesn’t cover up the industrial hum of the HVAC coughing up lukewarm air.

It’s almost 8 PM. Everyone else is gone, smart enough to go home. But not me. No, I’m still here, staring at Solstice’s file.

Her voice is still in my head: You’ve seen it, haven’t you?

First red flag: the payments. Her fines and back taxes aren’t routed to the usual IRS processing accounts. No, these are tied to the Federal Reserve, with a reference to something called The Draconian Trust. UCC § 9-302 is scrawled in the margins of one page.

I Google it. “Perfection of security interests.” The language feels deliberately obtuse, like every lawyer in history got together and agreed to make English meaningless. What the hell does a security interest have to do with a unicorn’s hooves?

Next, there’s a memo marked Internal Eyes Only. It’s dated ten years ago, long before Solstice’s audit. The subject line is vague: “Requisition of Magical Assets.” The body is worse—lots of legalese, but the gist? The IRS can seize anything “magically derived” under the authority of the Sixteenth Amendment. No further explanation.

Magically derived. The phrase scratches something in my brain. It reminds me of training, the glossed-over sections where instructors mumbled policies we weren’t meant to question.

Then there’s the audit histories. Not just Solstice’s, but others. Every one of them ends the same way: bankrupt. Assets seized. Sometimes, the taxpayers themselves just… disappear.

I pull up 26 U.S.C. § 7201—tax evasion. The statute is broad, criminalizing “willful attempts to evade or defeat any tax imposed by this title.” It’s vague enough to mean anything.

They’ve weaponized the law. Not just against humans, but against everyone. Anyone who can’t fight back.

The IRS is robbing us blind. Wealth confiscated from people like Solstice…people like me. And it’s all being funneled… somewhere.

I can’t stop thinking about it. The names, the accounts, the Trust.

I need answers.

Hammond’s office smells like cigars and dead ambition. The blinds are half-closed, just enough to let in a sliver of light that catches the dust motes hanging in the air.

He’s hunched over the papers in front of him, like a predator guarding its kill. His tie is loosened, the top button undone, exposing a sliver of pale, almost translucent skin at his neck. It catches the light—strangely iridescent, almost like scales.

“Got a minute?” I ask, stepping into the room.

Hammond doesn’t look up. “Make it quick,” he says, his voice flat, disinterested.

I close the door behind me. My hand feels clammy on the doorknob.

“It’s about Solstice,” I start. “Her case file—it’s not adding up.

Payments routed to the Federal Reserve, flagged references to the Draconian Trust under UCC § 9-302. And those Internal Eyes Only memos? They talk about requisitioning magical assets like it’s just another day at the office. This isn’t standard procedure, Hammond. It’s—”

He finally looks up, pinning me with eyes that are too bright, too sharp.

“Careful, Vince.” His voice is calm, measured, like a parent warning a child not to touch the stove. “You’re not paid to interpret. You’re paid to follow the rules.”

“It’s not about interpretation,” I push. “This is a pattern. Humans and magical creatures targeted, assets seized, accounts funneled into—”

“Policy,” Hammond interrupts, his tone hard now. He leans back in his chair, the overhead light catching that pale patch of skin on his neck again. It glints. Scales. I swear to God, I see scales.

“You’re misinterpreting policy,” he says, his smile baring gleaming teeth. “And if you keep poking around, Vince, you’re going to misinterpret your way out of a job.”

He waves me off. I don’t even wait for another glance. I turn and leave, letting the heavy door click shut behind me.

The hallways stretch on forever, beige walls closing in tighter with every step. Once I get outside I light a cigarette, the first drag burning my throat, and start walking toward the Metro station.

The train ride home is a blur of flickering lights and strangers avoiding eye contact. I’m at my apartment door before I even realize I’ve been pacing the halls of my own mind. Keys, lock, door. The smell of stale air and takeout hits me like a brick wall.

I drop my bag on the table and boot up my laptop, not bothering to turn on the lights. The glow of the screen paints the room in cold blue. The screen turns black, then flashes a message in white text: Unauthorized access detected.

My phone buzzes almost instantly. A single email. No sender, no signature, just two words in the subject line: Careful Vince.

My stomach twists. I sit there for hours, staring at the dark screen, the silent phone, the walls of my tiny apartment that feel like they’re closing in.

By midnight, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely dial the number. Solstice picks up after two rings.

“You’ve got some nerve,” she says when she picks up.

“I don’t have anyone else,” I reply, and I can hear the desperation in my own voice. “Someone wiped my laptop,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “And sent me a warning.”

There’s a pause, then a dry chuckle. “Welcome to my world, Vince.”

“I need your help,” I blurt out, the words tumbling over themselves.

She sighs. “Fine. Meet me at The Alibi. Don’t get followed.”

The line goes dead, and all I’m left with is the taste of fear and the sound of my heart pounding. 

******

The Alibi is the kind of bar where shame gets poured neat. Solstice is in the corner, nursing a glass of water she hasn’t touched. Her glow is dimmer here, dulled by the flickering neon sign behind her.

“You look like hell,” she says as I slide into the booth.

“I spoke with your fan club earlier,” I reply. “Now I’m getting threats.”

Her eyes narrow. “You didn’t tell him anything important, did you?”

“Define important.”

Solstice leans in, her mane shimmering faintly in the dim light. “You need to understand this: the IRS isn’t what you think it is. It’s not about funding roads or schools or whatever fairy tale they’re selling. It’s about control.”

“Control?” I ask, more out of reflex than disbelief.

She nods. “Voluntary compliance. That’s the phrase they use, right? You’re not forced to pay taxes, but you’re damn well punished if you don’t. And every dollar, every ounce of gold, every confiscated artifact—it all feeds the hoard.”

“The hoard,” I repeat.

“The dragons’ hoard,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“They’ve been running this scam for centuries. Every financial collapse, every bailout—they engineered it all. The Federal Reserve is their vault. The IRS? Just the collection agency.”

“And magical creatures?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“We’re walking treasure chests to them,” she says bitterly. “Gold in our hooves, jewels in our blood, magic in our veins. They take everything. And don’t think they don’t rip you humans off, too. “They take 40% before you even see your paycheck. Then tax you again when you spend it.”

I sit back, the weight of her words settling in. This isn’t just corruption. This is systemic, centuries-deep theft.

“We need proof,” Solstice says. “You have access to the IRS database. Hack it. Expose them.”

I glance around the bar, suddenly hyperaware of every shadow. “If they catch me, I’m dead.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver. “If we don’t do this, we all stay debt slaves.”

She’s right. I know she’s right. And I’m already in too deep. “Fine,” I say, my voice cracking under the weight of it. “Let’s burn it all down.”

******

The IRS data center smells like cold metal and fear. The air tastes sterile, processed.

Solstice trots silently beside me, her hooves wrapped in some kind of enchanted cloth that muffles their glow. Her mane shimmers faintly, like moonlight seeping through fog, but even she seems dimmed by the fluorescent glare.

“You sure about this?” I whisper, clutching the stolen keycard tighter than a confession.

She doesn’t answer, just flicks her head toward the security camera above the door. Her horn glows for half a second—subtle, precise—and the camera fizzles, its red light winking out like a fading star.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I mutter.

Inside, rows of humming servers line the walls, each blinking like it has a heartbeat. The hum vibrates in my teeth, in my chest.

“This has to be it,” I say, pointing to the terminal marked Restricted Access. 

Solstice keeps watch while I plug in a flash drive. The screen blooms with directories, layers of encryption folding away like rotting petals.

“Draconian Trust,” I whisper, clicking through the files.

The first hit is a ledger. My throat tightens as I scroll:

• Net Wealth Extraction – 2023: $1.4 Trillion
• Seized Magical Assets (Q4): $780 Billion
• Unaccounted Taxpayer Funds: $215 Billion

“This isn’t just theft,” I whisper. “It’s pure evil.”

Solstice leans over my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck. “Look deeper,” she says.

Then it hits me. The Trust isn’t just a ledger; it’s a funnel. Every seized asset, every ounce of magical wealth, every drained bank account—it all pools into the dragons’ hoard.

Another file. Titled Reserve Vault D.C. Inside are blueprints—an underground labyrinth beneath the Federal Reserve, filled with gold, jewels, and artifacts listed as “reclaimed.” Humans and magical creature’s names are scrawled in margins, assets cataloged like livestock.

“Jesus Christ,” I murmur. My hands shake.

“That’s what you’re feeding,” Solstice says, her voice flat, detached. “The dragons’.”

I hit Download All. The progress bar crawls forward, a neon-green testament to how much we’re about to piss off the wrong people.

The screen blinks. An alert: Unauthorized Access Detected.

“Oh come on,” I scream, panic kicking in like a mule on meth.

“Silent alarm,” Solstice hisses. Her hooves scrape the floor as she backs toward the door.

The humming grows louder. It’s not the servers—it’s coming from outside, from something moving. Something big.

“We’re out of time,” I say, yanking the flash drive just as the download finishes.

“Then run,” she snaps.

Behind us, the door groans open, and the air fills with the suffocating heat.

The hallway is a tunnel of flashing red lights and screaming alarms. Solstice gallops ahead of me, her hooves leaving faint gold sparks that disappear before I can step on them. Behind us, the sound of claws scraping on concrete echoes like a death rattle.

“We’re not going to make it!” I shout, clutching the flash drive like a lifeline.

“Yes, you will,” Solstice snaps, skidding to a stop at an intersection. She plants herself between me and the oncoming storm—a wall of shadows and glowing eyes.

“What the hell are you doing?” I say, turning back, but her horn glows like a supernova.

“This is bigger than me, Vince,” she says. “Go. Get out.”

The shadows lunge, and I see her magic explode—a blinding flash of light and heat that sears the air, the walls, and some deep, buried part of me that still remembers how to believe in something.

I stumble through the emergency exit, the drive still clutched in my hand.

******

The email goes out at 3:43 AM, the attachments stuffed with everything I pulled from the IRS servers: ledgers, memos, blueprints, names. I send it to every journalist I can think of, every activist group that hasn’t already been swallowed whole by corporate sponsorship. My finger hovers over the mouse for one final second.

Send.

By sunrise, the first replies trickle in. Journalists asking for proof that isn’t already staring them in the face. Activists wondering if this is satire.

And the worst? The media headlines—“IRS Auditor Claims Dragons Control Federal Reserve"

The masses laugh it off, just like they’ve been conditioned to do. Just like I used to.

I watch the world spin the story into tinfoil-hat fodder while I sit in a motel room that smells like microwaved despair. The blinds are drawn, the TV’s on mute, and I keep the flash drive in my pocket like it’s a talisman.

I’m nobody now. No job, no home, no allies. Just me and the knowledge of what’s buried under Washington, D.C.

I light a cigarette, the flick of the lighter too loud in the empty motel room. The smoke curls around me, lazy and indifferent.

In the silence, I hear my dad’s voice. The way he used to mutter about taxes at the kitchen table, stacks of bills spread out like unpaid sins. “They take everything. Work yourself to death, they take more. They don’t care if we eat.”

The dragons don’t care. Not about my dad. Not about me. Not about you. Not about anyone.

Burn it all down. All it takes is one spark. Maybe this time, the fire catches.

I slide the drive into my pocket, crush the cigarette in the ashtray, and walk out the door.