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The Only Cryptid Morgue

She did always like disco

Her nickname the living called her was Doctor Caution, and she ran the only Cryptid Morgue in the Smokey Mountains of Appalachia. 

She had a one winged pixie assistant named Disco, a spider silk doctor's coat, and scar that rippled and across her clavicle from a Lycanthrope's talons that itched like poison ivy every full moon.

She hadn't turned yet, but she knew that her moonstone pendant would crack eventually. 

That scar wasn't why those who still pumped blood called her Dr. Caution, it was probably how she made them stand behind bulletproof plexiglass to gaze upon the dead, undead, and everybeing in between.

The dead, undead, and everybeing in between had a different name for her.

They called her Doctor Donna, after the queen of disco herself, Donna Summer.

Long ago when she still had hair as black as under a bed, her pet rooster, Keith Roosterds, tobacco farmer hauled in a rucksack filled with murdered Pixies from the thorngem guild. Upon initial inspection, it looked like a blood feud between two rival pixie guilds, however the farmer pulled out a regulation tennis-sized bronze racquet.

The bronze murder weapon must've been given to him because the nearest tennis court was four counties away, and bronze was a being pixies' most potent weakness.

While the murder of cryptids wasn't illegal until 1993, she still felt the need to point out to him if he had indeed murdered them, his crops would never grow again, as of course customary for pixie blood curses.

The farmer, cursing up a storm, pulled out a snub-nosed revolver, blaming her for his now accursed crops.

It was then she plucked an iridescent wing of one of the pixie corpses, whistled, and then blew the wing at him.

It exploded as fantastical glittering shards of diamonds, which the farmer thus inhaled and promptly fell dead of internal bleeding. Her entire morgue shimmered like the Atlantis at sunrise, all oranges, pinks, and hues of dark teal, the Thorngem guild's signature colors.

It was then, in the Summer of 1986, that the pixie that arose from her whistling them alive, turned to her and exclaimed.

“Disco isn't dead! Thank you Doctor Donna.” The one winged pixie had teeth like a pirhana, eyes red as tail lights, and soon Dr. Caution learned, an affinity for disco music. 

They got on like gorgons and lizardmen.

It only took dialing 7 digits to the Mothman to spirit away the corpse of the tobacco farmer to his home where his cause of death was acute puliminary edema. 

The favor she called in would cost her later on four days before the Carolina Christmas Cryptid Riots of 1987. She had made the tremendous error of leaving Keith Roosterds in the passenger of her hurse to buy egg-nog and bloodworms during mothman feeding time.

All she found were feathers, and sticky, barbed hairs from the thorax of her very hungry, nocturnal neighbor. She couldn't blame him. She owed him a debt. She just had hoped he'd collect it from her, not her loved ones.

She didn't even speak to Disco until January.

It was after that, she swore off all pets, human friends, sourced bulletproof plexiglass all the way from Raleigh, and only spoke to Disco, and delivery men.

She had no further need for company, various crypids kept her on her toes enough.

Though, to mothman's credit, he did weave her very nice apology in the form of a spider silk doctor's robe which she wore on special occasions, like the death of a vampire.

It was nice howe

However, she swore sheand she had on more than one occasion plucked the wings of pixies to use as signature markers, like to show her ex husband where to sign on the divorce papers.

She had once married a complete imbicle, and even though his lack of intellect wasn't contagious she couldn't

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