Francis Mooky Duke Williams Info

Mooky grinned. “Best job I never applied for.”

It began on a Tuesday, which Mooky always considered the most suspicious day of the week. He was tuning his harmonica—an heirloom said to have been licked once by Robert Johnson’s ghost—when a shimmering tear ripped open the air above his toaster. Out stepped a three-foot-tall creature made entirely of wet newspapers and indignation.

The note was not beautiful. It was ancient. It sounded like a screen door slamming in a haunted mansion. It smelled like ozone and burnt sugar. The solar flare hit. For one terrible, glorious second, every pigeon in Georgia turned into a tiny abacus. Then—pop—reality snapped back into place.

Francis Mooky Duke Williams—known to most as “Mooky,” to his mother as Francis, and to the IRS as a delightful headache—was a man who believed that any problem could be solved with a bucket of fried chicken, a harmonica in the key of C, and a complete disregard for the laws of physics. francis mooky duke williams

Mooky finally put down the harmonica. “I broke it? Lady, I haven’t even had my morning grits.”

“Does that come with dental?” Mooky asked.

“Are you Francis Mooky Duke Williams?” the creature demanded, dripping ink onto the linoleum. Mooky grinned

Prittle sighed. “Fine. But hurry. The Dollys are starting to harmonize, and when they do, the whole multiverse might just break into song and never stop.”

“I am Prittle, a Memetic Auditor from the Bureau of Probability Stabilization,” the creature said. “And you, sir, have broken reality.”

“It comes with a lifetime supply of harmonica reeds and a coupon for free gravy at the Waffle House.” Out stepped a three-foot-tall creature made entirely of

He climbed down from the roof, tossed a drumstick to a stray dog, and headed home. The sun set normally. The air smelled like fried chicken and victory. And somewhere in a parallel dimension, a botanist named Elvis Presley was teaching a begonia to sing “Heartbreak Hotel.”

All was right with the universe—until Thursday, when Mooky planned to try a new note on his morning toast.

The seventeen Dollys merged into one. The Elvis dimension became a small, harmless pickle jar on Mooky’s counter. And the hedge fund from Dimension 404 evaporated into bad credit.

He lived in a rusted Airstream trailer parked on the outskirts of Mulberry, Georgia, a town so small that the water tower had a stutter. By trade, Mooky was an unlicensed interdimensional handyman. By passion, he was a competitive yodeler. By accident, he had just saved the world.