Francis Mooky Duke Williams File

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

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

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.” francis mooky duke williams

On the roof, under a sky bleeding purple and orange, Mooky took a deep breath. He raised the harmonica. He yodeled.

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. “Are you Francis Mooky Duke Williams

“It comes with a lifetime supply of harmonica reeds and a coupon for free gravy at the Waffle House.”

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. Lady, I haven’t even had my morning grits

Mooky had one condition. “I get to keep the Elvis-botanist dimension. I’ve got a hankering for some of his patented peanut-butter-and-begonia sandwiches.”