Mooky grinned. “Best job I never applied for.”
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.
“Depends,” Mooky said, not looking up. “Are you here about the harmonica solo or the unpaid parking tickets in Daytona?”
“I am Prittle, a Memetic Auditor from the Bureau of Probability Stabilization,” the creature said. “And you, sir, have broken reality.” francis mooky duke williams
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.
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.
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.” Mooky grinned
All was right with the universe—until Thursday, when Mooky planned to try a new note on his morning toast.
And so, Mooky strapped on his harmonica, grabbed his bucket of cold fried chicken (for luck), and drove his lawnmower—a converted 1972 John Deere with rocket boosters made from old propane tanks—straight toward the Piggly Wiggly. The townsfolk gathered, thinking it was the annual Mulberry Opossum Festival. No one corrected them.
Mooky finally put down the harmonica. “I broke it? Lady, I haven’t even had my morning grits.” By passion, he was a competitive yodeler
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.”
On the roof, under a sky bleeding purple and orange, Mooky took a deep breath. He raised the harmonica. He yodeled.
Mooky scratched his chin. “Huh. And here I thought my sinuses were just acting up.”
“Are you Francis Mooky Duke Williams?” the creature demanded, dripping ink onto the linoleum.
“Does that come with dental?” Mooky asked.