Francis | Mooky Duke Williams

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

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.

Mooky scratched his chin. “Huh. And here I thought my sinuses were just acting up.” Francis Mooky Duke Williams—known to most as “Mooky,”

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.

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.” I’ve got a hankering for some of his

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.”

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