Francis Mooky Duke Williams -

Mooky scratched his chin. “Huh. And here I thought my sinuses were just acting up.”

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.” francis mooky duke williams

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. Mooky scratched his chin

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. The sun set normally

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.