Francis Mooky Duke Williams Today

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

“Does that come with dental?” Mooky asked.

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

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

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. “Are you Francis Mooky Duke Williams

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

Mooky scratched his chin. “Huh. And here I thought my sinuses were just acting up.” All was right with the universe—until Thursday, when

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.