Francis Mooky Duke Williams [ 2K ]

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.

“Depends,” Mooky said, not looking up. “Are you here about the harmonica solo or the unpaid parking tickets in Daytona?”

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. francis mooky duke williams

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.”

On the roof, under a sky bleeding purple and orange, Mooky took a deep breath. He raised the harmonica. He yodeled. Francis Mooky Duke Williams—known to most as “Mooky,”

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

Mooky grinned. “Best job I never applied for.” It was ancient

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

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