Prittle tipped its soggy hat. “Well done, Francis Mooky Duke Williams. You are officially a Level Seven Reality Janitor.”
Mooky scratched his chin. “Huh. And here I thought my sinuses were just acting up.”
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. francis mooky duke williams
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.”
“Does that come with dental?” Mooky asked. Prittle tipped its soggy hat
Mooky grinned. “Best job I never applied for.”
The Memetic Auditor explained the stakes: unless Mooky could perform the “Reverse Shriek of Temporal Rectification” from the roof of the Piggly Wiggly during the next solar flare, reality would fold into a pretzel. Worse, that pretzel would be owned by a sentient hedge fund from Dimension 404, which planned to sell it back to humanity in installments. “Huh
“Are you Francis Mooky Duke Williams?” the creature demanded, dripping ink onto the linoleum.
On the roof, under a sky bleeding purple and orange, Mooky took a deep breath. He raised the harmonica. He yodeled.
All was right with the universe—until Thursday, when Mooky planned to try a new note on his morning toast.