Francis Mooky Duke Williams -

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

And so, Mooky strapped on his harmonica, grabbed his bucket of cold fried chicken (for luck), and drove his lawnmower—a converted 1972 John Deere with rocket boosters made from old propane tanks—straight toward the Piggly Wiggly. The townsfolk gathered, thinking it was the annual Mulberry Opossum Festival. No one corrected them.

“Does that come with dental?” Mooky asked. 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.”

“I am Prittle, a Memetic Auditor from the Bureau of Probability Stabilization,” the creature said. “And you, sir, have broken reality.” “Depends,” Mooky said, not looking up

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.

The seventeen Dollys merged into one. The Elvis dimension became a small, harmless pickle jar on Mooky’s counter. And the hedge fund from Dimension 404 evaporated into bad credit. No one corrected them

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.”