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Once in a while, in a smoke-filled basement reeking of whiskey and the distinct scent of machismo, Hangman gathered the brotherhood of Dylanites. No women, no rules — just men, their cats, and the sacred ritual of Dylan Night. They came dressed as Bob — every era accounted for — scruffy folk Bob, electric Judas Bob, cowboy Bob, and even that awkward 80s preacher Bob. This was no costume party. It was a pilgrimage. They were worshippers, and the Holy Prophet had spoken through them.

No one knew how it started. Even Hangman himself. It had been Dylan Night for as long as he could remember, and it was always the same. Men who couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, yet tonight they sang in perfect, out-of-tune harmony. The air vibrated with their collective noise, an assault of guitars, harmonicas, and shouts of “Everybody must get stoned!” The band, Wigwams, thrashed their instruments into submission, bending reality into something only Bob could understand.

“One, two, three, four!” Wigwams struck the first chord of Highway 61 Revisited as the basement walls trembled with the roar of electric guitars. Hangman’s eyes scanned the crowd — there was Pappy Bob, all grizzled and frayed in his 1966 biker gear, his cat, a massive tabby named Blind Lemon, perched like a king on his shoulder. Next to him, Jack-Dylan, channeling the more rugged, wild-eyed 1970s Bob, his thick beard cascading like a forest of unsanctioned wisdom. His cat, Coyote, slinked at his feet, surveying the room like the predator it was. And there was this Old Bob who seemed to be new.

The ritual had its traditions. First came the food — Bob’s favorite foods, laid out in a glorious buffet of pure American decadence. Hangman, always the purist, had outdone himself this year. Plates of grilled corn on the cob, black-eyed peas, beetroot salad, and spinach piled like the offerings of a post-apocalyptic feast. French-fried chicken smothered in gravy. Pinto beans and rice. And surely, cocoa angel cake.

They stuffed their faces, chewing like pigs in the mud, humming Blowin’ in the Wind between bites. There was no grace to it — just grown-ass boys, unashamed, throwing their hands up in the air and tossing crumbs of fried food to the cats who would, in turn, clean the sin off the plates. But then, just when the hunger had been satisfied and the booze poured like an endless river, the ritual would begin. The lights dimmed to a barely-there flicker, and Hangman’s voice cut through the haze of drunken and weed-soaked revelry.

“Okay, boys. It is time.”

The boys — no, the disciples — were all excited.

He pointed to the center of the room, where an altar of sorts had been set up. It wasn’t much — just an old guitar with a harmonica in a neck holder and a worn-out stool. Legend has it that the harmonica once belonged to Bob himself, and if you looked closely, you might still find traces of his DNA on it. It was the symbol. The holy relic. The conduit to the divine.

“We’re going to see Bob in the flesh. We’re going to be Bob.” Hangman declared, his voice quivered their collective spine.

They didn’t question. This was what Dylan would have wanted, they were sure of it. The ritual had reached its peak. The cats watched, unfazed, as the men gathered around the altar. They were about to transcend.

Hangman handed Pappy Bob a battered Stratocaster. He took it, fingers trembling as they hovered over the strings. “Now. You’re gonna play like you’ve never played before.”

“Can I swing?” The old Bob said.

Hangman shushed him. The band strummed, jarring, a wave of untamed sounds so loud that the walls cracked a little and the granny next door pissed her diapers. The music swirled, distorting the air, merging with the clinking of bottles and the thick stench of sweat.

Hangman went to the Altar. A hum. A low, vibrating frequency pulsed through the room, and the men began to chant. Bob. Bob. Bob. Their voices echoed like a thunderstorm trapped in one’s ass. The cats panicked, screeching, scratching, running away. The bros, all swirled together, their bodies merging into one, their souls becoming the unholy fusion of man, myth and afro.

“I am Bob.” The very old Bob screamed. “Let me sing a song for you.”

We are Bob! The others roared back, some incoherently.They didn’t care who this guy was, they didn’t care that they never met him before. They just chanted. “I mean it. I am Bob. The real one!” The very old Bob yelled, but the world had long since decided he was just another crazy old man with a guitar — one step away from getting himself arrested.

It was Bob himself indeed. But none of them cared. Was it just too much whiskey and way too much weed? Either way, the line between man and the legend himself didn’t blur—it shattered. There was no connection to Bob anymore. Just a bunch of dudes losing their grip on reality, hoping tomorrow never comes.

It was glorious nonsense. No, it was the purest, most idiotic form of self-congratulation imaginable. But in that moment, with their bodies tangled together and their minds thoroughly trashed, they believed it. They screamed in joy. They had transcended something — and that something was all the validation they needed.

And for one night, one glorious, sticky night, the Dylanites were invincible. They didn’t need to touch the divine, they were the divine — though he was right there, yes, the very old Bob they ignored. They were so lost in dreaming of his symbolic essence that they didn’t care if the real Bob was there at all.They only needed to lose themselves in the moment, because as soon as the morning light snuck in, they would become one — a man named Bob in his solitary cell. The dream of machismo life would disappear, replaced by the silence of a single soul awaiting the inevitable. With the dawn, the ropes would tighten, and the hangman’s shadow would fall.

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Neda Aria is a transgressive fiction author celebrated for her bold exploration of human behavior under complex circumstances. Her works, such as ENARO, Feminomaniacs, and Machinocracy, blend science fiction with political and postmodern themes. Drawing from her Iranian heritage and experiences across various cultures, Aria crafts narratives that challenge societal norms and delve into the human psyche.
● Website: http://www.nedaaria.info
● Instagram: @nedaariastories
● Facebook: @NedaAriaAuthor
● Substack: @nedaaria