Minute for What

The ghost of Bob Dylan, little more than a hat and beard, was asking questions from the kitchen, to which he responded as he always did:

"Shut up, Bob."

He sat at the kitchen counter surveying the wreckage of another fruitless day, waiting for his wife. Cooped up since morning, his one indulgence had been a visit to the Elephant House, the local center of coffee culture touted as the birthplace of Harry Potter, whoever that was. Hours had passed since that precious excursion, and with every tool available to his mental kit -prayer, recitation of poetry, squaring algorithms- it was Dylan who showed up, a hero, certainly, but not much comfort.

When Sally got home she was not going to be happy. He hadn't found work in over a year and the money had run out.

On the counter was a pistol. It contained bullets of depleted uranium. One shot and his head would be vaporized, along with anything else in its trajectory for a hundred yards. That would put it somewhere in the vicinity of the castle up the road. Their place was nestled in the lee of Edinburgh Castle, in shadow most of the day and a magnet for famous ghosts.

"How are you going to eat?" Dylan put to him in a nasal whine, reminding him that both the larder and the fridge were picked clean.

He looked at the pistol, darkly inspired.

TO BE CONTINUED