Police looking for my sauce

I was looking at the ceiling when I heard a crashing sound. Fear gripped me as I collected my royal jewels and pulled a sheet to cover my nakedness. I thought it was bandits, but it was police. They showed me a paper with some crapaud-foot writin’, while I surveyed the damage to my newly-purchased door. I said: “Gentlemen, how can I help?” An officer with a funny name, dressed in khaki said: “We are from the Anti Corruption Bureau and we are trying to find the sauce of a leak.

“What leak?” I shot back, keeping my composure. “Our information is that you can help us find the sauce, as we inquire into the leak at the Integrity Commission.” I said: “Gentlemen, how I get in that? “I am just a simple writer and a decent citizen because I bathe often, and pay my taxes. I said if they want bacchanal, is bacchanal they will get because I am a bacchanalist. The door looked kilkitay as it hung on one hinge. Very respectfully, I said: “Gentlemen, you didn’t have to break down the door. It wasn’t really closed.

“We doh know dat,” returned an officer who looked like he was wearing a size 16 shoe. The senior officer apologised and said what they were doing was 21st century policing. I shook my head in disbelief. I told them I wasn’t leaving my broken door so, and called Commissioner Gibbs on the phone. I know I was spinning top in mud because he backs his men...right or wrong.

Gibbs’ phone rang. I exchanged pleasantries and told him what his men had done. He said that was 21st century policing and hung up on me. I thought about calling President Max, but he was out partying. I thought about calling the talkative Attorney General Anand Ramlogan, but he wanted nothing to do with the Anti Corruption Bureau. I contemplated my predicament—a broken door and police looking for a sauce.

I said if is sauce they want, is sauce they will get...with some stale hops bread. I went into the fridge and brought out some chicken foot sauce, and a bottle of garlic sauce. One officer in gruff tones said: “You stupid or what, that is not the sauce we talking about.” I knew they were talking about my source, but an experienced journalist does not give out his source.

Pretending to be a beh-beh, I said: “Gentlemen, you can get some pig-foot sauce if you want.” I further stated: “You can take away the pot if you want.” One officer angrily said: “You can’t tell we what to do, we is police.”  I caught an officer looking into the pot of chicken foot sauce. I could tell he was hungry as he announced: “I am seizing this sauce pending further investigation.” I smiled. These men bypassed (or is it passed by?) my laptop, but left with a pot of pig foot sauce, and a pot of chicken foot sauce. I didn’t really mind, I was going to throw it away. You see me, I gone.

I thought about calling President Max but he was out partying. I thought about calling the talkative Attorney General Anand Ramlogan, but he wanted to nothing to do with the Anti Corruption Bureau. I contemplated my predicament—a broken door and police looking for a sauce.