Satiricus was fuming even though there was more foam than fumes emanating from his nostrils. He was literally foaming at the mouth and nose as he fumed. It could’ve been since he’d just taken a swig of his beer at the Back Street Bar, just as his buddy Bungi mocked the performance of Rum Jhaat, he’d choked in righteous indignation.
“Listen Bungi, I’ve just about had it with you,” Satiricus finally spat out. “What do you have against Rum Jhaat to suggest he’s a ‘waste’?”
“Well, since ‘e tu’n Ministah, crime gaan up or dung?” asked Bungi, not backing down.
“Did you listen to what the man said?” replied Satiricus impatiently. “Up or down’ depends on how you look at the graph.”
“Suh Rum Jhaat does look a’ de graph w’en ‘e stan’ pan ‘e head?” demanded Bungi.
“OK! OK! Fellas. Cool down,” advised Hari. “Is what got you going this time Bungi?”
“Well, yuh know dis maan tell people fuh bun dong de Times papah?” started Bungi, as Hari nodded. “But Rum Jhaat Police still cyaan jetch de maan even ‘dough de man next door!”
“But the fella was only making joke, Bungi,” protested Satiricus.
“Sato, yuh know dat all skin teet’ na joke,” replied Bungi. “Daa how dem bun me uncle store in town aftah de Big Man seh ‘slow fyaah; mo fyaah’!”
“Bungi got a point, you know Sato,” said Hari. “This is Guyana. Why Rum Jhaat can’t at least tell the Police to question the fella about incitement?”
“You chaps don’t understand the law like Rum Jhaat does, that’s the problem,” said Satiricus flatly. “This is a case of free speech.”
“Really?” asked Bungi scoffingly. “Suh when de Police guh question de man?”
“When he or somebody else burn down the paper,” said Satiricus.
