Mission Bunny Chow

Liberty, my Sudanese garden boy, failed miserably on his covert mission to the shebeen, which I recently discovered is trading down the road from my home. If you read my blog a few days ago, you'll know that the sorry bastard got drunk on the devil's spirit instead of finding out who is behind this evil liquor trade in my sacred homeland. So I went to the shebeen myself over the weekend.

Before you think I've also been filled with some unholy spirit, let me quickly add that I did not simply walk into the place dressed in my usual attire. This was a covert mission. No matter what, I will never dress up like a black commie atheist bastard, so I had to find some other clever disguise. I eventually decided to go Indian. For my American friends, I'm not talking about looking like Chief Sitting Bull. I'm talking about those dark-skinned fellas who worship a million gods. A Muslim disguise would not do, as they don't drink alcohol – their only good doctrine. I had to look more like a used car dealer, with greasy hair, loads of bling, silver shoes, and bunny chow stains on my chin.

No need to remind me that I was blessed with a pale complexion like all God's favoured. So how in God's righteous name was I supposed to pass as a dark-skinned fella distantly related to that skinny peaceloving guy who dressed in a white sheet?

Instant deep-tanning lotion bought from a Nigerian Internet conman called Prince Joseph Abdul, including a free tube of black hair dye.

The thug who answered the front door let me in as soon as he saw the fake gold caps in my teeth and heard my slick Chatsworth accent I'd practised for days. He ushered me to the back of the house. There were plenty of drunks of all colours lurking around, including a hefty Indian bloke dressed in a gay pink shirt. Loud techno music was pumping out of the very music centre of hell ... and there he was sitting at a table with piles of cash around him, a half-eaten bunny chow at his elbow and empty bottles of booze scattered around him like spent cartridges at a shooting range – the guy behind the new evil in my community.

His name is Manu. I'm not sure if this irony is something the devil dreamed up the day God threw him out of heaven, but Manu is an Indian guy from Chatsworth. He looked like he could have been my brother from another mother, or my cousin from another vagina, to use his words.

Unless he was motherlessly drunk on his own devil juice, I had no doubt he'd figure out I was an imposter as soon as I opened my mouth ... you can't fool an Indian crook who has spent his whole life conning people out of their hard-earned cash and eating curry for breakfast, lunch and supper.

Turns out I didn't need to utter a word ... I caught my reflection in Manu's mirror lens sunglasses. That's the last time I buy anything from a Nigerian ... my instant deep tan was fading in patches that left me looking like a leper, or worse, a mad half-Indian, half-albino.

This called for drastic measures. I grabbed the half-munched bunny chow, shoved it in Manu's face, and then thumped the nearest bouncer with an empty bottle of vodka. I had no time to take photos of the illegal liquor trade with my hidden camera. But before I made my hasty retreat from the den of Satan, I left my signature card – a stack of gospel tracts denouncing the sale and consumption of alcohol in a God-fearing Christian community.

I have no doubt Manu will pack up his liquor trade and move to another part of the country – or better, push off back to Bombay where he belongs. I've said it before – don't mess with Paintball Pete. You'll taste bunny chow all the way to hell.

Fight the good fight.