What’s cookin’, General? Hopefully not a Woolies chicken…

The Warden threw a jogger in the county jail

A smoker was in there and they began to wail

Alkies were jumpin’ as detox began to sting

You shoulda hear those pissed off traitors sing

Let’s rock, everybody let’s rock

Everyone in the whole town block

Was dancin’ to the Covid rock…

The Cat threw his Al Capone fedora on the floor in disgust. The sound clip – sent in by Mrs Busybody from the corner of Self-Righteous Street and Comfortable Crescent – ended with dogs barking in the background.

“What do these people in the suburbs think they are doing? Singing about some whatyoucallit – rock ’n’ roll?

There shall be no rolls filled with rock or anything! There shall be no foods which are cooked!”

Around him, in the bunker, the members of the Central Command Council quivered. This was a man to be scared of – that’s why they got him in as The Enforcer.

In the ominous silence, they waited for him. Would his mood swing? It often did.

“They tell me that this is Elvis. That is good. Everybody must cough into their elvis…”

A timid voice came from the back: “But chief, Elvis was … oh never mind.”

The Cat strolled towards the electronic map on the wall, his nostrils flaring.

Everyone could see that because his mask didn’t cover his nose.

“Before we talk about Operation Flame Grilled, where are my advisers?”

“General, your Fashion Adviser, Comrade Mduduzi Manana, is at home on lockdown, so you will have to do a video conference.”

The Cat snarled: “Do you think I have time to do video what-what? This is a war we are fighting, Comrades!”

He paused: “But send Comrade Mduduzi a WhatsApp and ask him why Lindiwe Zulu is getting so much TV time? Where did she get that beret? I am senior here. There shall be no other minister who wears any headgear!”

He thought some more. “But I have an idea. Someone go to Pep Stores where she got her revolutionary camouflage T-shirt and find out if they have a camouflaged three-piece suit for me!”

“But, General, Pep Stores is closed for lockdown…”

He turned around in anger: “There shall be no shop which shall refuse a ministerial order. Tell them to open!”

He turned back to the map: “Colonel – brief me on the operation … what is your name?”

“Sanders, sir…

“We have had to detain three different addicts and press them into emergency national service, General. One is code-named Chicken Licken because he can’t live without their products; the others, similarly addicted, are KFC and Nando’s.”

Colonel Sanders pointed to the map. “At 0900 Zulu…”

“What Zulu!” roared the General. “There shall be no Zulu ahead of me!”

The Colonel looked at his planning notebook.

“It is a time code, sir…”

He went on: “At 9am, the sniffer agents will be deployed to three northern suburbs shopping centres.

“If they pick up the scent of cooking chicken, they will call in the Special Task Force, codenamed Drumstick.

“And sir, we have ordered them to make sure they cock their weapons and go in hot when they deploy…”

The General roared: “Cock! Cock? Hot? There shall be no cooked chicken, even a boy chicken!”

Brendan Seery

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