260 Thousand Times Redundant

The other night I met a guy who's here on contract from the US of A to investigate possible terrorist threats during our hosting of World Cup Cricket. I told him, in more diplomatic words, that he needed to get his green paper cause he's about 260 thousand times redundant. I mean, this is BIM- all a we does spy 'bout hay- ain' nuh forner come tell we wu's wha'.
I could just see him at his desk, waiting for Cable and Wireless to be right there where he needed them, fixing his ADSL so he could surf through social security numbers and bank accounts. Meanwhile, everything about the terrorist- his plates, his dates, his rates- are being observed, collected, memorized and circulated by the little old lady next door. She then forwards it to the bigger younger ladies on the bus who pass it on to 'de bad men pon de block'. It then gets branched off to old rummy's who still want to be young and little boys trying to be old who in turn carry it to school so they can impress the little girls on the pasture all within earshot of the yard fowl. Before my man from the states can so much as type in the terrorist's name, every man, woman, child and animal from Bridgetown to Bathesheba knows what rice the terrorist prefers, the ring tone he uses, his briefs size, who he's fucking and how often he has a bowel movement. And by this time he's also got some infamous nickname- something really apt- like Osama de Flamma.