When my editor first suggested this story to me, I must admit to some trepidations. After all, these types of investigations not only pose a considerable amount of danger, but they bring with them a certain degree of logistical difficulties. More importantly, it was hockey playoff season, and I was not certain as to how I was going to balance my work and my passion. Luckily there was TiVo™.

The first hurdle was to actually find a group of men willing to throw the lives of  Nova Scotians into turmoil, all in the name of God. Naturally, my first stop was at the local Jehovah’s Witnesses’ temple, but they refused to answer their door when I came knocking, notepad in hand.

At a loss, I followed my baker’s advice and googled ‘Halifax’ and ‘ Islamic Terrorists’. Within seconds, I surfed the home pages of half a dozen cells.  The one calling itself the “Bluenose Jihadists Against Imperialist Oppressors Whom We Really Want to Blow Up, eh” , or BJAIOWWRWTBUeh for short, looked a promising target, but upon further reading, I learned that their headquarter was – quite inconveniently-  all the way out in Bedford.

Not being a huge fan of the suburbs, I settled on the Nova Scotian chapter of the ‘ Guys With Nice Beards Who Really Hate Occupiers Who Watch Fox News Which By The Way We Really Want To Blow Up ‘. Their web-site listed a litany of grievances, amongst them the occupation of Iraq and Afghanistan, women in bikinis, women not in bikinis, decadent ice cream flavours, the high price of fava beans, the blasphemous songs of Rita McNeil, salt cod, and the collected works of Dan Brown.     

Not only did I share the GWNBWRHOWWFNWBTWWRWTBU’s taste in literature, but it turn out that they were conveniently located only a few block’s from my house, right next to my favourite Tim Hortons™. Having disguised myself with a decent five o’clock shadow, I went off in search of my target.

I was a bit nervous when I stepped into the lobby of the building where this particular cell was hiding. My anxiety somewhat decreased when I was greeted by Bonnie, the lovely receptionist who very kindly offered me a cup of tea. Still, I could not help feeling that I had somehow aroused her suspicions. Maybe she had spotted my disguise, or maybe the name that I had chosen for my investigative work, Omar Mohammed Al Qaida Bin Fatwa Smith, had been too timid. I was beginning to sweat again.

Any good investigative reporter has to think on his or her feet. What followed, then, can only be described as an almost instinctive reaction. Cup still in hand, I stood up, pumped my free fist into the air and started to shout anti-American slogans at the top of my lungs.

I began the proceedings with a timid, yet traditional, “ Death to the imperialistic western infidels, defilers of our women and makers of American Idol™ ! ” but quickly worked myself up to better stuff. Thus, my “Jihad against Barry Manilow !!!” must have hit the right note with Bonnie, for she quickly ushered me into the conference room, the inner sanctum so to speak.

A slight let-down was the first thing I felt when I met my fellow plotters. I had always suspected that Islamist activity in Halifax was on the modest side, but what I found was alarmingly disappointing. It appeared that the membership of the GWNBWRHOWWFNWBTWWRWTBU numbered exactly one. His name was Bob.

Still, given that Bob appeared to weigh around 350 pounds, I convinced myself that what I had uncovered could still be considered a large militant cell, and thus worth infiltrating. So, looking as conspiratorial as possible, I started the conversation with the very subtle, non suspicion arousing question: “What are we going to blow, buddy?”

There was a definite air of puzzlement in Bob’s face, as he turned away from his Xbox 360™ to have a good look at me. After steadying himself with a sip of Pepsi™, he gave me a quick run down of the battle plans. There were none.

It turned out that Bob was from Conception Bay, Newfoundland and had taken this job because Wal-Mart had laid him off a few months ago. Sent here by Employment Canada, he had received a fax at some point ordering him to “proactively explode some infidels ASAP”, but had not acted upon it, since, as he put it, “I didn’t have the foggiest what an 'infidels' was.”

Knowing how hard it is to find good employment on the East coast, I broke one of the fundamental principles of investigative journalism: I started to feel sorry for poor Bob. Whether it was pity or a strange form of Stockholm syndrome that caused me to start plotting to blow up The Pewter House*, I do not know to this day. Suffice it to say, that within hours the whole operation was in full swing. Bob seemed delighted.

The first thing we needed was some fertilizer. A trip to Canadian Tire™ left us baffled since the arsenal on offer was bewildering to a neophyte terrorist. In the end we settled for a couple of galleon of Miracle Grow™, and armed ourselves with a pack of Bic ™ lighters to ignite the stuff.

We met the next night at the agreed upon time. Yet, while I was warming up to the task of depriving those Western, whoring infidels around me of the one thing that they loved most, pewter that is, Bob appeared to have lost the stomach for the fight. I cursed him in the name of Allah, Mohammed and a number of other holy men whose names I had to make up on the spot, and told him that he could forget about those 40 virgins. He would be lucky if he got as much as a slightly horny, syphilitic goat when the whole thing was over.

Still, in the end, I had to relent since I had no intentions of lugging 5 galleons of Miracle Grow™ – not even mentioning those two bags of Weed ‘n Feed™ we had picked up for good measures - all by myself. We agreed to spare the Pewter House and settled on that strange Penis shaped bulletin board next to the Library. Those Godless Danish cartoon lovers would soon find out what a world without concert announcements would be like. They had brought this upon themselves, after all.

Investigative reports, as a whole, can be viewed as mere entertainment if its authors are unwilling to make some incisive observations useful to the public at large.  From my experience accompanying the terrorist cell named Bob, I can state unequivocally, that building more sports bars will prevent militant attacks. To whit, as Bob and I, a massive security threat if there ever was one, passed by the Midtown tavern on our way to our target, our operation ceased almost immediately. All threats of Halifax’s 23/5 – for that is surely how our attack would have become known world wide – ground to a halt the moment we heard shouts from inside, informing us that the Oilers had scored the tying goal. And when, Allah be praised, they won the game in miraculous fashion, Bob and I could not even remember what had brought us downtown in the first place. Mind you, those seven pints of Keiths™ might have had something to do with it. Salam Alaikum.   

 
* which by the way has a fine offering of local and imported pewter and can be found at 1875 Grandville Street, open Mondays to Saturdays. Mention this column and receive a 30 % discount on napkin holders.

Frank Streicher is Halifax’s leading investigative journalist. His next assignment is to explore whether product placement occurs in Canada’s news media. You can reach him at This email address is being protected from spam bots, you need Javascript enabled to view it .