Chapter 2

The Recruit: A Horrid Beginning

Jake Jones hated just about everyone and everything. Legally changing his name to Mohammad Mohammad had not helped. It was a strange name choice because Jake was far from being religious and knew nothing about Islam. The few people that talked to him at work became even fewer. He was isolated, angry and unintentionally primed for the wrong circumstance to come along and introduce him to the wrong people.

Jake’s druggie mother, in one of her many stuporous states, had become pregnant. She did not even know that she had been involved in a sexual encounter let alone who the father might be. The father would not be described in glowing terms so it was no detriment not knowing who he was.

Jake was born in a Provincial Correctional Services jail. Being born in jail was a benefit for him although he would never realize it. His mother was clean of drugs during her two years less a day of incarceration. But the pregnancy had occurred before her arrest. Although physically healthy Jake had been damaged mentally, in utero,  although he would prove to be smart.

He had been very lucky and was adopted by a family at two months of age, when he joined their daughters, aged 2 and 3, as the only son. But Jake would never be normal. He was subject to violent outbursts even as a toddler and as he grew his parents became increasingly concerned for the safety of their daughters. 

When Jake was five years old, the older daughter came screaming to her parents that Jake was choking the younger girl. What he lacked in mental stability he made up for in strength. The parents found him sitting on the girl’s hips. She lay on her back on the floor unconscious and blue. Jake’s hands were around her neck and he howled with laughter. The little girl was in the hospital for several days but never regained consciousness. After spending time in a mental institution and being declared ‘cured’, Jake was given up for adoption. His history had to be disclosed to potential adopters, so he grew up in an unending list of foster homes. Many people, with the best of intentions, thought they could save this boy. They soon discovered they were wrong. He was smart and crafty. He was dangerous to have around.

At age eighteen, with his juvenile record sealed, he was turned out of the system. His clean slate didn’t even last until the end of his birthday. He was mugging a woman in an alley when a police cruiser passed by. He was fast but the young cop was faster. 

His prison time was productive as he learned to be a much better criminal. He was out on parole and employed  as a dishwasher in a restaurant when he changed his name. His fellow employees, some of whom were themselves ex-cons on parole, already felt uncomfortable around him, and his name change tipped the balance. 

His boss, who enjoyed the cheap labour of the ex-cons and the ability to control them, moved Jake into a newly built back room kitchen-bakery away from the others. Jake became a baker, cake decorator, and sometimes backup cook when the restaurant could not handle large numbers of guests. He hated those times when he had to interact with the other employees. Mostly he spent his work hours in the large back room kitchen baking and decorating. He liked the autonomy he had in the back kitchen. He liked not dealing with his fellow ex-cons. The recipients of Jake’s baking would have been appalled at his unsanitary approach to their food, but it looked great. His clothing was covered in bits and pieces of whatever he was baking, even after he finished work and went home.

Then he discovered the internet and a group that welcomed him and made him feel good about himself. They were nonjudgemental, accepting and inclusive. He had found his home at last... with the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS). It would be more correct to say ISIS found him. He didn’t realize that his complaining about everything, on social media, had been an invitation for ISIS to find him. He was now on a path that would make his past life seem tame.

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