In this world, a fella couldn’t catch a break if fell onto a carton of eggs. Maurice’s old man had saddled him with a name that was downright rotten, and his luck wasn’t any different. Maury’s glory days, if you could all them that, reached their zenith when he served as an ordinance officer in the Vesk army. He didn’t see a lot of action, but at least the fellas in his squad renamed him Mo. He won their friendship during his losing streak (still unbroken) at poker. The fellas were always eager to welcome him into a red-hot game.
Mo left the armed services early, giving him the freedom to really screw up his life. He soon earned the street-rep of undependable low-life, whose bad judgment and bad luck seemed to compete with one another for dominance. His heady schemes always failed, usually before they had enough momentum to even land him in jail. Soon even the Vesk criminals shunned him as an “untouchable.”
Being rejected by anyone capable of landing a big score has made Mo sore at himself forever leaving the army. These days, a world-weary Mo picks up weapons again, perhaps to relive a past he never had. If capers were going to blow up in his face, at least he’d have heavy weapons and explosives nearby. They would complement both his short temper and knack for desperation.