#mo rutherford

Mo Rutherford didn’t miss anything about the FBI, including how it killed his wife. But this was a new day, and as he rode the speed boat to the yacht in the distance, he pointed and smiled, as if his ghost wife was floating over the waves of the Atlantic. ‘The best place to bury a person is in your heart,’ Mo thought. He was the best the FBI had ever seen, and he knew it. As he got to the yacht, an old friend awaited him. Except this was no friend; this was the opposite of a friend: an enemy. An enemy Mo hated. And loathed. “Hey, didn’t you used to be with the Bureau?,” Mo asked. But he knew the answer. Oh, he knew. “Yeah, well at least I didn’t get my ass kicked out like you did,” said Ex-FBI Man. “Yeah, yeah. I missed out on ABSCAM, DeLoreon, all the good stuff,” retorted Mo flirtily. “Just follow me, hot shot,” retorted the grizzled sexy Ex-FBI Man sexily. “Let’s see if you’re worth your money.” Mo lustily ambled into the den of the yacht. Except it seemed more like a den of greed and sweat to Mo. “Hello, this is some place you got here, fellas”, Mo said in a bizarre accent. What was he going for with that accent? Was he intimating the 5 men present were all gay and living a place that was all theirs? ‘Think quick, Rutherford! Get their minds of that awkwardness!’ He quickly grabbed hands to shake. Just as he thought: sweat. “Huh let me just...” he said as he pressed more flesh. “THat’s a sweaty palm. That’s two sweaty palms!”. He knew his distraction was working. Ex-FBI man looked on wetly and angrily. “Let me feel you,” he said, grabbing another hand. “Ahhhhh, that’s another sweaty palm!” He figured he should try one more hand. Sweat. “Yes sir, hello sweaty palms!” “How do you do?” said Richards