Bug Hunter's page

Baxter "Bugs" Bellinger, as it says on his business card, is the best exterminator in the business. At least in this particular zip code. Well, the price is right anyway. But most importantly, he's available when you need him, and he handles jobs other people won't touch. You know, the kinds of things you can't post online without people calling "fake". Big problems. With giant stingers or dripping mandibles.

Okay, so it's maybe not the glamorous hero stuff that those high-profile guys do, saving the world and things like that, but it's an important job and an honest living. Besides, bugs don't bother him at all. In fact, he likes bugs. A little too much maybe. Depending on who you ask.

But hey, living alone isn't so bad. There's TV, and takeout, and the garage below his bedroom fits his whole laboratory. The immigrant family renting out the main part of the house minds their own business well enough. Sometimes they seem angry, but he can't understand what the heck they're saying and they barely speak two words of English, so it usually doesn't come to much. They still pay rent, so whatever.

Tall and lanky, clean shaven, and ambiguously middle aged, Baxter dresses in typical alt punk fashion that looks like he's trying to recapture his youth. However, atop this he wears sturdy faux leather boots, matching gloves, and an old duster that can cover up his scarab wings without getting in the way. Not that he wears armor for his regular day job. That would just be buggy.

He's brave bordering on crazy, and loves to have a good time. Which is usually just fighting monster bugs and watching action movies. But he's pretty chill, open-minded, and likeable in his own way, once you get past that crusty exterior.

The TV flashed whites and colors into the dark, dingy one-room apartment. Baxter sat slouched in a well-worn armchair, snacking on corn chips as the anchor relayed the news. A few fell from his mouth and rolled down his shirt as his mouth hung open in disbelief. "Rmrgrd" He mumbled in a spray of dried corn meal and surprise.

Swallowing proved difficult with his mouth suddenly dry, though from the chips or the news he didn't know. Nevertheless he choked it down and leaned in closer to catch every detail. "All of them? No, can't be all of them." His hands gripped the threadbare fabric on the arms of his chair as he tried in vain to scooch it closer to the TV.

"Man, that is nuts. Are you seeing this?" He asked, looking back over his shoulder at the terrarium in the back corner, dimly illuminating a stick bug idly waltzing along a larger, much more genuine stick. "Man, no more heroes." He picked up a corn chip from his lap and turned it around in his fingers, thinking hard. "Maybe I should update my website. Exterminations, and more!" He looked at Stickmaster for approval. None was forthcoming.

"They're gonna need some new heroes. Otherwise--" He stammered, putting his hands out and then tossing them up, making dramatic explosion sounds with his mouth. "I mean, I could charge extra for that kind of work too." Suddenly he stood up and brushed the crumbs from his black Death-talikka T with a sense of purpose. "I've got some gnarly stuff brewing in the garage. I think it's time we test it out."