A UA-esque monologue I wrote for my school’s comedy troupe, and the stats of the monologuee. (a street level Duke). (Note: Due to the monologue’s original nature, this is both a bit sillier and a bit more overtly surreal than the UA universe tends to be)

My name is Munroe, and I am the most morose exterminator on the face of the planet. It all started when my wife informed me that she was leaving me for a swarm of killer bees. I should have figured it out myself long before then, as shortly after we married she took up the habit of setting dinner on the table and then doing an interpretive dance to alert the rest of the hive that she had found nourishment. Heartbroken, I asked her why she didn’t love me, and she explained that it was because I was one sixteenth Cherokee, and she had always wanted a W.A.S.P.
As I listened to her words, grief and rage filled my heart like a transvestite fat man fills a pixie’s pantyhose, which is to say quite messily and with excessive, jiggly spillage. Grabbing an enchanted shrunken head we had received from my voodoo grandmother, I invoked the name of the Dark Spirit of Death. Unfortunately, the Dark Spirit of Death was busy appearing to elected officials in their toast under the guise of Jesus Christ, and I was served by the Dark Spirit of Wriggly Things That Appease Old People, who turned my wife into a flock of butterflies.
I then proceeded to lay waste to our home, carrying from our basement the napalm my crazed father had left me in his will, in case the Viet Cong ever made their way to my corner of suburbia. It was not long before I was splashing napalm everywhere, like a fireman made out of anti-matter. Soon I made it to my children’s room, and I began to feel bad about setting my house on fire and turning my wife into a horde of foul insects. I snuck into their room to appease for wanting to fricassee them, and I soon gazed in terror at giant, black compound eyes, and foot-long venomous stingers my wife had always claimed were really just a family trait of hers that had skipped a generation, and I realized just how deep the rabbit hole of honey-laden infidelity really went. My children soon woke up, saying “Bzzzzzzzzzz!”, and I told them that if they said that again I would wash their proboscises out with soap. They said it again, and reasoning that napalm and soap were surely quite similar if you don’t mind being terribly vague, I fulfilled my promise.
As I drove away from the wreckage of my burning life, a few thoughts entered my head. The first was that I had just done something unbelievably terrible, and that I should immediately turn myself into the proper authorities and spend the rest of my life wallowing in self-loathing. The second was that I really needed to get laid, preferably by a series of strange women in unhealthy rebound relationships. Not wanting to deal with the awkward moments that would inevitably come about in the aftermath of an inter-prison romance were I to try and combine the two ideas, I flipped a coin and ran to South America.
For years I did just as I had planned, plowing through all manner of ill-advised relationships and becoming too emotionally attached each time. Unfortunately, I seemed to have been cursed by my invocation of the Dark Spirit of Wriggly Things That Appease Old People, as each relationship I entered inevitably ended with my partner cheating on me with some variety of insect. I did not know whether or not I could continue this life of loving and hurting, as my heart was growing tired and I was running out of napalm. Finally, my napalm depleted and my face on a wanted poster in every other nation in South America, I met a sweet Bolivian girl named Sophia and I really loved her, which is to say she had breasts that napoleon could have used as a trampoline.
One day, when Sophia was sleepy and I was wearing pants, I told Sophia that she meant more to me than any woman I had ever known, and that simply being around her made my world wonderful. To this she replied “Gnaaaugh!”, as she was having a tooth pulled at the time. The dentist, usually a very understanding one, pointed out that the two of them were kind of in the middle of something, and asked if I would very kindly step aside. I proceeded to do so, until I noticed the dentist’s mucousy gossamer wings, and its blood-stained proboscis, and once again tasted the betrayal of old. So, I thought to myself, that’s why her tongue was always inflamed and oozing pus! Lacking napalm I improvised, and pumped both Sophia and her cuckolding mosquito lover with enough sleeping gas to put the Leviathan in a coma. And as she and the giant mosquito twitched drowsily on the floor, I had an epiphany. I didn’t need napalm or love to solve my problems anymore. Gas would work quite splendidly. Vowing both chastity and a never-dying hatred of insects, and also a deep fear of the wrath of the Bolivian authorities, I returned back to the United States, as the statute of limitations on drowning your family in napalm is surprisingly short.
Today I run Munroe’s Efficient Extermination. My work is thorough and my rates are low, as I feed purely on the thrill of killing insects now. These days, the only problem is that people say my oddly specific sadism really… bugs them.

Munroe, The Most Depressed Exterminator On The Planet

Personality: Scorpio

Description: Think Riff-Raff from Rocky Horror Picture Show, but with more wrinkles and wearing an exterminator’s uniform

Obsession: Insect extermination
Rage Passion: Unfaithful lovers.
Fear Passion: (self) That some day he’s going to stop being able to repress the true horror of everything he’s done, and that on that day he’ll be too miserable to keep going.
Noble Passion: Love. He cared about it, once, and he’s willing to go out on a limb to help the people who may still have a shot of getting it.

BP: 45
Body: 45 (worn and frail)
Struggle (45%) General Athletics (15%) Breathe Poison (30%) Endure Pain (30%)

Speed: 55 (Think “ferret”)
Initiative (40%) Dodge (30%) Drive (15%) Snatch (15%)

Mind: 70 (Cunning. Callous. Adaptive.)
General Education (15%) Quick-Thinking (35%) Clear Traces (20%) Conceal (25%) Notice (30%)

Soul: 40 (Hollow)

Mageekian: Insects 40%, Charm 15%, Lie 30%

Breathe Poison: This skill is what allows Munroe to survive pumping rooms with toxic gas, regardless of whether or not he wears any equipment to supply him with oxygen.

Quick-Thinking: Munroe is shockingly good at looking at the things in the room around him and figuring out how they can be used in a pinch. This skill can also be used to think of using something if it’s within walking distance, if the player might not think of it on his own.

Clear Traces: Munroe has left a trail of corpses all across South America, and has yet to be pinned. As far as any authorities know, there’s simply been a long stream of sudden, inexplicable house fires from which there were no survivors.

Mageekian: Munroe hates insects, and yet at this point they’re all that drives him. Thus is the paradox of his existence. This skill can ensure that Munroe manages to thoroughly and gleefully clear a house, that he has work, and that insects just seem to pop up in his life so he can kill them. This skill also gives him a +10% shift on his “Clear Traces” and “Breathe Poison” skills. If he scores a few more criticals while using it to enhance the latter, he may soon find himself not only able to survive by breathing poison, but to thrive. Finally, Munroe no longer needs to eat, sleep or drink. He need only kill.

Possessions: None but his dingy apartment, his exterminating equipment and his uniform. He used to have a number of Vodun rituals and artifacts courtesy of his grandmother, but they all burnt down along with his house. He has yet to manage to brew or purchase anymore napalm.