Mad Melvin is a trapper. He tracks, catches and skins smaller animals - possum, chickens, rats, that sort of thing - and barters for goods with their pelts.
Fur is fur, and meat is meat. He does not have discerning tastes or preferences. Anything smaller than him and furry is fair game (except guinea pigs. Mad Melvin loves guinea pigs. If you were ever to visit his shot gun shack by the river, you may be shocked to find dozens of the little critters sitting on arm rests and on top of the radio and under the table, munching happily on browned lettuce).
Melvin's spent most of his life scurrying around in the brush or down city alleyways, moving very much like the vermin he tracks.
He's constantly talking to himself and snickering. With the exception of the guinea pigs, Melvin lives alone - no friends, no family - and that's how he likes it.
At the end of a long day, if you stand outside the shack, you can hear scratchy records playing and Marvin's boot-heels clacking on the floorboards. You might even catch his silhouette - a shadow against the firelight - twirling past the window as he whoops it up.