So I was cruising down the hall, strutting my swag when I notice that something interesting is happening in the Mead Hall. I peek inside and see dozens of men eating dinner with each other and generally having fun… without having invited me.
See, the problem with being Grendel is that people see you and automatically assume that you’re going to rip the head off of the person next to you and then eat them right then and there.
I have much more self-control than that. I wait a few hours for their fear to marinate a little bit before I pull the old ‘‘Whoa, look behind you!’’ and then eat the suckers when they look back.
Why did Beowulf attack me? Good question. I’ve been hanging around the kingdom for twelve years and nobody has really made a fuss about it. I guess that eating people isn’t socially acceptable anymore.
Beowulf attacks me and he’s tugging on my arm when he viciously pulls on my arm and - next thing I know - he rips off my arm up to the shoulder blade.
So you think you’re having a bad day? Try having your arm ripped off by some Danish guy in a skintight barbarian leopard-spotted leotard, and suddenly realizing that you’re now the One-Armed Amputee Beastmonger of Herot.
It was at that point that I knew he had won…single-handedly.
I tried to defend myself by clawing him in the fact with my one arm. It didn’t work.
When clawing Beowulf didn’t work, I went for my second line of attack: run for the hills! So I slithered away, clutching the stump where my arm used to be, back to my fen when I pulled the most amazing fail in bad Dark-Aged literature:
I tripped into the fen and the heavy fall is what killed me. Tripped right over a rock and landed snout-first into the fen. The story says I just walked in there, but I didn’t. I think that at that point, even Beowulf and his friends started to feel bad for me and decided to lie about it just to save me that embarrassment.
My feelings on my inevitable death can be summed up in a few...