My Dramatic Retelling of Bewoulf.

The crisp, clear winds breached the doors of St. Crispin's Halls, whistling good fortune to the penitent masses below. Father Leo curled his lips into a tight, familiar smile from seeing his children cluster for worship. The word of God echoed in the breasts of men, making new their glad spirits. Quaking in place with reverence, the marble walls shook heavily, as if to join in the frenzy. This word, fresh from the lips of the exalted, was not only heard by the Holy Multitude. It traveled over the grassy knolls, through the dusty cracks in the rock-hewn hills, until came to the ears of Satan's Flatulence himself, Grendel! Spawned from the gases of the malfesting corpses of sinners, it was said he gained a stripe for every poor soul he killed with his life-devouring stench! He streaked through the undergrowth, leaving long, oily trails of death behind him, as if to remind nature of his passing. Choking, all life perished before him, browning and rotting in a matter of mere seconds. He would have none of this raucous noise; never before had one dared to bring such a pox upon him! No longer would Grendel hear the voices of his enemy, baying for him to perish!

Stealthily, silently, the Furred Fiend stood in the doorway, nullifying all chance for escape. His rear lifted high, he let loose a blast of the smell of Hell Itself. Begging for air, the congregation dropped almost methodically, the thump of a falling corpse creating a grim rhythm that the Striped Behemoth sang aloud to. All perished before this relentless slaughter, save for the pastor himself. Locked inside his office, he called the greatest Monster Hunter in all the land, Beowulf. Clutching the phone is his meaty hands, Nature's Master learned of the tragedy that had occurred. But he would not stand for this cowardice, even if it came from the high servant of God. He asked Leo if he had tried to fight the beast, and was met with a symphony of whimpers and muttering. Silent at first, the baritone tremors that barely constituted Beowulf's voice spat darts of disgust through the line. The pastor loved these people from the bottom of his heart, sharing meals, teaching, preaching… And yet he would not stand up for them, even in death? The line crackled, and then disappeared.

A Massive black figure against the milky white sky, the Exterminator of Evil rushed to the scarlet-covered debacle. Arriving at the scene, a crunch, a rip, a tear rended the air. Standing alone in the doorway, he saw the Grendel, guzzling blood like hot soup. He slurped greedily on lifeless veins, crunching with delight on the bones left behind. Slowly, confidently, the Defiler of Light turned around, mottled crimson staining his jowls. Not even bothering to growl, he turned in silence, staring down his newest meal. His fur bristled, and then. . . Pain unlike ever before. Evil's bane slammed against the wall, an impotent sack of flesh for a moment. A sore laugh broke Grendel's lips, mocking his Beowulf's collapsed state. Bloodied but not broken, Evil's captor taunted Grendel. His lack of stench was inferior, and he had slain far more the day before. Enraged, Grendel let loose a stream of deadly gas, hitting Beowulf directly!

The valiant warrior collapsed, and Grendel dashed toward the corpse. Suddenly, faster than the eye could see, Beowulf seized Grendel by the throat and squeezed with the strength of a thousand men. His fingernails stabbed like daggers into the throat of Grendel, who struggled and squirmed like a fish at the end of a line. Sending noxious fumes every which way in dying, spastic fit, Grendel choked out his last words. "You wretch. How did you survive my stench?" The enormous Beowulf said nothing at all, silent as a stone statue. And the last spark of life left Grendel's massive frame. A mighty thud reverberated throughout the chapel, a gong to flag the end of this great conflict. And as if to mark this victory, Beowulf uttered "Because I held my breath." He spit globs of warm blood on the tile, like a map to a violent new continent. Staggering down the aisle, an old, decrepit hand lolled over the side of the altar, like a shy mouse. It was the Pastor, cold and dead. With the smallest of smiles, Beowulf quietly turned and left the chapel, finally closing the great oaken doors behind him. The wind beat against them, longing to whistle for the Father and his children once again.