A swing of a blade, swingeth true. To make its mark, a great wielder through and through. Isn’t this the shittiest first line of a poem ever? A poem about me. A man who has seen countless battles; a man who has withstood against witches, goblins and wayward women; a man who can write a better poem, especially about himself.

Which leads me to explain why I am writing this memoir. Nobody knows who I am. Of course they know me by songs and tales of my exploits; yet they don’t know how I came to be. I need to squash the absurd rumors, such as the number of monsters I have slain; it is 126 not 115. Or the number of women I have copulated with. They are not counting all the married ones, which I can understand, to protect their identities. This is why I have to write this down, without names; of course. It is 57, by the way, and counting.

I won’t begin with my birth, no one cares about that. Yet I will begin when I was a child in my cottage by the sea. Great beginnings start as a wee sapling growing to become the heroic figure. My parents and I lived in a well to do – I need to stop right here. This is all horse shite. It’s not true. I lived in horse shite. We didn’t have a cottage near the ocean or had a fancy upbringing.