Regret that I died not to blade or bow, a mighty warrior of renown, or even some lad trying to prove himself.
I will not die in a blaze of glory protecting something from countless hordes.
My skill with my greatsword, unpolished as it is, shall not be sung of.
No, I shall die of poisoning from a slighted elven mother, alone, and in obscurity.
So many things I wanted to do...so much fame and fortune I was to acquire...
With my last breath, and an odd name popping into my head, no doubt the result of the poison, I shout to the gods, "WITH MY LAST BREATH, I CURSE ZOIDBERG!"
The rest...is silence.