This is an old story I wrote for a 40k Ork writing competition way back. The Ork Speech is a bit awful, and there's lots of in-Ork references (Beakie means Space Marine BTW), but it's fun if you like 40k, gretchin and puns. Enjoy.
A Grot’s Life
“CLUNK! WAZZIB-GURGLE… BLAP”. The disconcerting sounds were grimly familiar to the onlookers; well, those that dared to be onlookers. The grot stared exasperatingly at Mek Garbrek; the hunched Ork scratched its head in puzzlement. “Not agen…” murmured Garbrek. The strange construct had been making those noises for the past few days, and Garbrek had tried just about everything to figure out what was wrong with it.
‘It’ was a strange buggy, one that had a rather oversized gun on it. Well, the gun wasn’t particularly the oversized bit; that would be the ‘powa generataee fing’. The grot hadn’t seen anything like it: countless cogs, wires, turny bitz, readout dialz, stuff-exhausts, uvva wires, pistons, batteries and lotz of uvva gubbinz that had some unknown use to the eyes of a lowly rigga. It was fairly huge, and intricate; most of these intricacies were far more noticeable when the hatch at the side was open, and it was. In fact, Garbrek had already motioned to some of the riggas to enter the hatch. He didn’t need to speak; the riggas knew the drill by now.
They approached with caution, brooding with the dread that clearly marked their faces. They slowly plunged into the darkness of the hatch, and started fiddling with wurky bitz that only they could see. “CLUNK…” the machine began again: “WAZZIB-GURGLE… WURRRRR-zittttt…”
It was then that the three grots came running out of the opening in the back, yelling one of the words no grot rigga ever wants to hear: “WAZZAMAMMA!!!” they shrieked in unison, as if they were being chased by the biggest squig in the universe.
The explosion that followed was deafening.
The fault, whatever it was, allowed the powa generataee fing to successfully deconstruct the entire machine in a matter of seconds into constituent debris that dispersed wildly in a storm of metal bitz and unpleasant flamey-lightening stuff. Several scraps flew past the grot, making their own crashing noises behind him. He sneaked a glance around at Garbrek, who hadn’t even flinched.
This fact supports a common theorem that distinguishes a good Ork Mek from the rest, that when their inventions malfunction and explode, they survive. That’s pretty much it. This also determines a good rigga.
The grot looked around to see what remained of the three fleeing grots, and all that presented itself was a scorched grot sticking out of one of the far walls with an unsurprisingly shocked expression on its face. It was fairly clear that Fikkit wouldn’t be needing his share of the fungus slop tonight.
Garbrek looked around at the Grot: “Yoo! Wassitnaym…”
“Sputnik.” the grot muttered.
“Yerh, Sputnik…” Garbrek counter-muttered. “Git yazelf ta da Boss, tell im iz Bike az ‘ad sum… err… komplicashunz…”
Sputnik nodded, and turned to exit the mekshop. “BUT!” roared Garbrek, “Dunt tayk all day abowt it, ya uzelezz runt!” Sputnik didn’t look back, he merely ran off as quickly as possible.
This was of course, an age-old Gretchin ploy. His run out of the shop, which an experienced Grot would make in the correct direction of their errand, was a mere trick used to fool the Ork. Gretchin ploys were numerous, and older than the Runtherders who assumed such things did not exist; or at least didn’t mention that they did, for no particularly explored reason.
“Sprokkit savez da day agen!” Sputnik sniggered to himself. He ran around the nearest corner, and peeked back around it. Gretchin have excellent eyesight, so they tend to put distance between them and the smarter Orks to avoid being seen (which is of course, another clever ploy). He looked into the Mekshop and could clearly see Garbrek angrily pointing at his runts to collect the pieces of shrapnel so that he could start again.
Sputnik smiled to himself. He knew he didn’t need to run his errand. Unlike Garbrek, he had some sense. Warboss Gorgrim was not deaf; he would have heard the explosion, and with Orks being Orks, observant to immediacies, he would have known minutes ago, and he would already be on his way. Garbrek would have enough on his plate to even consider him. It was time for a well-deserved break, the moment every grot waited for, and any grot with half his wits could create on a constant basis.
Building to a crescendo were the loud multitudes of stomping belonging to Boss Gorgrim and his band of Nobz. He could see them now, heading down the wide roadway of the Town, heading to the turning he was standing at. Sputnik already knew that the warboss and his attendants would be turning east of his position into the mekshop. Gorgrim did not look very happy. Sputnik smiled, the more outraged he was, the longer Sputnik had to loaf around. If Gorgrim looked non-too-happy, his Nobz looked patently furious, although they always did. They were rougher than a cave squig on a forced diet. They always looked hunched as if about to begin a running headbutt, and they constantly snarled at anyone or anything that dared make eye contact. The closer they got, the more that Sputnik (wisely) backed off into the shadows.
Sure enough, they turned east, and they had barely done that before Gorgrim roared: “GAAARRRBREKKK!!” the mere sound of it made Garbrek drop his tools and look on in fear, as pretty much every other Ork nearby was trying not to do, as Gorgrim hated being stared at. One Ork foolishly failed to look away, but with barely a gesture from Gorgrim, one of his Nobz’ choppas found itself imbedded in its skull, and the Ork dropped like a sack of squigs with no legs; if the Ork was dead, it aught to be relieved. Well it was, of duty.
As much as Sputnik longed to hear Garbrek’s excuses, and enjoy watching him get pummelled, he had better ideas. Sputnik trotted off to the Bloated Squig, meeting place of Grots, when the Orks weren’t looking…
********************************
Garbrek coughed and spluttered as he tried to shake off the aches and pains that had presented themselves like a falling Squiggoth. “Dere, dere, Garbrek…” Boss Gorgrim muttered at him croakily: “Yoo wer lucky! My Ladz cud ‘ave uz’d da uvva side uv de’r choppaz!” The warboss appeared amused, this lightened Garbrek’s spirits, but he made a good effort to hide it, which wasn’t difficult; his imagination was pretty fertile with ideas about what would happen to him if the boss was still angry. Garbrek was however curious as to whether the Boss would be relieved if he knew that Garbrek had turned his bike into a buggy before he blew it up.
“Sorree Boss” Garbrek whimpered “Itz jus’ not easee ta find gud runtz deze dayz!”
Gorgrim glared at him angrily: “Zo, yer runtz ar’ at fawlt eh? Well yer dunt need em den, duz ya? Fix it yerself!” Gorgrim turned and looked at his Nobz: “Ladz, get all ‘iz runtz, an’ bring em ta me. Growla wont be ‘ungry tunite…”
********************************
Sputnik wandered into the Bloated Squig. The door was a hinged barrel that was filled with rotten old fungus brew. The brew was so solid it had fused into the wall. It had taken several grots weeks to pick axe to the wooden crate’s edge. The doorkeeper as always wore a peg on its nose, and expected the password, which was Frig, a mild Gretchin curse word, usually used shortly before the grot suffered a lot of pain, death or both.
Sputnik glanced around. The makeshift bar was a pretty impressive sight considering the Orks knew nothing about it. The bar counter was made from smuggled bits and bobs; the bit that always stuck out most was the various remaining parts of the armour of Shabskul, which made up most of the front panel. The Grots had acquired it easily, as no one wanted the flattened armour of the last warboss, especially as Gorgrim’s personal battlewagon’s deffrolla had probably placed it in such a state. No Ork would want it anyway; it was technically still being used; the grot regulars had already grown used to the stench.
As all gretchin were obliged to do by custom, he stopped by the Sprokkit Idol, and nodded at it, before heading to the bar. Sputnik was fond of their Idol, it was of course not of Sprokkit (although he’d never seen Sprokkit so he didn’t know if it was a good likeness), but it was a small, snot-sized statue. It always perplexed him that Sprokkit, a legendarily smart grot, would have such a painfully bad expression on its face. Of course, no snot ever looked that happy when it was dipped in quick setting mud.
Sputnik however was just like any other Grot in just about any Ork world since the Waaaghs of the Arch Arsonists and Ghazkhull. In gretchin circles, Sprokkit was a legendary name. It was the legendary name of a legendary grot, incidentally called Sprokkit. Sprokkit is credited with the first and only verbal book (well, book of any kind) of the Gretchin. It is simply entitled ‘Sprokkitz Ployz’, and concerns the various tricks of the trade that Gretchin know inherently.
Most Grots can recite the first 3 chapters; some can even stretch to the last one. The ‘Ployz’ book does however have its own natural selection issues. As it is verbally passed on from grot to grot, you can never be sure it’s accurate, or that the grot has told you it very well, meaning that some grots suffer for using the ‘Ploy’ incorrectly. The most popular ploy in the book concerns the issue of ‘How ta get stuff from da big guyz’. It is of course, unerringly simple. Sprokkit suggests: ‘A sympul methud, ta fool da big guyz, iz ta tell ‘em yoo’r on a job fer annuva big guy.’ The application of the ‘Foolz Errand’ is so commonplace that Orks are so completely fooled into thinking that Grots are mostly busy doing important jobs, and not slacking off, which is clearly not true, or Sprokkit would not be such a huge ‘Best Teller’.
Sputnik contemplated Sprokkit’s strange status as object of interest to all Gretchin everywhere. Every Grot in his town knew him intimately, yet none of them had met him. He was surprisingly wise for a Grot, most Grots were smart, but not that smart. Sputnik’s attention switched to the mild concern on the faces of other Grots around him. Had he been standing there that long? He quickly turned around, bore a face of mild perplexity and made his way to the bar.
“Fung Brew wid a stikk” muttered Sputnik “In a cleen glazz.”
“Fungus iz off” counter muttered the bargrot.
“What? It’z Fungus, it can’t go off coz it iz alredee!” Sputnik snapped.
“Yeh, yoo smell it tho,” replied the bargrot “an’ yoo wunt drink it naytha”
“Wat you got, not…”
“Yerh, juz’ Squigade”
“Wateva.”
The bargrot shoved an Ork shoota glass (which is about a pint to a Grot) into a bubbling vat of greeny yellow liquid and dumped it on the bar next to Sputnik.
“Ya shud cut bak Sputz. Yoo’r not seemin’ yerzelf deze dayz.” The barkeep seemed genuinely concerned. “Yoo’z pawzin’ at dat Idol too much, Sprokkitz Law sez ya shud cut down!”
Of course, the 4th chapter of Sprokkitz Ployz was the bit every Grot was quick to not bother remembering, and that was because it underlined Sprokkitz Law. Sprokkitz Law, as Sprokkit explains: “my law meanz dat yoo gitz shud onlee uze dez Ployz wen ya need to. If ya uze ‘em too oftin, da big guyz mite notiz, an yoo mite even forgetz how ta tell da truff fer wunce.”
Most loyal followers of Sprokkit were convinced that there was wisdom in what he said, and those Grots were usually the ones with a stronger sense of duty. Sputnik tended to sniff at them; he felt they weren’t using Sprokkit’s wisdom for what it was for. One day, he was convinced that it would save his life.
Sputnik stared at himself in the reflection on the top of the thinly slimy Squigade he held in his left hand. Sputnik’s features were unnaturally sharp for a Grot, his nose in particular was oddly crooked and sharp, and his eyes were small and piercing. He was however still quite young (even for a Rigga), although the trademark Rigga frown lines (known as ‘Riggin Rutz’ by most Grots), had started to present themselves, as well as the unnaturally pallid skin from working in cramped and dark conditions had begun to break out in small blotches on his skin. Sputnik in particular disliked his goggle marks, an eternal reminder of how much time he tended to spend welding plates and rivets into place.
Sputnik had quite a stocky build, for a Grot. He retained the ability to flex a bit of muscle, built from heavy lifting and heavy slacking. Sputnik was the kind of Grot who always managed to avoid total drudgery, thanks to Sprokkit, and as he casually dunked back his second repulsive Squigade, he contemplated on when he could be bothered to go back to work; ‘One more drink Sputnik’ he thought to himself.
********************************
Nabskul dived behind an old and rusty wheel in the alley of the Bloated Squig. His little heart was beating heavily, and he was panting like a racing squig after a 10-lap race where it hadn’t stopped to eat one of the other competitors. He had just ran for his life; he never thought Gorgrim’s Nobz could run that fast.
“Frig!” he cursed breathlessly. It sounded as if he had swallowed a rippa squig as he said it.
The door in the barrel opened.
It was then that Nabskul came to his senses and remembered why he was there. He fluttered through the door and it closed behind him. He fell to his knees and clambered on all fours to the bar. The bargrot and other Grots rubbed their eyes, as if there was something in the Squigade that was making this day seem too different.
“Sputnik!” Nabskul struggled out a cry.
“Wassup Nabskul,” replied Sputnik coldly, “Yoo nik’d Garbrek’s spottin’ goggulz agen?”
“Nuh!” Nabskul muttered, “Gorgrim’s Nobz arr afta uz!”
“Wat?” Sputnik yelled, dropping his Squigade onto the bar floor.
“We’z getting’ da blaym fer ‘iz bike blowin’ up, we’z all gunna be fed ta Growla! We gotta get outta ‘ere!”
“Dey’ll not find uz ‘ere, stop panikkin!”
Nabskul looked around the bar. The faces on the Grots, particular the bargrot, made it clear that Sputnik’s last sentence was not popular opinion.
“Sputnik,” the bargrot uttered coldly, “If ya dun’t leev in a few secundz, we’ll frow ya owt!”
“Huh?” replied Sputnik, “But if dey find uz…”
“If dey find ya ‘ere we all get ta tawk ta Growla!” the bargrot folded his arms.
Sputnik looked around for any sign of support, but he knew it would be selfish to doom the Bloated Squig. He got up without saying a word, and dragged a hapless Nabskul with him.
“Wat we gunna do Sputnik?” once Nabskul had got his breath back.
“Well, accordin’ ta Sprokkit, da wun playze dey wunt look fer ya, iz da playze dey expekt ya ta be!” Sputnik claimed optimistically.
“But ‘ow we gunna get dere?”
“Dunno…”
********************************
Mek Garbrek had been working furiously, and was almost finished. It was a masterpiece. He had spent every second since Gorgrim left working on it; every idea, design, piece of unknown gubbinz fer a rainy day, and ounce of his own photosynthetic sweat had gone into it. He turned the final nut a few notches tighter for luck. He nodded to the Nob staring at him, who apparently had been there waiting to see if his runts returned, but he had a feeling that the Nob was simply there to make sure he didn’t do a runner.
He stood back and gaped silently at it. Had the Orkiod Species known the phrase ‘Decked out with all the Bells ‘n Whistles’ it would have been on the tip of Garbrek’s tongue. It was a masterpiece, glinting bright red, with Zzap Guns, Rokkit Launchas, Ejecta Seats (whatever those were), Deffkopta conversion capabilities, jet skis, airstrike missiles, bomms, cruise control, powered deff-rays, a Deffrolla, lots of Rivits, and even more stuff, some that even Garbrek hadn’t begun to consider what they were for.
Surely, surely, Gorgrim would be overjoyed and Garbrek would finally be his Big Mek…
********************************
“I can’t beleev we’r doin’ diz…” muttered Nabskul “Shurelee der’z a betta way…”
“Do yoo fink aneewun will ask wat we doin lik diz?” replied Sputnik confidently
“I dunt fink dey’ll cum neer ta ask noffin’!” snapped Nabskul
“Egzactlee.” Sputnik smiled, trying not to wince.
“Lukky yoo found da pegz…” brightened Nabskul, still tearful with the stench.
Sputnik smiled to himself, nobody would be looking for Riggas pushing the Dumpkart. It was a lucky thing really, the last two Dumpkart pushaz had lost their job, which was common for the post, especially when you didn’t move and smelt worse than the kart.
The pair dragged the Kart towards Garbrek’s hut. The Orks around surprisingly made themselves scarce. There’s something about true stench that can even make a Goff break into tears, hence why they make the runts deal with it. It was of course a hazardous job, as most gretchin jobs were, but an Ork could normally survive being bitten in half by a Squig hanging out in the dump pits.
“…but we iz goin da wrong way Sputz”
“Dunt worree, if anywun askz, jus’ say we’z pickin’ up sum uv Garbrek’z notez!”
The Mekshop was in sight, and good grief. It appears that Orks CAN do the manual labour when sufficiently motivated. Sputnik smothered a snigger. It looked quite amazing, and this time it was still a bike, quite a big bike, but a bike nonetheless. The two grots looked around cautiously, before leaving the Kart and sprinting for the Mekshop’s side entrance.
Peering through the doorway, Garbrek was all alone, standing around, gleaming with pride, next to the bike. He was looking eagerly for the arrival of the boss.
“Weur do we hidez?” whispered Nabskul.
“Weur else? In da Bike!”
Slowly at first, and then with a desperate rush, they jumped into a small crevice next to a big pedal thing, which Nabskul decided to sit on.
Sure enough, the boss arrived.
“Arh, good, Garbrek. Diz iz jus’ da fing!” the Boss briefly grinned.
Garbrek nodded. “If ya’ll purmit me boss, ya’ll zee dere’z a lot uv stuff…”
At the other side of the bike, the two Grots sat uneasily.
“We shud reallee move Sputz,” Nabskul muttered urgently; “Ee’ll be takin’ it un a test drayve or summit!”
Sputnik hesitated. The nobz were standing around the bike, and getting out now might prove problematic.
“…an diz pedal un diz side letz ya go forwa’d da uvva makez ya go backwa’d. An yer jus’ press diz button to start da engine, an den… Waat??”
The Bike shot backwards.
“WAZZAMAMMA!!!”
Crashing straight through the back of the mekshop, the Bike flew at breakneck speeds into the distant desert.
“FRIIIIGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!”
The two grots hung on for grim death, trying not to look at the perplexed Ork faces they had left behind.
The roof of the mekshop buckled and collapsed. Out of the roof stood a silent, but noticeable angry Warboss Gorgrim.
“GET DEM.”
********************************
Sputnik slowly clambered to the top of the driver’s seat and looked perplexingly at all the many red buttons that lay before him. There were more than he thought possible for a Bike; there were more than he thought possible for a Battlewagon in all honesty.
“Wat wun did da Mek say wuz da stop buttun?”
“Da red wun!” shouted Nabskul “Hang on, I’ll cum up.”
“No, wait dere ya git! Umm, oh frig…”
The rumbling in the distance Sputnik saw a fairly unpleasant sight, a moving wall of Red, broken up with the occasional angry speck of green. It was Gorgrim and as much of his speed freaking hoard that he could muster in a minutes notice, which was quite a lot as it turned out.
Gorgrim didn’t look too pleased.
“Umm, err…” Sputnik stuttered “D-DON’T M-M-MOVE NABZ!!”
“Why, yoo found da stop buttun?” Nabskul shouted.
“Nut egsaktlee…”
“Huh?”
“Chayng uv plan Nabz,” Sputnik roared, “We gotta keep movin’…”
“Why?”
“If we dunt we’r ded.”
“Oh.”
Gorgrim was closing. He was driving his kustomized Battlewagon like he was possessed by the angry Gork himself. His Deffrolla was bigger than about ten of the Trukks that ran alongside his battlewagon. Each spike was probably bigger than an Ork, and it was quite a surprise that you could see anything else. It was quite clear that if they stopped or even slowed, Sputnik would find himself in want of a better place to be at the precise moment that the Deffrolla caught up.
It was at this point that Gorgrim yelled out in rage, and his pack of Bikers broke out of the din of vehicles and closed ground with disgusting precision and speed. The dakka had already started to rumble out and mercilessly rush towards their position.
So Sputnik started pressing buttons.
Out of nowhere it seemed, the Buggy produced two large guns that started spinning and unloaded horrendously loud volleys of large bullets.
DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA BOOOOMMMMMM
The bikes exploded left, right and centre, throwing Orks about like Snots in a Squig barrel; Orks that probably now wished they’d stayed behind and complained about engine trouble.
Gorgrim was no longer noticeable in the distinctly closer red blur of his battlewagon. His face was red with rage, so that was understandable. He was however grinning, because he, and every other freak that was nearby had pressed the red button on the strange stick to the left of the wheel that none of them ever bothered with. They were now moving faster than one of Mork’s jokes that Gork never laughed at.
Sputnik looked up, screeching franticly as blurs became quicker and vastly growing blurs. He frantically kept on mashing buttons. Behind him, he was vaguely aware of the subtle whirring and humming that was going behind him. Nabskul looked up and saw the flashing lights that were coming from the spinning pointing things that stuck out like a Scorpsquig’s nasty and oddly venomous tail.
FOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
A constant and strong ray of intense energy flashed and shot forward, followed by the launching of countless rokkits into the air which arched back to the ground and pulled up, all flowing in the direction of the red wall of vehicles.
Gorgrim had probably seen the flash, but a few seconds later it didn’t matter whether he had or not. His battlewagon blew apart in a heap of shrapnel, sending his Deffrolla thundering to the right, rolling over all the Trukks and Battlewagons like it was a hot knife through ‘I can’t believe it’s not Beakie’.
The ray continued, disintegrating anything that got in the way, until Orktown became Orktowns.
Then the missiles arrived, blowing the remaining stuff to smithereens. Sputnik breathed a sigh of relief. When the smoke rose, all that lay was shrapnel and groaning Orks, and the distant sight of a Deffrolla, running along happily. The Ork in the Bike ahead of it didn’t look happy, especially as his steering had locked.
“Okay Sputz, can wee stop now?”
“Why?”
“We’z gonna hit wid da Blakk Forest! An’ not at Walkin speed!”
“Frig…”
Less than a minute later, the Bike disappeared into the trees and then a thunderous explosion roared across the whole valley.
********************************
In the remnants of Orktown, Mek Garbrek stood shocked at the devastation. The Zzap blast had missed him by less than a Squig’s foot and lit his cigar. Two Orks ran into what remained of the Mekshop.
“Wat we gunna do Garbrek?” shouted the first Ork
“Da Bozz is gon, we need moar vehculz!” shouted the second.
“Dat’z Big Mek Garbrek!” he smiled. “Why dunt ya start by payin me sumfink, startin maybee wid da Bozz’s old plaze…”
********************************
When Sputnik came to, he was lying in a bed. The pain jolted through his system, and hit him like a metal Squig. He looked to his left and there was Nabskul.
“Yoo’r finallee awayk!”
“Nabz, yoo’r still not ded!”
“Yeh, I wuz flung cleer. Yoo’r lukkin betta now dat yer not blue…”
“Weur arr we?”
“Allow me ta ansa dat…” uttered a snot’s voice. “I’m da Mayur uv Sproktown, yoo’r in da Blakk Forest!”
“Huh?” Sputnik and Nabskul replied in unison
“Lissen, arr any uv yoo two Sprokkit?”
“Nuh?” they both replied perplexedly.
“Aw. He’z been gown a ‘undred yearz an he sed ‘ee wuz onlee poppin to da shopz…”
END.
