A Somewhat Comical Ork Story involving a Big Mek and his newly Completed SAG

[LordTrebor]

This story is hopefully the first part in more to come. A prologue if you will. It is probably rife with spelling and gramatical mistakes. (The orkish sounding ones are intentional!) Enjoy and feel free to critisize/rep/worship/whatever.

It was early dawn in the ork encampment. The orange sun was just beginning to shine through a thick layer of clouds, illuminating –but not waking- the half asleep orks below. There was much groaning and orkish swearing as this occurred. Most of them didn’t want to be woken. However one ork was up, and unlike his fellows had an abundance of energy about him.


Big Mek “Speed” Ratcha could hardly contain himself. He was as giddy as tankbusta after his first kill and was hopping up and down like a squig anticipating a treat. After weeks of trading/stealing parts and countless hours putting those parts together, “Speed” Ratcha had finally built it: a Shokk Attack Gun. He had fired it for the first time last night, destroying a warbuggy that the unfortunate owner had (foolishly) left unattended. By the time the buggy’s owner returned, it was reduced to a crater that smelled like snotling guts and engine oil; a success!


After this first successful test fire, Ratcha was eager to test his gun in battle, and was now making his way through the ork encampment to his Warboss’s tent. The Big Mek was practically skipping there. It didn’t matter if he was seen doing this. Most of the orks were still asleep anyway. Besides if any ork saw him and said anything, Ratcha would be very pleased anyway. Another target for his Shokk Attack Gun…


Ratcha’s task was simple. He was on his way to meet the Warboss and tell him the good news about the gun and suggest that they go off and test it proper on whatever unfortunate beings crossed their path. A simple request really, one that most Ork commanders would be all too willing to do. However, today wasn’t the case. Most of the warband was simply unable and unwilling to fight right now.
[COLOR=#000000

]Last night, while Ratcha was putting the finishing touches on his Shokk Attack Gun, the rest of the warband was busy enjoying themselves. The Warboss, Big Nooreg, da Tyrant, had organized a squig fighting tournament that the majority of the warband had entered. Huge amounts of teef changed hands and at the end of the tournament, those teef went on to buy barrels of fungus rum and cases of intoxicating “funny” smoke stikks (orkish cigars with minor hallucinogenic properties.) By the time “Speed” Ratcha had finished his first test fire, the tournament’s contestants were now dancing wildly, puffing smoke stikks, and shooting guns up in the air with one hand while swigging fungus rum with the other. [/color]


As such, the majority of the warband was hung over and still half dazed from breathing too much cigar smoke, and thus did not possess the energy that Ratcha had right now. Most had slept right where they had fallen during the previous night’s festivities. Everywhere Ratcha looked there were orks strung out all over the place, the ground littered with bottles and half consumed smoke stikks.


As Ratcha made his way through the camp, it became quite clear that the Boss and most of the warband were simply not up for a Waaagh! right now. The orks were barely cognizant, babbling stupidly about how they drank too much or still in the middle of hallucinogenic visions involving talking flying squig faeries. Not exactly the condition one goes to war in. Most could barely (or were unable to stand.) Ratcha looked around in disgust. Even the gretchin were intoxicated. Droves of them lay on the outskirts of the ork celebration, most not moving. These stoopid zoggers don’t look like they’re up fer a good Waaagh! Ratcha thought.


When Ratcha got to the Boss’s tent this feeling was reconfirmed. His Warboss, Big Nooreg, da Tyrant was leaning up against his tent, half awake and babbling. His big choppa was in one hand and a large bag of yellow teef in the other. A barrel of fungus rum was at his feet. Apparently the Warboss had decided that bottles were beneath him and had drunk strait from the barrel. The warboss’s combi-skorcha lay beside him, and several shells littered the ground, along with four half-consumed “funny” smoke stikks. He was lying in a pool of half dried puke and excrement. The smell was atrocious even by Ork standards.


Unsure of what to say, and trying not to laugh at the comical scene, Ratcha cautiously approached the partied out Warboss.

“Eh, mornin’ Boss?” said Ratcha hesitantly.


“Wado yoo want wif me?” replied Nooreg in a dazed voice. He seemed a million light years away.


Despite his somewhat soured mood, Ratcha could no longer contain himself. He was dying to tell someone about his newly completed gun. Before Nooreg could even object the Big Mek went off ranting.


“Member dat big Shokk gun I’ve been workin’ on, well last night I finished it, and I was finkin’ we could go out krumpin’. Ya know, test it out! Its gonna be da best gun ever, I fink. I made it from an old kustum force field and a buncha scrap we took off dem marine boyz and dat spinner fing I took of dat Tau flying machine and some metal wot bitz I took (er borrowed) from Scrag and I got me a bunch of snotlings from Runtheard Gilga. He gave em too me when I fixed ‘is grot pod. I also got me a chompy squig we can shoot froo da Warp too. Hey maybe some of dem deamon fings will come out of da Warp! We can krump dem too! And maybe-”
Suddenly Nooreg interrupted him.

Unable to put up with Ratcha’s babbling anymore and convinced that in fact Ratcha was a flying talking squig, the Warboss gave a mighty roar:
“SHUDD UP!!”


Had be been fully cognizant the Warboss would have ripped Ratcha in half, but in his condition all he could to was barely lift up his choppa. However, Ratcha took the hint and immediately went silent.
“SHUDD UP!” Nooreg shouted again, gesturing with his choppa. His head franticly jerked up and his one good eye darted around, as if looking for something. “Go shoot yer stoopid gun fing if ya wants, just leave me alone! You stoopid warp beasties need ta jus leave me alone already be fer I krump da lot of yooz Stoopid flying fings!”


As quickly as he came Ratcha retreated. There was no point in talking to a half asleep intoxicated Warboss, especially when he thought you were a flying talking squig.
“Well…” thought Ratcha as he walked off “ ‘e did say I could go shoot it…. And ‘e didn’t say I couldn’t take sum of da ladz wif me…”


As Ratcha thought this he smiled. And despite the fact that a couple of boyz were looking in his direction, he began to skip happily; a couple shots from his slugga silencing the foolish onlookers. Ratcha skipped all the way back to his workshop to fetch his gun; he would take it out on an adventure of his own, whether his Warboss liked it or not. And he would find some boyz who weren’t hung over or talking to flying talking squigs to go with him.


Although the rest of the ork camp did not know it yet; Waaagh! Ratcha had begun…

***

[The Fifth Horseman]

It's over-the-top, brutal... and yes, definitely comical in the Orkish kind of way.

Keep it going!

[LordTrebor]

Finally a comment! And a positive one at that! I was getting worried there for a bit. And yes, i'm writing the other part(s) and they will be posted in due time.

[Sitnam]

I also fully approve of this story. While it is comical, it doesn't stretch the fluff at all because Orks are exactly like this.