Gred's Day Off: A Warhammer 40K Orks Story

Gred's Day Off

"Finga. Ear. Finga. Ooh, tung."

Dok Squishybits plucked the severed tongue from one of the many blades on his power klaw and popped it into his mouth. Cleaning his tools after battle was one of his favourite things to do, especially when it yielded tasty treats. He loved 'oomee tongues – much softer than squig or grot tongues. Squishybits continued to pick the gore from his klaw, ignoring the scowl of his boss.

Gred Boneshredda wrung the haft of his 'uge choppa impatiently, peering around the warkamp of Da Tuffboyz hoping to catch a glimpse of who he was waiting for. He'd already spoken to Krug, his second-in-command, and the nobz about where he was heading, so it was just his two oddboyz he still needed a word with. Behind him, at the edge of kamp, a trukk's enjin sputtered and growled idly. Gred hadn't driven a trukk himself in quite some time. When it was time to fight, he usually stood in the tray at the back where he could yell right in his boyz' ears, or on top of the roof enjoying the wind on his face and the bugs in his teef. Granted, there was no windshield on this trukk, so maybe he would get a few beetles on this trip anyway.
But the driver's seat was meant for a much smaller ork than him, one who wasn't encased in a boxy suit of mega armour. He could take the armour off, but that would just be naff. Gred hadn't taken this armour off since the day he got it, and he certainly wasn't about to remove it now. It hadn't occurred to Gred that the armour was bolted to his flesh and would not be possible to remove anyway, but that only would have made him feel smarter in his decision. On his left shoulder, Dak nervously fidgeted with a bullet casing. The gunner grot didn't like the sound of the trip they were going on, but nothing could be scarier than what might happen if he said no to the boss.

"Finga. Noze. Nippl- oi! Dere 'e iz, boss!"

Squishybits pointed past the squig pens, and a hunched (even by ork standards), rotund figure ambled towards them. 'Eadbanga Skabgog held his copper staff close as he shuffled through the kamp, his head throbbing with pain. There had been a proper good scrap with the 'oomeez today and the ladz still hadn't settled down. He could hear their cheering, their swearing, their laughter rattling around in his skull. The totem faces on his staff glowed dimly and began to vibrate. Skabgog thought he might throw up again. He had thrown up a lot today, mostly when a nob picked him up and squeezed him so the resulting torrent of ectoplasm would incinerate whichever 'oomeez were unfortunate enough to be in the way. He didn't like throwing up, or being picked up by nobz, or being in fights at all. He just wanted to sit in his shakk where it was nice and quiet, away from all the other boyz, and make a big bowl of squig soup. But when the boss calls, it doesn't matter if you have a rotten 'eadache and a stressy tummy. Finally, Skabgog arrived at the meeting point by the trukk.

"'Ere, boss," Skabgog muttered, scratching between the folds of his exposed brain.
"'Bout toym ya showed up. We been waitin'." Gred glowered at the portly weirdboy, who shrank into himself even more.
"Now lissen up, bofa yaz. I'z 'eddin off fer a bit. Dere-"
"Where ya goin', boss?" Dok Squishybits interjected through a mouthful of 'oomee kneecap.
"LEMME FINISH, YA GIT!" Gred bellowed, rising to his full height – seven or eight feet tall, and that was without the added bulk of the mega armour. The painboy flung his hands up by his side in protest, and Skabgog flinched as a klaw-mounted syringe came dangerously close to his left eye. Gred snorted.
"Sum boyz yooz are. Wun of yaz iz awlways layt, an' da uvva won't let 'iz boss get a wurd in! Now lissen 'ere and lissen propa, kuz I'z only sayin' dis wunce."

"Ya see dem mountinz ova dere?" Gred pointed a cracked nail over to the east, where a series of rugged peaks jutted skyward like giant teef.
"Da Buzz Bruvvaz floo ova dem in dere koptaz befaw da skrap. Dey say dere'z boyz up dere – feral boyz 'oo ain't got no shootaz or no-wots or nuffin."
"But dey'z 'ard. Propa 'ard. 'Ard enuff ta be Tuffboyz, if dey only 'ad sum gubbinz. I'z gunna go out dere and bring 'em bakk 'ere, even if I'z gotta brayk sum 'edz." The warboss grinned, tusks gleaming in the evening light.
"Espeshully if I'z gotta brayk sum 'edz."

"So keep an oy on da ladz woyl I'z gon. Krug'z in charj til I'z bakk. Lissen ta 'im an' da nobz, don't get in too big ov a skrap wifout me, an' woteva ya doo, don't tayk da stompa." Gred pointed again, this time at a different mountain: the monument of scrap metal and heavy-duty dakka that loomed over the Tuffboyz' kamp. The stompa stood like a sentinel over them, its faceplate describing a toofy ork grimace. The colossal mega-choppa on its right arm and the cluster of multi-barrelled ballistic insanity that constituted its left remained raised in its inactivity, as if standing guard over the orks. Dok Squishybits gazed in awe at the monolith of belligerence, flexing his klaw as he took in each of the mega-choppa's gigantic jagged teef. How he would love to pilot the stompa. To tower over the runty 'oomee gargants and obliterate those runts with its dizzying array of dakka. To be deafened by the roar of mighty enjinz as the mega-choppa carved through tanks as though they were nothing more than slow-cooked eatin' squigz.
Skabgog did not want to be anywhere near the stompa. Every boy and grot in Gred's retinue had a hand in assembling the mechanical monster, and they had all poured a part of themselves into it – their souls singing at the top of their lungs in prayer to Gork and Mork with each panel, spike, and shoota hammered into place. The stompa was a reservoir of unfathomable Waaagh! energy waiting to be unleashed and bring the frenzied boyz' excitement to fever pitch. For a weirdboy to expose themselves to that level of energy could be catastrophic for themselves, not to mention every other ork in a five-mile radius.
Skabgog didn't have any of the words to articulate this. All he knew was that looking at the stompa made his tummy feel funny.

"It took a lot ov skrap ta get it awl put tagevva. I don't wont yooz taykin' in fer a joyroyd loyk it woz sum fun-buggy out on da raystrakk!" Gred's voice lowered, and his brow came down like a green thundercloud. "I meenz it. Doo not. Tayk. Da stompa."
"Got it, boss!" Dok Squishybits said a little too enthusiastically, giving a salute with his klaw that came close to becoming his third autolobotomy. Skabgog muttered indistinctly in agreement, clutching his staff with one hand and his ample stomach with the other.
Satisfied, Gred gave a nod and turned to the trukk. He threw his choppa in the passenger seat, then attempted to enter the trukk himself. It took a minute or so to cram himself into the driver's seat, and his enormous form rent the carriage's doorframe at the edges. Dak, clinging to Gred's shoulder for dear life as he heaved himself into the vehicle, was now squashed between the roof of the carriage and Gred's shoulder-mounted big shoota.
"Get cumfy, Dak," the boss said, enveloping the steering wheel in his massive green hands.
"It's gunna be a bumpy royd." Gred floored it.

The two oddboyz watched as their boss tore off into the east, disappearing in a cloud of dust and black smoke. Skabgog scratched his frontal lobe again, then spoke.
"Woddawee doo now, Squishybits?" The painboy grinned and turned around, eyes meeting the stompa's faceplate. He clapped his hand on the weirdboy's back.
"Skabgog, me old mayt," he said.

"Wee'z taykin' dat fun-buggy out on da raystrakk."