Since I enjoyed writing for Boss Groinkikka so much last time, I've decided to write more Gorkamorka silliness. This segment features the grot mob of my very good friend, so I'll try to be gentle with the runt-punting.
The planet Gorkamorka is not a nice place. It is known for its extremes of climate, its empty wastes, and its dangerous, hostile lifeforms. Of all the hazards Gorkamorka has to offer, by far the most hazardous is not its weather or even its indigenous life. The most dangerous thing on Gorkamorka is Da Orks. Known throughout the galaxy for their dull wits, their low cunning, and their love for a good scrap or a good loot, Gorkamorka is a perfect place for Orks to live. They are at the top of their food chain, and the world is their barren, inhospitable oyster. However, there arebut one of the myriad races that make up a greenskin ecology.
Below the Orks in the heirarchy are the ignoble Gretchin. Also known as grots, gretchin are short, scrawny, and ugly. Even more ugly are their personalities - gretchin are conniving, sneaky, and backstabbing. They lack physical strength - which permanently hampers their position in Orkoid society - so they make up for it by fighting dirty. Gretchin trust no one, but they can sometimes work together against a common enemy. So it is with the Grot Revolutionary Kommittee. A collective government of gretchin who have thrown off the shackles of Ork oppression, the GRC seeks revenge on the Orks who mistreated them for so many years. They wander the wastes, looking for salvage, and perhaps hoping to one day take to the stars in their own pint-sized WAAAAGH! Among the most fearsome of the GRC's members is the mysterious kaptain of the Red Orktober.
You may already know of some of Boss Groinkikka's exploits. Tonight, on the Christmas edition of Ferrus Fair, we tell the story of the time Boss Groinkikka came face-to-face with the Red Orktober.
It was winter on Gorkamorka. The red suns, which during most of the year scorched the planet with blistering heat, were cold and shrunken in the smoke-choked sky. The white sands were covered by a layer of whiter snow. Boss Groinkikka's personal wagon, the Gork (or Mork) Five, powered through the deep drifts and over the white dunes with its snowplow as torrential winds whipped snow about the cabin. Somewhere in the great drifts and snow dunes was a cache of loot. The loot had belonged, at one point, to Boss Gurgbash. Boss Gurgbash, however, was at the Dokk's tent nursing three severed limbs courtesy of Groinkikka's power klaw, and this was the perfect opportunity for Groinkikka's mob to do some lootin' - short of fighting, the orkiest thing a greenskin could hope to do. Lugzog was behind the wheel, and Gitrench had the twelve-shoota turret, having recently bashed Orgog's nose in to get the seat. The big sixteen-cylinder engine was humming along nicely, belching fungus fumes as it went.
Groinkikka knew something was wrong as soon as he hopped out of the Gork Five. The snow all around his dig site was trampled and melted. Wheel tracks and skids criscrossed the area. Where there should have been a mound of dirt (and, beneath, a stash of know-wots and gubbins), there was instead a deep, empty pit. He gave a wordless cry of frustration and fired his shoota in the air, venting his frustration. It was then that he heard the cackling. It was high pitched and grating, not like the deep bellow of a propa Orky laugh.
"Wot woz dat?" asked Orgog, his crushed nose dulling his voice. Gitrench saw a fleeting shadow disappear behind a dune and unloaded his twelve-shoota (which was really just two six-shootas strapped together with Mek Tape).Something squealed in pain.
"Get 'im, boyz!" Groinkikka didn't know what "'im" was, but his policy was "get first, krump second, ask once you've pulled his teef out." Gitrench and Orgog hopped out of the trukk and began circling either side of the dune while Lugzog gunned the engine. However, the trukk's massive tires could not get any traction and it foundered in the snow.
Orgog and Gitrench came back around the hill, each holding onto one arm of a gretchin, who was squirming desperately between them and trying to bite anything he could reach. Tucked into his belt was a familiar choppa - Gurgbash's personal Git-Stikka. "Alroight, you weedy git, where's da rest o' me loot?"
"I'll never talk, you bush washy squig!" squeaked the struggling gretchin.
"'Ere, wot's 'e sayin'?" asked Orgog nasally.
"The proto-lariat will rise and crush the bush washy impressors!"
"Dat's enough o' dat rubbish from you, runt!" shouted Groinkikka. He found that when people started using words he didn't understand, shouting usually sorted out the problem. For good measure, he also punched the gretchin in the gut.
The snow atop the dune crunched with the sound of treads. Cresting the rise was a large masted vessel. At the prow of the landship was a gretchin in a greatcoat carrying a large, heavy shoota which he unloaded recklessly in the general direction of the Orks. "Hands off that Gretchin, you bourgeoisie squigs! Down with the oppressors!"
As if from nowhere, a dozen other gretchin popped out of holes in the ground. Two of them had rusted, dented pistols. Several held bows or crossbows. Most were armed only with stones and knives.With a cry, they unleashed their firepower upon the unsuspecting Orks. Groinkikka, the fastest thinker and the fastest on his feet, gave his best "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" and fired back at the Gretchin, charging at the nearest one. The rest of his mob followed suit, and so began the Battle of Groinkikka's Dig.
