Moar Fluff! Moar Dakka! Moar WURRGUTZ!
Wurrgutz eyes snapped open in a panic. He found himself looking up at a flat, featureless steel ceiling. He tried to sit up, but found himself strapped down at the wrists and ankles. Wurrgutz pulled with all his might at the bonds, and after a moment of straining his bionic right arm abruptly snapped free. With a grunt he tore the squig-leather strap from his other wrist as well. He sat up ugently, scanning the walls of the small room, and seeing all sorts of strange objects scattered about. He saw knives, wrenches, shell casings, needles, rocks, jars, guns, scrap metal, buckets of paint, bottles, body parts, and blood, lots of blood. A skull glyph with a missing tooth smiled at Wurrgutz from the far wall, identifying the room as one belonging to Mad Dok Gorsnik. Whilst working his legs free Wurrgutz noticed that in the spot where he was accustomed to hazing a right leg now sat a crazy contraption that vaguely resembled a leg. The thing was covered in exposed gears, hydraulic lines, red paint, and what appeared to be a functioning Slugga. Wurrgutz immediately took a liking to his new prosthetic. He flexed it free of its restraint, did the same for his other leg, and strode into the center of the room to give his new leg a test run. While he put the leg through its paces the dok silently slid through the doorway behind him.
“I see ya like da bionik job.” The dok cackled. Wurrgutz, caught off guard, spun around to face the ork, nearly falling over in the process. Before him stood mad-dok Gorsnik, a tall, gaunt ork, who was covered in blood. In one hand he held a nasty looking wrench; the other had an enormous hammer. Orks normally don’t feel fear, but the sight of this grim faced ork made Wurrgutz very uneasy. Something about the way the spooky ork was grinning at him just didn’t seem right.
“Now, if yoo wuld pleez lay down, I need ta…do sum work on yer teef” Gorsnik sneered as he flourished his hammer menacingly. Wurrgutz stepped away and scanned the room for a way out, or, failing that, something sharp. He slowly inched over to the rack of choppas he saw adorning the back wall, keeping the dok in his peripheral vision. But before the mek traveled an inch Gorsnik lunged with the hammer, aiming to knock a few of the mek’s teeth out. Wurrgutz swiftly grabbed his attacker’s wrist, stopping the hammer’s deadly arc mere inches from his jaw. He simultaneously brought his other fist crashing into the side of Gorsnik’s head. The dok dropped the hammer, stunned, and reeled backwards a few steps. Wurrgutz took advantage of this moment to spin around and grab a wicked looking axe off the wall. As he wrenched the choppa free of its mounting he felt a heavy thump at the base of his skull as the dok swung the wrench. Wurrgutz wheeled around, swinging the axe in a wide arc as he turned. The dok leapt back, and then prepared to lunge again after the axe passed him. Wurrgutz deftly hefted the axe back into another wide swing, keeping the crazed dok at bay for another microsecond.
Suddenly a shot rang out, echoing loudly off the steel walls of the tiny room. Both orks stopped fighting and looked over to see Warboss Grimgob standing at the door with a wisp of smoke curling out of his slugga. There was a clatter as both of the dueling orks immediately dropped their weapons. Grimgob glared at the dok, holstering his slugga. All was still for a moment, neither lesser ork daring to move a muscle for fear of Grimgob’s wrath.
“ ’ee dusn’t need ta pay” The boss snarled at Gorsnik. His colossal frame dominated the room, standing a full nine feet tall with eleven hundred pounds of muscle and bone behind him. His voice deep and throaty, Wurrgutz could feel his powerful words rumbling in his gut as well as he could hear him. “‘ees wiv me.”
The dok turned to face Grimgob and opened his mouth as if to protest, but made no sound. Another long second passed as the boss stared down the significantly smaller ork. Then Gorsnik made like he had heard someone call his name, and scurried away hastily.
“Come wiv me Wurrgutz.” The boss said as he stomped outside. Wurrgutz obediently followed. Boss Grimgob was an imposing figure, but Wurrgutz wasn’t afraid.
Wurrgutz and Grimgob had known each other for ages. Back when Grimgob was a “yoof” he was a lowly trukk boy, but with the aid of the fledgling mek Wurrgutz he rose to a position of power in the tribe. The two orks were almost as close as two asexual beings could possibly be. All this is contained within a particularly stirring story of violence, cunning, and fellowship that will be covered later. But while Gorgob was an ork in his prime, Wurrgutz sadly was not. There was a time when Wurrgutz and his boys could build a great stomping Gargant in a little under what equates to a month, and loot a tank out from under its original crew. Since then however Wurrgutz has slipped from his prime mekkin’ days, reduced to an ancient ork puttering around his yard, tinkering with all sorts of odd projects. He did mostly small stuff now, just to fund his private projects: shootas, buggies and the like.
“Wurrgutz” said the boss as he saddled up in his personal trukk, the suspension sagging as the massive ork mounted the vehicle “what in da name ‘uv Gork is dat fing you built?”. Wurrgutz hopped into the passenger seat next to the boss and began to explain as they drove off. The boss frowned as Wurrgutz finished his explanation.
“Wurrgutz, you daft git” The massive ork snapped, “I thought I wus kleer wen I told ya. No more snotty fings. It just dusn’t eva werk out.” Wurrgutz sneered at this, thinking back on his other snotling related experiments: The snot-kopta, the snot tank, and the infamous snot dread. All were hilarious mishaps in his eyes, mere setbacks in the field of snot-weaponry. But the Boss didn’t see the wheels of progress grinding; he instead saw his favorite mek wasting his life. The collateral damage caused by Wurrgutz lately had been exceeding what the Boss perceived as an acceptable level. The loss of the Rusty Gubbin’ was painful, and if it were any other mek the Boss wouldn’t have thought twice about killing him. Wurrgutz put him in a bad position; by letting the mek live he was showing weakness, and by showing weakness he was inviting disorder amongst his tribe.
Wurrgutz was definitely one of the smarter orks, but empathy is a foreign language to orks. The mek had no idea what he was doing to the Boss’s credibility; he was simply living out his life, doing whatever he felt like, as is the orky way. He didn’t mean to undermine the bosses authority; he just thought he had figured out the problems with his past experiments. The way he saw it, all the other war machines he had crafted for his loyal snotlings were at the ork scale, therefore far too large for the little guys to be expected to handle responsibly. Or even for an ork to handle responsibly for that matter. Especially the snot-dreadnought he rigged up a while back, the snotlings he installed went mad with power and turned on Wurrgutz, leveling his workshop and several other buildings before it went stomping off into the mountains, never to be seen again. It was then that Wurrgutz determined that he should build a smaller, but just as deadly, weapon for Rivit. That way the little guy wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the sheer immensity of his machine. Wurrgutz found his logic sound at the time, but in retrospect he realized that his theory had a few holes. His musings were interrupted by Rivit swooping down low overhead, chasing the trukk playfully. Wurrgutz heard the distinctive whine of its screaming engines and smiled. He could almost hear Rivit shouting his crazy little head off over the loud droning as he swooped down low in pursuit of the trukk.
“When is dat zoggin’ fing gonna run outta gas?” shouted Gorgob as he futilely swatted at the little plane as it passed overhead.
“Et’s not.” Shouted Wurrgutz back over the roar of the trukk, “dat fighta is runnin’ on a plasma enjun, da air goes in ‘un side, an’ da enjun supa ‘eats et. Den ‘et comes out ‘uv da enjun real fast, an da fighta flyz. Pretty kleva system, eh boss?”
“Wurrgutz…” the boss sighed as the trukk screeched to a stop outside the ruins of the mek’s yard. “Why kant you put dat kind uv effort into yer mekkin’? Dat plasma enjun…et’s zoggin’ brilliant, but me trukk still runz on da squig joose. Dat snot dread yoo made? Et wuz ‘arder den any ‘uv me stompaz. Yoo could make a ‘eap uv teef if yoo just fokussed.”
“I ‘ad to stomp some ‘uv me best nobs jus’ ta keep yer zoggin ‘ead, yoo owe me Wurrgutz.” The boss menaced as Wurrgutz disembarked. “We’ll work out da detailz ‘uv yer payment later. For now yur job is tuh get that zoggin’ Snot out ‘uv da skies.” The boss sighed, looking at the sorry state of the mek’s yard. “If dat plane iz still goin’ kome sunset tomorrow, I’m callin in da flyboys tuh take et down da ‘ard way. Unnerstand?”
Wurrgutz nodded, and the boss pulled away in a screaming cloud of smoke and burnt rubber. Wurrgutz reluctantly turned around and began to assess the damages from the battle. His shed was a twisted, flattened wreck and many of his vehicles in the back lot had been stolen. He yelled for his grots, expecting to be greeted by silence. The scrap piles heaped behind the wreckage of his shack began to stir, and from them emerged a handful of grots. The mek chuckled at the loyalty of his runts, appreciative of their devotion. He confidently strode out into the center of his yard and began to shout orders to his ragtag crew, taking comfort in his leadership. His grots scurried to work, gathering the various materials Wurrgutz shouted for. Wurrgutz approached the building pile of supplies brought to him by his grots and twirled his wrench between his fingers in idle thought. Then it hit him. He had an idea.
An orky idea.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Monday, November 30, 2009
Snot Fighta!
Ok, time to scratch out another epic tale of the Big Mek by the name of Wurrgutz, I have discoverd a deep love of fluffing, so expect this to be a fairly regular thing.
Wurrgutz stepped back to admire his work. “Nice an’ proppa” he muttered to himself as he walked around the vehicle. He had done something that no mek had ever done before (probably with good reason), and he was immensely proud of it. He gazed at its sleek lines, huge turbo-jet engines, shining rockets, and snazzy red paintjob. The fighta was relatively small, about the size of a warbike, but built like a tank. Packed solid with ammo, fuel, lights, and other such “worky bitz” in short, it was, as the orks say: “ded ‘ard”. But it was tiny, far too small for any ork to fit in. (Short of wiring in an ork’s brain of course, and while the mek seriously considered it he hasn’t been able to find any willing volunteers since his infamous ‘rokkit ead’ experiment.) The mek had what he thought to be a better idea, and so he whistled for his faithful snot, Rivit.
Now snotlings aren’t exactly known for their brains, but Wurrgutz seemed to have a way with them. Take Rivit for example, Wurrgutz had been able to train the little snot to operate a rivet gun with a marginal rate of success. Eventually Rivit got a tad overexcited, as snots do, and began riveting the hell out of everything he could reach (an improvement in the eyes of an ork). Since then Wurrgutz has been testing all sorts of snot-oriented technology with Rivit, but this was by far his most ambitious project.
Wurrgutz lifted the little guy off his feet, and set him behind the wheel of his new aircraft. He let him mash the buttons excitedly for a few minutes before he started trying to explain the machine to the little snot. “dis ‘un’s fer da dakka, dis ‘un fer loads uv dakka, dat ‘un lights up real nice when yew ‘it et…” The snot was bouncing up and down in his seat excitedly as he grew ever more impatient.
“Zagg! Wazza!” Rivit shouted elatedly. The mek sighed, figuring the little guy would have to learn by good old fashioned trial and error. He turned the key to the diminutive fighta.
“Zagg.” He said patiently, gesturing to the control stick, “an’ Wazza.” He said, pointing at the throttle. An instant later the throttle was thrown all the way open by the little ork, and Wurrgutz was blown back by the searing exhaust cloud. When he could see again Rivit was just a noisy little speck in the distance. “Zoggin’ runt” muttered the mek as he dusted himself off. He meandered back to his shack, watching the grots scamper back to work as soon as he approached. He shouted at them a bit, and then settled down for a mug of fungus brew. He looked to the sky, watching the little fighta dive and roll in the sky playfully. He grinned with a kind of parental pride, seeing the aircraft doing all sorts of crazy maneuvers, imagining the little speed freak grin plastered on Rivit’s face.
Wurrgutz was hard at work tinkering with a new kustom force field when the little guy strafed the shack. The heavy bullets of the twin linked big shoota punched through the roof with ease, sending sparks flying everywhere. Wurrgutz chuckled, and kept working as if nothing had happened, even though his force field now needed significantly more work due to some lead gubbins finding their way into it. He glanced out the back of the shack to see the runts in the scrap yard getting shot up as well, laughing as the grots ran for cover under a hail of bullets. Soon however the constant droning of the fighta’s engine faded in the distance. Wurrgutz thought nothing of it at the time, starting work on fixing up an old skorcha.
Rivit was having the time of his life. He had always been attracted by the big, snazzy vehicles that littered the town. He would hang around in the maze of assorted red buggies that dominated the back corner of the mek’s yard, marveling at their loud exhausts, and more importantly, the snazzy red paint jobs. When Rivit wasn’t hammering rivets into random sheets of metal, he would usually be found running around back there making engine noises, or trying to carve flames into pieces of metal. Rivit always wanted to drive one of those marvelous vehicles, but whenever he tried he just couldn’t figure out how to work them. (Or reach the controls for that matter!) Now things were different though, he felt so free, zooming about wherever he pleased, raining death on whatever displeased him. He never wanted to leave the skies.
Wurrgutz attention was snapped away from his work by a loud explosion. He ran out of his shack, hoping to see some hilarious mishap perpetrated by his riggers. He was disappointed, but only for a second. He looked out in the distance, seeing a blossoming flower of flame and debris near the edge of town. That’s when he heard the familiar drone of the little fighta’s engines. He whooped and cheered as the little craft erupted from the heart of fire and rocketed over his head, dipping its wing in a salute. “Damn” Grunted Wurrgutz appreciatively, “The zogger kan fly!” He watched the oily smoke cloud rise into the air, feeling that strange sense of calm as the smoke fanned out into the sky. That’s when the terrible realization hit the mek. That odd yellowish smoke, the size of the explosion, it all clicked right then. Rivit had taken out a brewery and not just any brewery either; he had hit “Da Rusty Gubbin”, a hangout for the tribe’s Nobs. Wurrgutz ran for his shed, hearing the surviving Nobs bellowing his name in the background. The riggers, upon arriving at the same conclusion, immediately began to prepare. Some fortified themselves in the scrap piles, but many just up and ran. Wurrgutz got back to his workbench as soon as he heard the rumble of the war band’s vehicles growing close. He took one last of his wrench on the as-of-yet untested force field, hit the switch and prayed to Gork (or possibly Mork).
The bullets soon began ripping through the thin metal walls (like so many bullets before them) and bouncing around the inside as the Nobs began to fire. The custom force field behaved admirably, sending out cackling arcs of pure energy to intercept most of the bullets once they got close to the mek’s position. Wurrgutz was fascinated by this, regarding it as a test run. He took a few mental notes, and then drew his own customized shoota from under the counter. But before he could try to get a shot off however Wurrgutz was blown off his feet by a huge concussion. His custom force field had acted up, throwing him out into the scrap yard and collapsing the shack like a house of cards. Wurrgutz sat up, dazed. The nobs had also been blown back, and were now scrambling for their shootas. One of the larger Nobs yelled something, or at least opened his mouth real big; Wurrgutz found that he couldn’t hear anything but a loud, all consuming buzzing noise. He saw the muzzle flashes of the guns, and felt the bullets rend the air apart around him as the Nobs trampled the remains of his shack. Wurrgutz watched the mob approach with a strange sense of detachment, as if he were someone else watching it happen. The world began to fade away at the corners, tendrils of black nothingness creeping into his thoughts, at first slowly, then faster. He was only vaguely aware of a mountainous ork intercepting the nob leading the charge; he was too far gone to care. And so Wurrgutz slipped away…
Wurrgutz stepped back to admire his work. “Nice an’ proppa” he muttered to himself as he walked around the vehicle. He had done something that no mek had ever done before (probably with good reason), and he was immensely proud of it. He gazed at its sleek lines, huge turbo-jet engines, shining rockets, and snazzy red paintjob. The fighta was relatively small, about the size of a warbike, but built like a tank. Packed solid with ammo, fuel, lights, and other such “worky bitz” in short, it was, as the orks say: “ded ‘ard”. But it was tiny, far too small for any ork to fit in. (Short of wiring in an ork’s brain of course, and while the mek seriously considered it he hasn’t been able to find any willing volunteers since his infamous ‘rokkit ead’ experiment.) The mek had what he thought to be a better idea, and so he whistled for his faithful snot, Rivit.
Now snotlings aren’t exactly known for their brains, but Wurrgutz seemed to have a way with them. Take Rivit for example, Wurrgutz had been able to train the little snot to operate a rivet gun with a marginal rate of success. Eventually Rivit got a tad overexcited, as snots do, and began riveting the hell out of everything he could reach (an improvement in the eyes of an ork). Since then Wurrgutz has been testing all sorts of snot-oriented technology with Rivit, but this was by far his most ambitious project.
Wurrgutz lifted the little guy off his feet, and set him behind the wheel of his new aircraft. He let him mash the buttons excitedly for a few minutes before he started trying to explain the machine to the little snot. “dis ‘un’s fer da dakka, dis ‘un fer loads uv dakka, dat ‘un lights up real nice when yew ‘it et…” The snot was bouncing up and down in his seat excitedly as he grew ever more impatient.
“Zagg! Wazza!” Rivit shouted elatedly. The mek sighed, figuring the little guy would have to learn by good old fashioned trial and error. He turned the key to the diminutive fighta.
“Zagg.” He said patiently, gesturing to the control stick, “an’ Wazza.” He said, pointing at the throttle. An instant later the throttle was thrown all the way open by the little ork, and Wurrgutz was blown back by the searing exhaust cloud. When he could see again Rivit was just a noisy little speck in the distance. “Zoggin’ runt” muttered the mek as he dusted himself off. He meandered back to his shack, watching the grots scamper back to work as soon as he approached. He shouted at them a bit, and then settled down for a mug of fungus brew. He looked to the sky, watching the little fighta dive and roll in the sky playfully. He grinned with a kind of parental pride, seeing the aircraft doing all sorts of crazy maneuvers, imagining the little speed freak grin plastered on Rivit’s face.
Wurrgutz was hard at work tinkering with a new kustom force field when the little guy strafed the shack. The heavy bullets of the twin linked big shoota punched through the roof with ease, sending sparks flying everywhere. Wurrgutz chuckled, and kept working as if nothing had happened, even though his force field now needed significantly more work due to some lead gubbins finding their way into it. He glanced out the back of the shack to see the runts in the scrap yard getting shot up as well, laughing as the grots ran for cover under a hail of bullets. Soon however the constant droning of the fighta’s engine faded in the distance. Wurrgutz thought nothing of it at the time, starting work on fixing up an old skorcha.
Rivit was having the time of his life. He had always been attracted by the big, snazzy vehicles that littered the town. He would hang around in the maze of assorted red buggies that dominated the back corner of the mek’s yard, marveling at their loud exhausts, and more importantly, the snazzy red paint jobs. When Rivit wasn’t hammering rivets into random sheets of metal, he would usually be found running around back there making engine noises, or trying to carve flames into pieces of metal. Rivit always wanted to drive one of those marvelous vehicles, but whenever he tried he just couldn’t figure out how to work them. (Or reach the controls for that matter!) Now things were different though, he felt so free, zooming about wherever he pleased, raining death on whatever displeased him. He never wanted to leave the skies.
Wurrgutz attention was snapped away from his work by a loud explosion. He ran out of his shack, hoping to see some hilarious mishap perpetrated by his riggers. He was disappointed, but only for a second. He looked out in the distance, seeing a blossoming flower of flame and debris near the edge of town. That’s when he heard the familiar drone of the little fighta’s engines. He whooped and cheered as the little craft erupted from the heart of fire and rocketed over his head, dipping its wing in a salute. “Damn” Grunted Wurrgutz appreciatively, “The zogger kan fly!” He watched the oily smoke cloud rise into the air, feeling that strange sense of calm as the smoke fanned out into the sky. That’s when the terrible realization hit the mek. That odd yellowish smoke, the size of the explosion, it all clicked right then. Rivit had taken out a brewery and not just any brewery either; he had hit “Da Rusty Gubbin”, a hangout for the tribe’s Nobs. Wurrgutz ran for his shed, hearing the surviving Nobs bellowing his name in the background. The riggers, upon arriving at the same conclusion, immediately began to prepare. Some fortified themselves in the scrap piles, but many just up and ran. Wurrgutz got back to his workbench as soon as he heard the rumble of the war band’s vehicles growing close. He took one last of his wrench on the as-of-yet untested force field, hit the switch and prayed to Gork (or possibly Mork).
The bullets soon began ripping through the thin metal walls (like so many bullets before them) and bouncing around the inside as the Nobs began to fire. The custom force field behaved admirably, sending out cackling arcs of pure energy to intercept most of the bullets once they got close to the mek’s position. Wurrgutz was fascinated by this, regarding it as a test run. He took a few mental notes, and then drew his own customized shoota from under the counter. But before he could try to get a shot off however Wurrgutz was blown off his feet by a huge concussion. His custom force field had acted up, throwing him out into the scrap yard and collapsing the shack like a house of cards. Wurrgutz sat up, dazed. The nobs had also been blown back, and were now scrambling for their shootas. One of the larger Nobs yelled something, or at least opened his mouth real big; Wurrgutz found that he couldn’t hear anything but a loud, all consuming buzzing noise. He saw the muzzle flashes of the guns, and felt the bullets rend the air apart around him as the Nobs trampled the remains of his shack. Wurrgutz watched the mob approach with a strange sense of detachment, as if he were someone else watching it happen. The world began to fade away at the corners, tendrils of black nothingness creeping into his thoughts, at first slowly, then faster. He was only vaguely aware of a mountainous ork intercepting the nob leading the charge; he was too far gone to care. And so Wurrgutz slipped away…
Monday, November 16, 2009
Big Mek Wurrgutz
Ok, I failed to do the whole webcomic thing, which is fine I think (third comic does exist, and is in late stages of development). Anyway, enough excuses, here is an update. Some fluff and crap, you know:
Mek Wurrguts was working diligently on his latest project, a fighta for his favorite snotling, when he heard the clatter of a Nob busting through his door and shouting for him. He sighed, dropped his wrench, and walked into the shack he used as a storefront. As he picked his way through the piles of scrap, he heard the sharp sound of the Nob shooting holes in his roof with impatience. He stepped in through the door and saw a large Nob by the name of Gorteef busy trying to shoot his name into the ceiling.
“What is it ya git?” He snapped “you gonna buy summat or jus’ shoot ‘oles in me roof?” The Nob stopped shooting and sized up at Wurrguts. He wasn’t used to another ork (besides the boss) yelling at him, he was quite accustomed to doing the yelling himself. Ever since his arm was replaced with a chain-klaw he was used to getting far more respect. After seeing how much bigger Wurrguts (and more importantly, Wurrgutses’ power klaw) was the Nob immediately abandoned all thoughts of a violent revenge. The Nob was the leader of a crew of eleven other boys, and their associated trukk. He had only recently become the leader (after the somewhat suspicious death of the old Nob) and was therefore eager to assert his dominance.
“et’s dem bugs, dem gene-sneakers keep rippin’ up me trukk and chewin’ up me boys an’ I’m sick of the lot of ‘em, zoggin bugs. I fink I need some moar dakka” The mek scratched his chin, trying to think of the most expensive solution to the cocky young Nob’s problem. He finally decided that something along the lines of a wartrakk, loaded up with a big shoota or two would set the Nob back a few bags of teef.
“I got just da fing, ere, come around back an’ I’ll show ya what we got.” Wurrguts motioned for the Nob to come around the counter and join him. The Nob instead opted to cut through the counter with his klaw. Wurrgutz growled at him, and then barked for a grot to fix it. One of his assistants quickly ran up with a welding torch and began welding it back in place. Wurrguts led the Nob a few feet to his most recent buggy. Equipped with a twin linked big shoota, big loud exhaust pipes, squig-leather seats, huge speakers, and a snazzy red paint job Wurrgutz was sure the Nob would find it acceptable. The Nob immediately took a liking to the buggy. Walking around it and inspecting it.
“How much would dis be then?” he asked.
“Bout firty teef or so.” The Mek replied. The Nob whistled, and a grot came scurrying up carring a heavy pack of ammo and teef. The grot then began counting out the teef as Wurrguts passed the keys on to the Nob. The Nob the headbutted Wurrgutz (similar to a handshake amongst the ‘ell Raysas tribe) and walked towards his new buggy with an excited grin on his face. Before he could get there however, there was a loud explosion from the back of the shack, and a second one as the buggy’s fuel tank exploded sympathetically. The grot who had been welding the counter back in place accidentally tried to weld his fuel line to the metal, and ignited the fuel tanks out behind the shed, next to the buggy. Wurrgutz covered his face and was blown into a nearby pile of rivits. After the dust settled Wurrgutz stumbled back onto his feet and cursed. The buggies’ frame was still recognizable, but it was otherwise completely destroyed. Gorteef also survived, and when he came to he howled in frustration. He lashed out with his boot and kicked his stunned ammo runt across the yard. Then, in his bloody rage, he started towards Wurrgutz. Wurrgutz saw the attack coming and smacked the Nob’s head aside with his bionic arm as the great ork barreled towards him, steering his headlong charge into a nearby pile of scrap. The Nob scrambled out of the rubbish and turned to face Wurrgutz, shoota in hand.
“calm down ya git” barked Wurrgutz “you didn’t want that pile uh junk, you wants…” The Nob stared at him angrily for a moment, then calmed down a tad and holstered his shoota. Wurrgutz looked around the yard quickly for some alternative. “Dat ‘un!” He motioned towards a rusted out, dilapidated old Skorcha Trakk. Wurrgutz walked over to it, “ets a beauty izznt et?” he beamed, “but those zoggin’ runts been lootin’ parts off et, but a coat ah new paint an’ it’ll run fine.” He said as he approached it. “Well, that and an enjun… Only firty teef then.”
“Ya zogger, ets not worth five teef, yew trying tuh sell me dat pile uv junk? Et’s not even da proppa kolor!” The Nob barked. He kicked at the tracks in his disapproval. Wurrgutz scowled, and posed his counter offer of twenty teef. The Nob then kicked it again, leaving a sizable dent in the fender.
“Ah’ll tell yew wot.” Said Wurrgutz, “yew kum bakk tomorrow an’ it’ll be fixed up good an’ proppa fer ya. Give it a snazzy new enjun, shiny red paint, yella flamez, and a big zoggin’ skorcha. All dat fer the low prise of twentee-five teef.” The Nob frowned at Wurrgutz, and nodded.
“Right, I’ll be bak. And it better be proppa wen I do.” The Nob then stomped off towards the smoking crater that was once the mek’s shack. The entire back wall had been blown off, but it was otherwise undamaged, until the Nob got there and chopped a new doorway for himself of course. Wurrgutz sat down on the battered hull of the skorcha for a moment, staring at the rising column of smoke from what was his workshop. Soon the moment of peace passed and he got back on his feet, grabbed his spanner, and began refurbishing the ancient vehicle.
Mek Wurrguts was working diligently on his latest project, a fighta for his favorite snotling, when he heard the clatter of a Nob busting through his door and shouting for him. He sighed, dropped his wrench, and walked into the shack he used as a storefront. As he picked his way through the piles of scrap, he heard the sharp sound of the Nob shooting holes in his roof with impatience. He stepped in through the door and saw a large Nob by the name of Gorteef busy trying to shoot his name into the ceiling.
“What is it ya git?” He snapped “you gonna buy summat or jus’ shoot ‘oles in me roof?” The Nob stopped shooting and sized up at Wurrguts. He wasn’t used to another ork (besides the boss) yelling at him, he was quite accustomed to doing the yelling himself. Ever since his arm was replaced with a chain-klaw he was used to getting far more respect. After seeing how much bigger Wurrguts (and more importantly, Wurrgutses’ power klaw) was the Nob immediately abandoned all thoughts of a violent revenge. The Nob was the leader of a crew of eleven other boys, and their associated trukk. He had only recently become the leader (after the somewhat suspicious death of the old Nob) and was therefore eager to assert his dominance.
“et’s dem bugs, dem gene-sneakers keep rippin’ up me trukk and chewin’ up me boys an’ I’m sick of the lot of ‘em, zoggin bugs. I fink I need some moar dakka” The mek scratched his chin, trying to think of the most expensive solution to the cocky young Nob’s problem. He finally decided that something along the lines of a wartrakk, loaded up with a big shoota or two would set the Nob back a few bags of teef.
“I got just da fing, ere, come around back an’ I’ll show ya what we got.” Wurrguts motioned for the Nob to come around the counter and join him. The Nob instead opted to cut through the counter with his klaw. Wurrgutz growled at him, and then barked for a grot to fix it. One of his assistants quickly ran up with a welding torch and began welding it back in place. Wurrguts led the Nob a few feet to his most recent buggy. Equipped with a twin linked big shoota, big loud exhaust pipes, squig-leather seats, huge speakers, and a snazzy red paint job Wurrgutz was sure the Nob would find it acceptable. The Nob immediately took a liking to the buggy. Walking around it and inspecting it.
“How much would dis be then?” he asked.
“Bout firty teef or so.” The Mek replied. The Nob whistled, and a grot came scurrying up carring a heavy pack of ammo and teef. The grot then began counting out the teef as Wurrguts passed the keys on to the Nob. The Nob the headbutted Wurrgutz (similar to a handshake amongst the ‘ell Raysas tribe) and walked towards his new buggy with an excited grin on his face. Before he could get there however, there was a loud explosion from the back of the shack, and a second one as the buggy’s fuel tank exploded sympathetically. The grot who had been welding the counter back in place accidentally tried to weld his fuel line to the metal, and ignited the fuel tanks out behind the shed, next to the buggy. Wurrgutz covered his face and was blown into a nearby pile of rivits. After the dust settled Wurrgutz stumbled back onto his feet and cursed. The buggies’ frame was still recognizable, but it was otherwise completely destroyed. Gorteef also survived, and when he came to he howled in frustration. He lashed out with his boot and kicked his stunned ammo runt across the yard. Then, in his bloody rage, he started towards Wurrgutz. Wurrgutz saw the attack coming and smacked the Nob’s head aside with his bionic arm as the great ork barreled towards him, steering his headlong charge into a nearby pile of scrap. The Nob scrambled out of the rubbish and turned to face Wurrgutz, shoota in hand.
“calm down ya git” barked Wurrgutz “you didn’t want that pile uh junk, you wants…” The Nob stared at him angrily for a moment, then calmed down a tad and holstered his shoota. Wurrgutz looked around the yard quickly for some alternative. “Dat ‘un!” He motioned towards a rusted out, dilapidated old Skorcha Trakk. Wurrgutz walked over to it, “ets a beauty izznt et?” he beamed, “but those zoggin’ runts been lootin’ parts off et, but a coat ah new paint an’ it’ll run fine.” He said as he approached it. “Well, that and an enjun… Only firty teef then.”
“Ya zogger, ets not worth five teef, yew trying tuh sell me dat pile uv junk? Et’s not even da proppa kolor!” The Nob barked. He kicked at the tracks in his disapproval. Wurrgutz scowled, and posed his counter offer of twenty teef. The Nob then kicked it again, leaving a sizable dent in the fender.
“Ah’ll tell yew wot.” Said Wurrgutz, “yew kum bakk tomorrow an’ it’ll be fixed up good an’ proppa fer ya. Give it a snazzy new enjun, shiny red paint, yella flamez, and a big zoggin’ skorcha. All dat fer the low prise of twentee-five teef.” The Nob frowned at Wurrgutz, and nodded.
“Right, I’ll be bak. And it better be proppa wen I do.” The Nob then stomped off towards the smoking crater that was once the mek’s shack. The entire back wall had been blown off, but it was otherwise undamaged, until the Nob got there and chopped a new doorway for himself of course. Wurrgutz sat down on the battered hull of the skorcha for a moment, staring at the rising column of smoke from what was his workshop. Soon the moment of peace passed and he got back on his feet, grabbed his spanner, and began refurbishing the ancient vehicle.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Third Comic...but when?
Hey all you devoted fans (or the three guys I have told about this site who will proboly politly visit after Iremind them). This weeks installment will be a tad late. I'm hoping to get it on the web in the next two days, or even tonight. I've been moving/vacationing this week and so I was only able to throw together a crappy one. I was gonna post it, but I want to deliver a high quality comic to ya'll. (If anyone notices at all.) Anyway, back to packing for me...
Friday, June 19, 2009
First Two!
Click the Pictures for Full Size, Most of them is cut off. I'm working on that
Ok, I got a format nailed down now. I'm gonna pull out of my Dakka-Dakka article and Waaagh forum post and instead only gave the most recent one up inthose places. Here is where all of them will be found, in (more or less) the right order. All next week I am moving, so I may not get one up next friday. I'll try. Anyways, enjoy!
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