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…

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.

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...

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!