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The barracks was bustling with activity. Many of the orks within, agitated by the lull in the fighting, had started brawling amongst themselves out of sheer boredom. Teeth, arguments, and fungus beer flew through the air, and everyone was having a good time. All of a sudden, Warboss Mork stormed into the barracks, spittle and violent curses flying.

“Roight, which one of you gits took my slugga?!”

All activity in the barracks ground to a halt. The Orks disengaged from whatever was occupying their brief attentions and turned to the boss. Someone was going to get their face smacked in, which was always good for a laugh.

Mork continued, pacing the length of the room, “I know it wuz one uv you lot, so whoeva it woz is gunna get smashed!”

“It wozn't us, boss,” yelled someone from the back of the room, “It wuz one uv Gitta'z lads.”

“Oo' said that?!” The warboss bellowed furiously. The offender received a swift fist in the mouth from his neighbour to discourage any further interruptions. Warboss Murk nodded in approval of this swift retribution.

“Fank you. Now, your gunna find oo took it, or I'm gonna give each an' every one of yoo lot a roight hidin'!” To further emphasise his threat, if any further proof was needed, he lopped the head of a nearby grot with a swing of his axe. Realising the imminent threat, the smarter orks among the group started shouting and punching each other in an attempt to find the offender. The rest swiftly followed suite.

Warboss Mork proudly assessed the barracks as the group once more descended into chaos. This was the proper, orky way to solve problems. Out of the corner of his good eye, Mork spotted one ork whom he recognised as Gruk, standing idly in one corner of the room. He made his way over to the corner, the noise of his iron-shod boots hidden by the din of the brawlers, and bellowed right into the orks ear.

“WOT D'YOO FINK YOUR DOIN'!?”

Gruk recoiled and almost fell over in fright. Mork split a course grin and cackled harshly, glaring down at the cowering ork, “So where iz it, then?”

“Err, where's wot, boss?” Gruk muttered nervously.

“My slugga, ya thievin' git!” Bellowed Mork, cuffing the ork around the ear. Looking behind him for any incriminating evidence, he spotted a suspicious armament beneath Gruk's seat, far beyond what the foot-slogger could possibly afford, “AHA! An' wot the zog is dat?” Mork shouted, pointing a damning finger towards the offending firearm.

Gruk spluttered nervously, “Dat? Oh dat's my slugga marv'lus shoota dat lotsa dakka I've 'ad it fer munfs dat...”

“Well, I fink it's mine” Mork interjected, grabbing the slugga and testing the weight in his meaty hand. Gruk spread his hands in a look of offended innocence.

“Well, dey all look da same, boss, there's no way uv knowin' if it iz or not, 'ow cud ya' know, really...”

Without a word Warboss Mork levelled the massive slugga at Gruk's head and blew it off mid-excuse with a bang that would deafen an elephant. The other orks, who had gathered around the scene, cheered raucously. He chuckled grimly and pocketed the weapon, recognising the report of the weapon like a mother recognises the cry of her child.

“Roit, lads, as yer were,” shouted Mork, swaggering cheerfully out of the barracks, as the rest of the orks got back to their fight.



(Writing in Ork dialect is a real pain >_< )

In any case, what do you think? This is my first time writing 40k fiction, but not fiction in general.