Note: This is a first draft (in fact I wrote it today whilst bored at work) so there are bound to be mistakes, plus I'm not too happy with the ending. Please give plenty of criticism (constructive, destructive - whatever) and if you can think of a better ending, then let me know! BTW - anyone who's seen the first ten minutes of Harlem Nights may recognise some of the dialogue... 
It was full moons over the swamps of Krudd; their bloated yellow faces reflecting on the black surface of the water either side of the rickety old walkway. The only sound was the constant clicking and buzzing of night insects, interrupted briefly by the sudden alarmed skrark of a lizard owl as a long, warty tongue shot out from the pool to wrap itself around the flying reptile, snatching it into the maw of a lurking krokatoad. There was a brief thrashing in the murky water and then silence, as the prey finally succumbed to the predator’s neurotoxin saliva.
The runt peered up at the crude sign above the gate. It read: “Botchit’z Place – Trespassaz wil be shooted”. He wasn’t sure what it said, because he couldn’t read. He opened the gate, its rusty hinges creaking loudly, and stepped up onto the causeway. The krokatoad regarded him lazily with its two big eyes, barely visible above the surface of the water.
He followed the wobbly walkway for a short distance until he heard the sound of loud voices and raucous laughter. Rounding a bend in the catwalk where a fat, creeper-encrusted tree leant across, its fronds parting as the runt brushed them aside, he finally saw Botchit’z Place; a large misshapen building built from odd pieces of wood, corrugated iron and assorted scrap items. Light streamed from one of the downstairs windows and dozens of moths flitted about drunkenly in honour of their fake moon.
The runt climbed the steps up onto the veranda and looked at the big imposing door. He didn’t know it, but it was the access hatch of an Imperial land raider, not that he knew what one of those was. It used to be blue, but it was covered with so much swamp filth that its original colour had become quite irrelevant. If you squinted you could just make out a large white letter U beneath the stains. Someone had drawn two little white ‘eyes’ in the middle.
A large knocker protruded from the middle of the door. It rather imaginatively consisted of a human skull. After several failed attempts at trying to leap up and grab the knocker, the runt decided to use a strange blue helmet, currently upturned and full of soil with a pitiful-looking plant hanging limply over the lip. Before placing the helmet on the rotten floor boards in front of the door, the runt turned it over in his hands, dank clumps of soil falling to the floor. Like the door it too had a large white U on it. The runt fingered the bullet hole that had ruined one of the glassy eyepieces.
After a few moments contemplation, he put the helmet on the boards and climbed up, on tip toes and - at full stretch - pulled back the morbid door knocker. It made a dull metallic thud. After several seconds he could hear muffled grumbling and curses approach behind the door and a small metal shutter slid back to reveal two nasty little eyes set below a big green brow. After shifting from side to side for a while they eventually looked down.
“Wot da fug d’you want, runt?”
“I got Mr Botchit’z smoke stickz,
init.”
The hatch slide back. There was some shouting inside the building, followed shortly by the sound of more curses and several weighty bolts sliding back. The heavy door slowly and inexorably yawned open, and the runt had to jump out of its way or he’d have been swimming in foetid, brackish water now.
A really fat ork with a peg leg loomed at the threshold, leering menacingly. “Go on in da back,” he said in a thick, guttural voice.
The runt peered up at him which, when you are barely three feet tall, is actually some distance, and put on his best ‘gangsta’ face. The fat ork chuckled and shook his sweaty bald head, swatting a mosquito on his neck as the runt scampered past and into Botchit’z Place. There was a lot of shouting and swearing coming from the room at the end of the corridor, and a thick haze of heady smoke wafted through the open doorway. This was the runt’s destination.
When he reached the entrance to the room, the runt beheld the occupants. There were half a dozen big ork nobs sat or stood around a wooden table, smoking weed and throwing dice. The biggest ork in the room looked over at the runt, his face expressionless.
“Runt, giv me my smokes”.
The runt scurried over to the big nob and handed over the packet of deff sticks. Botchit inclined his head which served as an instruction for the runt to go and wait quietly in the corner of the room, whilst at the same time taking a stick from the packet and placing it in his wide mouth. Another ork leant across the table with his lighter and Botchit took a deep, slow drag on his smoke.
“Wait, wait, wait! Hold it,” a massive and exceptionally ugly ork yelled at Botchit.
“Wot's dis runt doin’ ‘ere?” he growled through ruined teeth, his one remaining tusk pushing his upper lip in such a way as to result in a rather strange and comical lisp.
“Get out before I kick your lil’ ass,” he pointed with some considerable menace directly at the runt, who to his credit stood his ground and actually managed to pull a face which, roughly translated, said “what you gonna do ‘bout it, punk?”
“You ain't kicking gak,” the runt replied, causing several orks to choke on their smokes.
The ugly ork’s eyes widened and you could almost see steam shooting from his small, underdeveloped ears, as he made to go for the runt.
Botchit waved a hand festooned with big, tacky rings in the runt’s direction. “Don't worry ‘bout ‘im,” he said to the big ork. ”He runs errands for me.”
“I don't care who ‘e iz or wot ‘e does. Runtz bringz me bad luck.”
“The bet is fading. Stop talking and shoot the dice. You're fugging up the game.” Botchit waved his hand again, gesturing towards the table.
“I ain't shooting gak. I told you runtz bringz me bad luck. I can't stand dem.” The big ork was getting more and more agitated, spittle spraying from the tuskless corner of his mouth. “Now, get da fug out of ‘ere before I kick yo ass.”
“You ain't whoopping gak. Shoot the dice, you snaggle-toothed motherfugger,” Botchit said, the other orks laughing loudly in appreciation of his choice of cuss.
The big ork frowned, squinting his beady eyes and looking long and hard at Botchit, who just raised his eyebrow. “All right, I'm gonna shoot,” he said, sullenly. “But I better not crap. Dat's all I know, I better not crap.”
The ugly ork closed his eyes and shook the dice in his big hands. “Come on, Gork. I've been waiting all night. Da missus needs shoes, nu clothes…”
“And you need some teeth,” Botchit cut in, causing more strident laughter. One nob even fell off his chair.
“Shoot the Gorkdamn dice, man!”
“I'm gonna shoot da dang dice. I'll send every one of you home broke,” the big, ugly ork was flustered and desperate. “Come on wit yo bad ass. Come on!”
He threw the dice.
They rolled across the table, all eyes following the ivory cubes. They came to a stop.
Snake eyes.
“Aww, craps!”
There was more loud laughter.
The big, ugly, angry ork span on Botchit. “Wot you doing with this runt in here? Didn't I say dey're bad luck?” Saliva flew from his mouth and drool hung from his chin. There was a more than slightly crazed look in his eyes now.
Botchit pointed up on the wall. “Wot's dat sign say? 'Botchit's Place'. Dat's me. Dis is my place. I have in ‘ere ‘ooever I want.”
The ugly ork was not backing down, so Botchit continued. “You lost. So pass the dice, or buy them from this motherfugger.” He pointed with his thumb at an older ork to his right. There was more sniggering.
“And I ain't selling.” More laughter.
“I ain't buying.” Even more laughter.
The ugly ork grabbed the dice off the table. “I'm gonna shoot dis again and you're gonna get this smelly, scrawny lil’ runt outta here.”
Botchit stood up and slammed his fist on the table, sending chips and drinks flying. “Wot da fug is wrong wit you? Man, look, you shot, you lost. We'd ‘ave paid you if you won, but you lost.”
There was mumbled agreement from around the table.
“Now, go home and brush that tooth.” The nobs started guffawing again with gusto, the ork who had previously fallen off his chair falling off his chair a second time.
The ugly ork growled and took a step forward. “You tink dat's funny? I told you I couldn't stand runtz in da room.” He drew a large cleaver-like blade from his belt and had it at Botchit’s throat in the blink of an eye, taking every ork by surprise with his speed.
He spoke slowly and deliberately into Botchit’s face. “They're bad luck. You wouldn't listen.”
“I'm listening,” Botchit said.
“Listen to dis. I want back all da money I lost tonight plus wot you took in. Do you understand me, you smoove-talkin’ son of a squiggoth?”
Botchit nodded slowly, never once taking his eyes from the knife at his throat.
“Tell dat old krokatoad-faced dood to go out dere and bring back da money. Tell ‘im, or I'll stick your ass, and I'm gonna stick him,” he pointed to the old, toad-faced ork, “and I'll definitely stick dis lil’ runt-assed, bad-luck motherfugger right ‘ere.” His crazed gaze now fell upon the runt, who this time could not help but take a step back.
The ugly, angry ork turned back to Botchit, who said, through gritted teeth: “Den you'll ‘ave to stick us because I ain't givin’ you gak.”
Growling loudly, froth spilling from the corners of his mouth, the ugly ork made to slash Botchit’s throat.
“Wait! Before you do, I just wanna tell you one fing,” Botchit said.
“Tell me wot, punk? Wot da fug do you want to tell me?” Veins pulsed on the ugly ork’s sweaty brow, his bloodshot eyes looking more crazed by the second.
“Wot d’ya wanna tell me?”
“Don’t you need a licence to be dat ugly?” Despite themselves, the other nobs started laughing uncontrollably again.
The ugly ork’s face twitched and then contorted into a visage of sheer rage.
Then there was a loud bang and the ugly ork’s head exploded into a red miasma, showering the surrounding nobs with skull and brain matter.
After a couple of seconds of shock, as one all the orks turned slowly to look at the runt, stood there holding a massive and still–smoking boltgun.
“Holeeeey gak! Gorkdamn. I guess he does ‘ave bad luck with runtz,” was all that Botchit could say.
The runt spoke up for the first time, in a high-pitched squeak. “He was gonna stick us, so I shot ‘im.”
“Booga, Slim, Manky, would you help get dis dead muvvafugger out, please? Da game's over for tonight. I'm takin’ dis boy home to his muvva.”
“My mamma's dead,” said the runt, matter-of-factly.
“Well, your daddy.”
“My daddy’s dead, too.”
Botchit backed off slightly and tipped his head to one side. “Did you kill ‘em?”
“No, they're just dead,” said the runt.
“Give me dat bolta.” The runt handed it over. “Where d’you stay, runt?”
“I don't live nowhere.”
“You can stay wit me for a while. I could use someone like you.”
