The thumping of artillery could be heard clearly in the distance. The Ork camp was far enough away to be safe from the reach of the guns, but only just. The wily brutes unwilling to be far away from the action. The Ork camp, or what passes for one amongst their kind, was a shoddy thing. A loose collection of scrap sheds and wilting tents. Their pattern was ever shifting as they were erected one day and cannibalised the next. Dirt roads were busy with traffic as scrap engines hauled mobs of Orks towards the next battlefield. On the edge of this mess was a two story structure making its home on the edge of the dusty wasteland. It was little more than an overgrown shack. Its walls were strips of an old tanker hull patched together and a roof of corrugated steel. Despite its slap dash appearance and rickety engineering, it was one of the most permanent structures of the camp. The shack was the main dispensary for grog. The main source of drink amongst their kind. To call it potable is generous, but the greenskins thrive on the caustic alcohol. Most Orks were smart enough to know that you don’t mess with the grog. And those dumb enough to start tearing down the walls got a belly full of bullets.
The shack was a riot of activity. The noise was deafening as each ork struggled to shout over the others. It was crowded as well, with every available space filled with a mismatched collection of furniture. In one corner a mek slouched on a dilapidated sofa nearly flattened from use. On the second floor, a freeboota captain is passed out, a stack of chipped shot glasses balanced precariously on a dainty coffee table made of fine wood and silver gilding. Gretchin ducked and weaved between the jam-packed tables. Grog sloshed onto their shoulders as they hauled overlaiden trays over their heads. There was little time for specific orders. The grots simply threw down their load on the driest tables and scooped up any loose teeth left out. If an ork wanted something fancy they could fight their way to the bar and pester someone in charge.
One group was having a particularly interesting conversation. With a table made from a train axel by the window, it was a good place for lunchtime chatter. Today they were having a particularly deep and meaningful discussion of orkish philosophy.
An ork in the colours of the speed Freaks drops his weapon on the table. A good three feet of pipe with heavy cogs welded on for the head.
“Dis is da only choppa ya need.” The speed freak declared, tapping his knuckles against his prized weapon for emphasis. “Ya zoomin along yeah? All ya need do is give em’ a wallop and pop goes der ‘eadz! Noth’n feels betta dan getting dem just roight.” The chair creaks dangerously as the red ork leans back. “Made dis beauty meself. Didn’t cost a single toof. Dats da best part, ya just need a stick wiff somethin ‘eavy and ya good to go!”
“Bah!” another ork chimes in. This one was from the Snakebite clan judging from the tattoos and piercings. He leaned back in his chair with his arms folded, obviously unimpressed. “It doesn’t even chop,” he complains. He sticks his arm out, gesticulating with an upturned palm. “How can it be a choppa if it don’t chop?!” With this the snakebite leans forward and slams his own weapon on the table, spilling grog everywhere. It was the stereotypical axe of the orkish culture. A short steel haft with a brick of iron hammered out into the rough shape of an axe head. “Dis is a choppa, good an proppa. Any lad with some know-how can get ya one wiff just a pocket o’teef. Dis will kill anythin. And if it don’t, ya haven’t hit it enough! Every Ork should ‘ave one uv deez. If ya don’t, you’ze aint a proppa Ork!” He finishes his statement slapping the table.
Such a statement would typically end in a brawl to defend their Orkish pride. But the group had known each other for awhile now and were familiar with their friend’s puritanical rants. Now his inflammatory statement merely elicited a chorus of tired groans and a few eye rolls.
“Woah now, we all love somethin good an’ choppy.” The next ork in the circle chimes in, soothing the cantankerous Snakebite’s ire. This one was a Blood Axe kommando, his arms and face smeared with tiger stripes of blue and purple grease. “If you go at one o’ dem beakies or spiky ‘umies wiff dat, you gunna be hackin away for a day and a ‘alf,” the Blood Axe laments, waving at the axe at the table. He scoots forward on his improvised stool, leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner. “What you need is wunna deez.” The bloodaxe slides a broad machete out of a leather scabbard. A simple piece of hardened steel hammered out into a straight backed blade. “Don’tcha worry, it’s good an choppy. But it’s stabby too. Real good when face’n dem ‘ard humies. Da pointy end is wutchya want for finaglin’ past all dem ‘ard bitz.” The kommando wiggles the blade around in the air, pantomiming the act of sliding the blade between his invisible quary’s ribs. “It’s everyfin an Ork needs.”
The circle of Orks hummed and hawed. None of them wanted to agree. It was a good weapon. Lethal and flexible in its uses. But a kommando’s recommendation to quietly go for a kidney? Quite un-orkish. But none of them could really come up with a decent argument. There is one member of the table who didn’t seem fazed. He was full of confidence with his toothy smirk. He was a big Ork. His bulk exaggerated by the gaudy, yellow amour he was wearing. He rattles like a sack of coins from the obscene volume of stolen medals tacked onto him. All the hallmarks of a member of the Bad Moons clan.
He wags his finger at the table.
“I got a treat for ya,” he offers.
He reaches down beside him, coming back up with a bulky chainsword. It was short and bulky, with a chunky engine block and a fat guide bar with a gap toothed chain wrapped around it. A strip of scrap was folded over as a back plate and a spiked guard added to the grip. It was an oversized and unwieldy deathtrap of a contraption, all painted in garish yellows.
“Now dis,” he says while he hefted the weapon. “Is da killiest choppa a lad can ‘ave. It slices, it dices and all dat good stuff!” The Ork was hitting his stride now. Speaking with jovial enthusiasm and becoming more animated in his sales pitch. “Dis bad boy will chop anyfin! Humies, beakies, creepy crawlies, whateva! And da best part? It’s flashy too and every Ork haz gots to be flashy.” He pats his prized weapon likes its a prized fighting squig. “Worth every toof,” he finishes.
“Oh, zog off,” the blood axe cries out. “Does it look like we’z made o’ teef?”
“Wut? Not my problem you ain’t got da teef,” the bad moons Ork deflects casually.
“He’s right,” the speed freak chimes in. “If I got dat much teef, I’m gettin sum snazz for me bike.”
“Or a new squig,” mumbles the snakebite.
The bad moons ork was losing his patience now.
“If ya don’t wonna spend da teef, why don’t ya get a stick like that git?!” The yellow clad points an accusatory finger at the speed freak.
Like all ork communications the polite conversation was quickly turning combative. The piece was quickly falling apart and devolving into a shouting match. Angry orks began pointing fingers and denigrating each other’s choices in weaponry. The snakebite accused the blood axe of being un-orkish and the bad moon called the snakebite a backwards simpleton. Amongst all this the evil suns ork was of the opinion that they were all self important snobs.
As their endless bickering dragged on a new ork entered the shack. A giant shadow filled the doorway. Too large for the crooked frame the colossal ork had to enter sideways, shuffling his bulk past the threshold. Once through the doorway one could truly appreciate his size. It was a monster of an ork, easily a head taller than any other ork in there and twice as wide. This was an ork nob, the biggest and meanest of the orks. The floorboards creaked and faintly trembled underneath the tread of his boots. With armour bedecked in chequered black it was plain to see that he was a member of the Goff clan.
Unfortunately for the squabbling orks the big goff heard their murderous debate. A discussion pertaining to combat? Of course a goff’s opinion was needed. He lumbered over to the table. Too busy arguing, the gang of ork didn’t noticed the mountain of muscle towering over them.
“You’z all wrong, ya gits,” the big ork growls.
The group all turn to look up at the giant brute. The black clad nob shouldered his way to the table. Leaning over, he drops his hand on the scuffed tabletop. More drinks are toppled over from the weight of the massive paw. It was a calloused mitt covered in a decades worth of scars, the smallest finger missing a joint.
"Dis. Is da killiest ting out dere." He spoke with a confidence born of experience. “Ya put anyfin’ in dis hand, it’s da killiest fing out dere’. No matter wot.” He looks around the table as his orkish pride infected the others. “It can be ‘ard. It can be choppy. It can be stabby or just proppa nasty! It’s all killy cuz you’z an Ork!”
The table cheered at the oratory skills of the orkish noble. He leans in, in a conspiratorial manner.
“Don’t you worry bout da teef. Cuz dis’ll get ya all da teef you need,” The Ork nob says while pointing at his fist. “Yeah just need a good buddy and…”
He whirls around and plants his meaty fist square in the bad moons’ face. Bits of ork ivory fly through the air as the yellow Ork tumbles to the ground. The big Goff scoops up the Ork teeth scattered across the table.
“Drinks for dese good lads. I’m payin!” He holds up the first full of teeth, yelling back to the bar. The tables cheers again, even the bad moons boy joins in groggily, raising a fist from the floor.
Another long night filled with grog.