Buzzkill shifted atop his small mound of skulls and scratched his temple with the barrel of his shoota. He had a headache, due to the strange new feeling now occurring within his dense skull: He was having an idea. The idea was this: Warboss Hugemassacre was going to be furious.
The invasion of Rychese
was going horribly.
“Any of you lot
gorrany good news?” Buzzkill groused to the cluster of ork boyz who
stood about his makeshift throne, itself ensconced within a ruined building
that had once been one of those human temples to slaughter -- a meat-packing
plant.
The boyz looked
nervously at one another.
“Well … Killjoy
and ‘iz boyz did take da bridge yestiddy,” volunteered one.
“Dere ya go!”
Buzzkill grinned tuskily. “Where’s Killjoy now?”
“Well … most of ‘im
izzat da bottom of da river. Turns out the hoomans ‘ad da ‘ole fing dynamited.”
Buzzkill’s grin
disappeared. He regarded the ork who had spoken for a long time in unblinking
silence. “Dat’s not ‘specially good news, izzit?”
“Oh, yeah. No, chief, not as such. Sorry.”
Buzzkill nodded
once, satisfied. Then blew the ork’s head off with one burst of his shoota.
“Anybody else
gorrany news?”
There was a
commotion at the entrance to the war camp. An ork kaptin staggered in,
breathing hard, bellowing that he had to speak with Buzzkill.
Buzzkill waved
his bodyguards aside, motioned for the kaptin to approach. Levelled his shoota.
“Dis berrer be good,” he growled.
The ork saluted,
fist to temple. “Kaptin Deadpan reportin’. Success! Da nobbiest nob! Da
bossiest boss! Da hooman number … dat comes right before ‘two’. We captured
‘im, he’z ours!”
“Who iz?”
“Da hooman
whatsit, da whosit …” Deadpan frowned in concentration, then snapped his
fingers. “Deir God!”
“Deir … God?”
Buzzkill repeated.
Deadpan nodded.
“Yup!”
“You sure?”
“Yup, had ‘iz
name written an’ everyfing!”
“Deir God, da big shiny bloke who wot lives on Terra,
who az ‘iz frone on Terra an’ never leaves Terra, your lot captured dat
God ‘ere, not on Terra at all but on da planet Rychese?”
“Yup!”
“Deadpan my lad,
come over ‘ere would you?” Buzzkill beckoned the ork forward. Once Deadpan was
within grabbing-by-the-throat range, Buzzkill grabbed him by the throat and
lifted him off his feet. “Now listen ‘ere, Deadpan, my chum: Da hooman God is
one of da most powerful blokes who wot ever lived, ever, and you are, to be
frank, a smelly, grubby, snot-nosed little ork kaptin. So lemme arsk you one
more time: Are you quite, quite sure your boyz have captured da hooman
God?”
Deadpan
attempted to answer, discovered he lacked enough air, and settled for a weak
grin and a nod instead.
“Blimey,” said
Buzzkill almost dreamily, abruptly letting the kaptin’s neck go and sending him
crashing to the floor, where he lay, rubbing his bruised throat.
“Wait ‘till Warboss
Hugemassacre ‘ears about dis … ” another of the kaptins said brightly.
Buzzkill blinked
and refocused, eyes narrowed. He turned slowly towards the ork that had spoken,
and the barrel of the shoota followed.
“… which he
never will, coz none of us would go squealin’ to ‘im. Right ladz?”
There were
various nods and grunts to the effect that informing the Warboss of their prize
was the very last thing on anyone’s mind, and indeed, the very thought of which
had never even occurred to them.
“Right, glad dat’s
sorted,” nodded Buzzkill. “Deadpan, you lead us to ‘im. Everyone else, follow
me. Nobody stays behind. I don’t trust you lot further’n I could throw you.”
The ramshackle
mob poured out of the camp (viz, the meat-packing plant) and into the shattered
city. Greasy black smoke wreathed about them. The distant rattle of autogun
fire and crump of artillery echoed down the narrow streets.
“Owright, which
way?” Buzzkill demanded.
“Izza sort of
prison fing dey got down ‘ere,” Deadpan said, setting off at a trot.
“Dey had deir
God inna prison?”
“Yeah, ‘ole
place fulla cages an’ ‘at.”
“Cages? He put
up much of a fight den?”
“Nah, he just
‘owled a bit,” Deadpan shrugged, leading them around a burned-out ground
vehicle. “Don’t see wot all da fuss is about, really.”
The glass inches
above Deadpan’s head exploded outwards, lashing him in a sharp diamond rain.
The war party roared defiance and returned fire with every weapon they had, not
deterred in the least by having no idea where the shot came from. There was a
second shot, and one of the boyz toppled as the back of his head blew open.
“Bolt sniper,”
Buzzkill bellowed. “Must be da rescue party. Da rest of you lot, flush ‘em out.
Deadpan, you’re wif me. On da double now!”
Buzzkill fired
three ear-hammering bursts from his shoota that removed several floors from the
buildings lining the opposite side of the road, then grabbed Deadpan by the
scruff of the neck and dragged him down a side street. A sniper shot punched a
fist-sized hole in the wall just as they rounded the corner, spraying them with
brick dust.
“Just up dere,”
Deadpan said, pointing. There was a squat building with a damaged sign, in
pastel pinks and blues, which read: “Rych__e’s Fi__st P___”.
Buzzkill fired
another wild jackhammer burst back down the street, and the two orks crashed
through the doors and into the cramped, ammonia-scented room beyond.
“Dat’s ‘im!” Deadpan said triumphantly, pointing.
The human “God”
regarded them warily from behind thin grey bars. Its black nose twitched and
its long pink tongue lolled from its mouth. When they stepped closer, it
flattened its ears against its head and growled at them, revealing a row of
sharp teeth.
The sign above
the cage read: “Dog.”
“Deadpan, you dyslexic
sod …” Buzzkill groaned.
“What, boss?”
Buzzkill
gestured despairingly at the animal. Sighed in resignation, took a deep breath.
“Here, lemme explain,” he said, and shot Deadpan between the eyes.
He sighed again.
The Warboss was going to be furious.
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