Kaptin' Krump´Nar´Rukk shouted angrily throughout "Da listening place" - a hole in the ground and impromptu auditorium that some mek-boy git with too much free time (and a big-ass shoota) in his hands had done. Often, if not always did the Kaptin' need to look inspiring and menacing to his boyz, but today he was especially so. He had his finest squig vest and hat on and, for my, and everyone else's delight, he held the gold-plated snazz gun that made him so very (relatively) famous. The Kaptin' was an ork of pedigree: legend (and no small share of tavern rumours) told that the spores that made him be came from those of a great squiggoth of yonder, blessed by Mork himself to be one of the most brutally cunning of them all.

Cunning the Kaptin' was indeed. On the battle for Orkadia, a once imperial world of great agricultural might, it took the witty boss nothing but one of his legs, 33 grots and 7 barrels of human entrails for him to cleverly deduce how an imperial khornefield combine worked. It was thanks to this sleight of mind that the boyz under the kaptin's "jolly ork" were able to mow down imperial stationary troops and artillery through shears mechanical power. Provided with a now empty world and the remains of its previous inhabitants neatly stacked over each other in small stacks of 8 limbs each, the orks of Krump'Nar'Rukk now had everything they needed in order to launch a one-day-to-be massive campaign against nearby imperial worlds.

"A'ight, lissen up ya' panzas, t'morrow's the Dakka Partay Day, so I wantz you lot ready for some headcrushin' and poppin'. Dat means no wakin' up the weirders in da middle of da night or settin' the squigs looze, ya' hear me? No git fings!"

Tomorrow was supposed to be the Dakka Partay Day, the day when all the arrangements had been taken so that the biggest and meanest of orks could "tellyport" themselves to Krump'Nar'Rukk's cruiser, in order to leave the star-system and pillage nearby worlds; well... selected nearby worlds. The Kaptin' didn't want to admit that he still couldn't raid military settlements due to the shortage of orks on the planet (the kaptin' also needed a couple of orks to figure the combine riddle out), but even if he had to admit it, burning some crops and making random acts of violence on nearby Hive Worlds still seemed attractive for most orks. And they got to mow over some more humies! Who cares if it's not the most glamorous of battles? As long as they stood the zog away from the Manufactorum worlds and its countless tanks and artillery, they'd be fine.

Kaptin' Krump'Nar'Rukk looked around; Attentive, faithful orks everywhere he glanced. He let out an increasingly loud laugh, followed by a display of his massive, yellow teeth. The kaptin' was, for an ork, incredibly social, I might say. Nothing got on his massive, cholesterol-filled heart and ork-peen like the faith he felt from his crew and the occasional sporeprize dinner. Not saying he was weak in any way - he still ripped heads and skip-roped with his foes' intestines like pretty much any other warboss I've met before - but he was tiny, tiny, tiny bit nice. He was the kind of ork you'd expect to only rip off one of your arms when you were really asking for a beheading – The common ork found that appealing. Despite not having the toughest of bosses, we knew that we wouldn't get as badly maimed if we screwed up. And we liked not being maimed!

"Y'know wat dis meanz boyz." He added.

I stood near the edge of my seat now, every inch of my body tingling with excitement and desire to quench my thirst for human blood, to travel through charred fields and to just bomb the zog out of everyone. I had nothing against the humies themselves; I'd seen some of them in combat before – a colourful, resilient group that called themselves the spice mahreens – and they were some really tough lubbers. They fought with a degree of rage and strength I had learned to expect only from Nobz: hacking, stabbing and shooting with coordination the likes of which I had never seen before… We still got to rip off all of their heads and capture a few alive for our Big Mek (He said he wanted to try and create a looted spice mahreen, whatever that means).

Everyone started slamming their guns on the ground in a show of utter respect for our mighty captain. Feet stomping, shootas filling the air with deafening bangs; everyone, even the occasional gretchin, pick-pocketing the distracted nobs, were trembling with the prospect of raiding human settlements and establishing one more our deserved title of "Star Savages".

Lungs full of air, energy clinging to his whole self, the kaptin' pronounced the orkish contract, the stuff of legends, the word that paralysed foe and gave impulse to ally, the promise of wealth and battle to come. We banged our guns even harder on the ground as the Kaptin's speech reached a climax, a crucial point of barbaric ecstasy.

"Waaaaaaaagh!"

Time vanished in this terrible shout, the very fabric of reality torn apart. The presence of Gork and Mork seemed to fill the air and speak through us all: An eerie green mist straight from the warp itself - the picture of the twin gods, punching each other with the strength of mountains within mountains… within mountains. Captivated by such a demonstration of raw violence, my mind started to drift - compelled to exert my authority and touch the faces of both gods with one hell of an uppercut. It was THEN that I *really* noticed what I was doing.

I wasn't slamming my choppa.

I was slamming a stikkbomb.

"FLIPPIN' ZOG!" was all I could say before I was rendered unconscious.

Cheesus Christ! What a totally expected turn of events! Will Grotsoop recover from the blast? Will dire consequences emerge from it? Will he ever find true love?

Find out the answers to these and other questions in the next issue of:

The Erotic Adventures of Kaptin' Fidstikks: Sassing through Time and Space!