The Grots Herd Themselves (Classier Ver.)

The Grot sighed and shook his head, puffing slightly on his squigar. He was too short for this shit. Before him was an Ork, another one, the crude yellow paintjob on his armor did a piss-poor job of hiding the fact that he was from a different tribe. Under a slightly different light, his true colors were revealed. Red and blue, to be specific. An interloper. There were more and more of these gits recently, the Grot mused that maybe this was the universe’s way of re-establishing its will and status quo after the windfall of a fluke the Scraplootas managed to pull off. Or maybe it was only now that they were brought to his attention, that previously the grot immune system of Boris had expelled them without his knowledge.
As an up and coming member of the Grotocracy, sometimes you have to knock a few heads and crack a few eggs to show you mean business. He would be doing catering for the council later, Tyranid omelets. Hopefully they didn’t kill the council, but well, if it did, that worked for him too. And there was this.

“Wake him up, boys.” The Grot took the squigar out of his mouth and blew a nice large smoke ring while the other grots he had brought with him beat the Ork on the head with clubs. If it took the Ork out, more beatings would definitely bring the Ork back, right? The interloper stirred after a few minutes, and tried to reach up to touch his head, and found he couldn’t. The Grot had slashed the Ork in a few specific places so he couldn’t stand or use his arms, ten-donz the painboy called them. Not making proper preparations beforehand had given the Grot this limp of his, making him move like an old git when he still considered himself plenty young.
“Oi, whut’s da meanin’ uv dis?”
“Hello, git.” The Grot limped over, fully dependent on the cane he had commissioned from a certain Big Mek’s grot. It seemed to just be a length of pipe, but the handle could be unscrewed to reveal a blade, a proper squigstikker. It had cost him a bunch of teef, but it really paid for itself with all of its usefulness. It was extremely sturdy so it krumped well, and could easily be used for choppin’. It just wasn’t shooty, but then again, shooty wasn’t exactly the Grot’s style. Shooty was loud and unpleasant when all you needed was a quiet word and a quick knife.

“You think you can waltz into my titan and muck up the place?” He leaned his cane on the Ork’s leg, right where the slashed tendon was. He smiled as the Ork groaned in pain. The Grot did not consider himself to be a petty grot, but he was not above exacting revenge for his own disability on every one who pissed him off.
“Where’s yer grot ‘erda. I ain’t talkin’ ta a bunch uv gitz.”
“Oh, but you will talk to us, interloper,” the Grot savored the word, he had learned it listening in on those nice little chats the Warboss had with the Eldar git, “You're going to sing us a merry little song.”
“Don’t fink so. Get me yer grot ‘erda, I’ll talk wid ‘im an’ everyfin will be ‘unky-dory, you’ll see.” At which point the Ork cried out in pain as the Grot leaned even more weight on his cane, practically drawing blood with the o-ring.
“No, you will talk with us. Who sent you? Who was it?”
“I AIN’T… GONNA… SAY NUFFIN,” the Ork was barely able to get the words out, fighting through his pain, “NUFFIN TA YOU GROTS.”

The Grot shook his head and sighed again, flicked ash into the Ork’s face and limped back. This sort of disrespect really zogged him off. Not that he was going to show it to the Ork. Grot herder this, grot herder that, like the grot herder was the brains of the operation and not just some git who thought he was doing things right and was bullying grots for no reason. The Grot took another draw of his squigar to calm down before before turning back around, “That's just too bad. This is down right disrespectful and I don't think I should have to put up with it. We are Orks too, just because we're small doesn’t mean we aren't just as important.” At least this one was a proper Ork this time, a bunch of the other gits had already cracked by now. The Grot gestured at his companion waiting on a grotbike to wheel over. They hooked the Ork to the back of the bike.
“I hope a nice long ride through the countryside will help change your mind, if you survive. See the sights, get some fresh air...” The grots flipped the Ork over together, “I also hope you like eating rocks.”
“I’ll get you fer dis, ya git. I’ll go ta yer grot ‘erda and ‘e’s gonna krump ya good fer dis. I’m pra’ticully a nob!” Defiant to the last. Or maybe he just didn’t realize what was about to happen.
With surprising agility the Grot jumped in front of the Ork one last time, “Listen, you sonuvabitch. I don’t think you understand. There IS no grot herder in the Scraplootas. Sure, Fizzgutz tries and all, and we play along, but he isn't a proper grot herder,” he blew foul smoke in the Ork’s face, “What you’ve seen is a coordinated effort with grots, by grots, for grots. No Orks involved. You want to find the secret to the Scraplootas and all of their loot and fortune? What keeps the Titan alive and well? It’s us grots. Grots as far as the eye can see. And you know what’s the secret to us Scraploota grots?”

The Grot pulled the Ork’s head as close to his face as possible, “WE GROTS HAVE NO HERDER. WE HERD OURSEVES.”