The Grot Means Business

Muffled noises... lights... the only thing he could tell for sure through the bag was the trukk's motion.

And then that stopped as well.

Two thumps. Muffled speech. Someone grabbed him, jerked him roughly out onto the... stone?

The straps around his limbs tightened, secured. They were making sure he couldn't move. Finally, the bag came off.

He was disoriented at first. And still gagged. But slowly, the world came into focus. In the distance rose the grand shape of Boris. An image fast distorted by a grubby green finger curling downward.

"Welcome back to the world, Mr... oh, it doesn't really matter. Orks in your situation don't have much use for names, do they?" A pause. The grot was lighting up a squigar, taking his time.

"Yes, well, on to business." Another pause. A puff of smoke. A ruminative look at Boris. "An amazing thing, isn't it? And so many grots like me, everyday, working to keep it moving. All for the glory of the waaagh." Another puff. The little bastard was /smiling/.

"That's what we let orks like you think, at least. But the reality is so much more. Boris works because of /us/, Mr. Ork. The grots. When he moves, it is thanks to us." Another puff, a chuckle now.

"But you probably don't care about that. No, you're wondering about why you're here." The grot didn't look so amiable anymore. He motioned to his compatriots and two hefty pieces of metal appeared. A few sharp cracks later, the grot was at (painfully reluctant) eye-level with the ork.

"You have done a thing, Mr. Ork. A thing that caused me to get acquainted with you. And, finally, led us here." The squigar is cold now, placed in his front pocket. The grot is all business now. Through the delirium, a feature stands out. The grot's left eye is a scarred mass of flesh.

"The grotocracy is a well-oiled machine. And you happened to be a fairly large wrench in that machine. Large enough for the 'eads to involve me. I've already said that it doesn't matter who you are. It also doesn't matter what you did. All that matters here is teef. And a very hefty some was paid for this job." That smile again. Cold, unfeeling. Unorky. "A little extra won't hurt, though. Take him to the dentist boys."

An unyielding cord was looped around the ork's neck, pulling tight. The gag was removed, but he could make no sound. Again the grot gestured to his posse. Luckily, it did not take them long.

The grot was back again. He held two objects in his hand. One was a small sack. The telling jingle made it all too clear the contents were not rightfully his. And certainly not willingly given. The other was a jar. And inside it, a malicious looking squig.

"Beautiful, isn't she? A truly remarkable specimen. She rarely gets out, though. We rarely have to deal with orks unruly enough. But the grots up top made it abundantly clear."

The squig itself wasn't very large. It was actually quite small. The real menace was in its head. Every so often a slight flicker or... shimmer in the air would appear in front of it. But looking closely, the shimmer resolved itself into needles. Hundreds of them. Moving in and out almost too fast for the ork eye too see.

"And so we come to the close of our meeting, Mr. Ork." The squig was out of sight now, being affixed to the ork's head. "You will not remember us. We will not remember you. This is goodbye. To everything." The grot adjusted the annoying strip of cloth hanging from his neck. "But don't worry. You'll be your orky self in no time." Another chuckle. "Well, not exactly yourself."

A snap of the fingers. A wink, from that scarred mess of an eye. The ork barely felt the squig's teeth as they dug in. But he still saw the that wink, for a few moments. And then he remembered nothing.