Disassembles head

This patient should’ve died plenty of times. He just didn’t fancy it. Dying wouldn’t even have been a big deal, usually. But he had a strange feeling he was just getting started, and he wanted to stick around to find out what he was just getting started with.
Grotsnik didn’t make it easy. By the peak of the operation, the patient’s head had been taken apart like a faulty shoota, with all its bits laid out on a bench to have more grease slapped on ’em. He’d gotten through a whole cage of transfusion squigs, and he probably didn’t have a drop of his original blood left.
He didn’t have too much of his brain, either. What the turret had left him with had ended up stapled to a medley of scraps from the dingy bucket where Grotsnik kept his ‘cuttings’, and which were now a bit ripe, having not been ’frigerated in three days. But the bit of that original brain that mattered held on, and made quick work of bullying the rest into line.

Ghazghkull Thraka: Prophet of the WAAAGH!