Mad Dok Grotsnik

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Bolter shells began striking the ruins in which the orks were taking cover, gouging deep holes into the rock, puckering what rusted steel was left. In response, the greenskins roared, spitting thick phlegm over the walls and returned fire. Their slugs generally made plumes of dust as they hit the ground, but some impacted on the trees and rocks around the Space Marines, and one or two might have actually hit what they were aimed at.

Tension mounted among the heavily muscled aliens as they hunched behind their meager cover, leaping up and firing wildly whenever they were able. Finally, one of the younger orks broke the line and bolted for their enemies, screaming and waving his axe.

His head, as had several of the others' who had lost patience, rather suddenly evaporated, courtesy of a sniper. Grots casually returned the attack, their long barreled weapons coughing bullets that went some three feet to the right of their targets. Slowly, the Waagh! was being thinned from the combat. Ghazkull, an ork boy, stood to deliver a hail of slugs. His finger was tightening on the trigger as a bolter shell caught the upper left side of his head, sending him spinning into the dirt. He crawled away on his elbows and knees, holding his brain in with both hands and only dimly aware that the Waagh! had finally decided to charge.

He finally managed to reach the camp's Mad Dok. With a nasty gleam that Ghazkull was a little too dizzy to notice, the Dok clapped the young ork on the bag and ushered him into the tent.

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((Posting in little segments 'cause I'm supposed to be doing Spanish and I dunno when Dad might wander back here, kill everything fun I was doing, and thus force me to start over with an even less clear idea of where I was going...))

Three grots handed Grotsnik a rather large circular saw, which he revved idly.

"Get me a gud plate o' adamantium fer dis one. 'E needs a new brain pan, stat!"

As the gretchen raced off to find a suitable chunk of metal, the Mad Dok stuck the now-slightly-worried Ghazkull with a syringe full of sedative. Then he rubber banded the brain tightly back into his skull and removed the clingy portions of the exploded top of his head. Thus done, he snapped a quick picture of his patient, who was now missing a full quarter of his skull. He stuck the portrait onto a wall for future reference.

The diminutive greenskinned servants struggled back into the tent, dragging a heavy metal plate. Grotsnik rewarded each with a quick kick out of the tent, then set to work replacing the missing fourth of the ork's skull. With the help of superglue, duct tape, some heavy duty staples, and some kind of bone saw, the Dok made the operation as quick as he could. Within an hour, Ghazkull staggered out of the tent, clutching his shiny new skull and trying to find his way back to the battlefield.

Grotsnik watched the departing ork and nodded, satisfied. Then he dashed off after him, hoping to find spare bits of ork and metal lying about on the killing ground.

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Two days after the battle, the richest of the Nobz had arrived in front of Grotsnik's tent.

"Wut?"

"I wan' dat t'ing Ghazzy got."

"..." Grotsnik looked inside his tent, now full to bursting with pointy things, saws, varied chunks of metal, guns, explosives, and spare parts from dead orks. "You came to da righ' place. C'mon in."

"'Course I came t'da right place, y'git." He dealt the Mad Dok a dismissive clout to the ear. The ork seethed inwardly. The Nob lay down on the operating table.

"Dis'll only 'urt for a few hours after. Gimme yer arm." When the Nob complied, Grotsnik stuck him with the standard sedative and repeated the performance, only this time purposefully removing most of the ork's frontal skull in order to replace it with scavenged Space Marine transport metal. The Nob clutched his head as he staggered from the tent after paying, giving Grotsnik an amazingly orkish plan.

Within an hour, a large pole was raised, proclaiming the notable 'Sucksess, Cheepness, Awesomeness and Orkiness' of the new 'Ghazkull Special.'

Within three hours, a queue had formed, snaking from the front of Grotsnik's tent through the camp. The Dok peered out the door with a wide and inviting grin, ushering everyone inside. Business suddenly looked up.

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"An' so I clapped 'im on da ear!"

The first Nob to receive the Ghazkull Special was laughing with his friends, slamming ale tankards and roaring his tale, when his head rather spontaneously exploded. Perplexed, the gore-covered orks exchanged glances before brawling over his possessions.


The next day, Ghazkull began preaching to his fellow orks about how 'Gork'n'Mork'd smacked 'im upside the 'ead with a bolter shell, tellin' 'im that orks was made fer fightin' and winnin' and from now on, dat's what the Clan would do.' The current boss took this as a challenge and stepped up.

Ghazkull, who had grown rather considerably in preparation of the conflict, had answered the call out. With roars, brags, and threats, they clambered into a pit and grabbed Choppas.

Ghazkull proceeded to drop his and throttled his opponent while headbutting him furiously. The combat was over in forty or so seconds, and he was the undisputed lord of the tribe.

Rather pleased with his contribution, Grotsnik returned to his tents to find a bigger line than the day before, all of them Nobz. It seemed that orks were flocking to the banner of the previous chieftain, and would now be running faster to join this more charismatic monster. His speech outside roused the boyz to a killing frenzy. Grotsnik took advantage of this by doing varied surgeries, from giving them power clawz to fitting them with new skulls to implanting new lungs. Every now and again his hand would 'slip', and he'd harvest the organs from the generous new donor.

The Nobz were generally jackasses, but they paid a lot for their new bionikz, and that's what counted. Besides, it wasn't like Grotsnik hadn't silently sworn revenge on each one.

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"Yez, an orifice is an amazing thing all righ'." Grotsnik nodded sagely after his lecture, removing the ork's jaw and replacing it with a newer, better one. The gretchen looked slightly sick. The Dok shrugged, woke the ork, and sent him on his way. Three heads had suddenly detonated that week.

The Mad Dok just couldn't imagine why.

He strode out of his tent into the night, guffawing to himself after having spat something green, thick, and nasty into the open brain of the last idiot who'd burst into his tent. So it was that he didn't notice when a Killa Kan, a sort of mobile, claw-and-saw wielding trash can with guns pinned to it's sides snuck up behind him. With all the stealth a booming machine of death could muster, it pinned Grotsnik to the ground with it's claw and surgically removed the top of his head. As this happened, the Mad Dok reflected that three explosions in one week must have given him away.

He passed out right before the hired grot crashed sneakily away, and his own team of assistants dragged him inside.

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((So, as all who know of the orks have no doubt found, I'm outlining Mad Dok Grotsnik's career. Just before we get into copyright issues, I'd like to mention that.))