Squeek the grot (40K humööriä)

[hullukoira]

Here is a strange, a very stange, tale of one hapless grot and what happened to him one day. It has been written for a laugh during one lazy sunday evening, so do not take it too seriously.







Squeek the grot



The canyon echoed to the soft patter of running feet.

Sergeant Hamilton glanced at his squad as he ran on along the red, hard packed earth upon the dried up riverbed's surface. They were all keeping up with his hard pace, and managing to keep their footfalls from becoming too loud. As was only expected. They were, after all, space marine scouts.

Hamilton looked up to the high blue sky. Far above, the contrails of fighter planes intertwined in a deadly dance. It was the same in orbit, Hamilton knew. Orkes were in system with strenght. They had already knocked out most of the imperial spy satellites. Which was why all the scouting was now done by foot or by bike. Which, in turn, suited Hamilton fine. His men needed the excercise.

As he run, Hamilton checked his bolter. All green with full clip. Looking at Sabit, a young trooper running parallell to him, he noticed the lad had his shotgun racked and ready too. Sense enough. This was Ork territory.

Cresting a slow corner, the scouts espied a sudden figure looming ahead upon the riverbed. The alien shape had pounced from behind an errant boulder with agility that belied it's lithe form. In its arm glistened a deadly weapon of mass destruction. Which pointed straight at the dismayed company of scouts. The space marine neophytes came to a halt as if they had met with an invisible barrier. In a trice, everything became still.

'Ai! Ai!' cried out young Sabit with a look of utter dismay upon his face. 'A grot! A grot is come!'

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Squeek the grot was enjoying a quiet smoko.

Squeek lay upon his back, staring at the blue sky high above. Now and then he took a pull from a shoddy cigar he had pilfered from the body of a dead humie some days ago. This was the life! No slavers, no other gretchin trying to boing him over the head with a spanner so as to steal his teeth (yep, the ones attached to his jaw...) and no overenthusiastic biker boyz trying to run over him as they tended to do for sport.

It was seldom a grot had the chance of enjoying solitude in a camp of oks. And thus Squeek had decided to make the most of it when he had been assigned guard duty here, on the outskirts of an isolated ork stronghold. All thought of actual guarding forgotten, Squeek lay, his eyes half closed, his grot blood singing pleasantly with nichotine saturation.

Suddenly Squeek became aware of a slight tremble upon the red earth. Then there came a sound of many light feet, running. 'Is dat da enemy?' thought Squeek, half rising up and taking hold of his guard weapon, an old six shoota. 'Nah, canna be. Dem sound too light for humies. Musta be da raiding party of gretchin me saw goin past in da morn.'

Then a thought occurred to Squeek. Here was a chance to get even with his nasty fellow gretchin. Let's give them a fright!

And so, with a wolfish grin, Squeek sprang form his hiding place unto the canyon proper, waving his six shoota menacingly at the incoming gretchin raiders. But wait! These were no gretchin! These were humies! Armed and armoured to the teef, to boot!!! Squeek's eyes went wide with horror of the situation; and to his shame, he wet his already wery shoddy leather pants.

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Sergeant Hamilton looked at the figure afore him with bleak dismay. For it was indeed a grot! A living, breathing grot. An example of the deadliest warriors the orks could muster upon the battlefield! Hamilton shivered in cold fear. His palms upon his boltgun became slippery with sweat. A pit opened in his stomach, a black pit of naked, craven terror.

Hamilton, like all neophytes, had heard tales of these ultimate killers and assassins, the gretchin. Tales of dark nights when all sentries were found with slit throats, their small stuff stolen. Tales of lithe shapes flitting upon battlefield, dodging incoming fire with deadly grace and utter fearlessness as they went about their business of killing and looting. Tales of slow, agonizing deaths at the hands of incurable blood poisonings gained from getting bitten by an utterly fearless grot assassin. Yet, till now, Hamilton had never seen one of the warrior elite in real life, and had considered the tales mere fantasy to frighten the raw recruits. Until now. Now the stories were coming to life.

That the lean warrior specimen ahead of them was a grot, there was no doubt. It was green and lithe, bit over half the height of a marine, with wiry muscle the strenght of steel cabling encasing it's trained body. As an apparell, it sported only leather pants, shunning and despising armour. It's feet were bare, the nails long and sharp and dangerous. In its pitiless, cruel eyes, a red fire of death held it's domain. And to make matters worse, if possible, upon it's hands there was a six shooter, a trademark weapon of gretchin, the warrior elite. One of the most deadliest in excistence, the weapon shone with low menace in the noon light as it's hefty barrel traced the scouts.

There was a sound like that of castanets of Libicca. Hamilton looked down. It were his knees. They were clacking together as the fear shook him. He tied to gain control of himself, but failed, dismayed.

Blinking sweat from his eyes, Hamilton looked about him, to see if his men were faring any better. Alas, they were all in the same craven state. Their teeth clattered, their faces were pale, bloodless. Their eyes, pits of despair. They were seeing the treshold of the domain of death in the menacing form of the grot. Hamilton could not find it in himself to reproach them. He knew not all of them would survive this encounter. If any indeed would.

Suddenly, young Sabit let out a cry of anguish and brought his shotgun to bear. Hamilton tried to cry out a warning, to stay the lad's hand, so as to save him form a futile death. Alas, he was too late. The courageous neophyte discharged his weapon with a deafening boom.

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Squeek gringed in fear as he stood there, in plain sight of the humies. Trying to hide behind his gun, which was so heavy he just managed to keep it up with both, shaking hands, he weighed his options. They were not many.

He could run away, but as the canyon behind him went straight on for almost half a mile with no cover, it would leave him easy pickings for the humie gunners. He could try scale the canyon, but the sheerness of the walls made this choise a folly. He might try shoot himself out the situation, but could not see it really working: For he was a dreadfull marksman and the six shoota was alien to him. Lastly he could, of course, try and hide behind his rock, but that would be plain silly, even for him. Squeek dithered, worrying his lower lip with his sharp, flintlike teeth. Yet before he could come to a decision, it was made for him.

For of a sudden, one of the humies cried out and made as if to shoot. Reacting out of instinct, rather than training, Squeek shut his eyes, turned his head to the side, and pulled the trigger of his guard weapon in one frantic move. The six shoota and the humie gun fired in unison, making the canyon ehco.

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Sergeant Hamilton cried out in dismay as the shots rang out. For young trooper Sabit was hit. A bullet, fired with pinpoint accuracy by the grot assassin, had found his head. The lad fell to ground heavily, lifeless; a bloody hole where his left eye had been. Hamilton gringed. Yet, he could not but admire the sharpness of the grot's aim. It was canny.

Hamilton turned back to the grot. It was still there whole and well. Truly in vain had been Sabit's courageous gesture. New dread for the fell creature filled Hamilton's heart. He stood on, dismayed, waiting for the greenskinned warrior to make the next move. The grot, it seemed to Hamilton, was smirking to them, no doubt amused by the outcome of the brief firefight. It truly was as cold hearted as it was fearless.

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Slowly, Squeek opened his eyes. He looked first down to his wiry body, to see if he was hit. There was no sign of blood. And no feeling of sting either. Still, to be sure, Squeek lowered his weapon and freed his left hand to pat himself all over. Still no wounds were uncovered. Squeek sighed in relief, and only then remembered the other party of the firefight. He looked up. And goggled.

For lo! one of the humies was down! He had hit it! He had hit a humie! Wheee!!! Squeek could not but grin at his fortune. But then the grin faded. He had killed one of the humies. The rest would surely be pissed by this. Already, it seemed, the humies were poised to attack in strenght so as to avenge their fallen comrade. And then few lucky shots would be to no avail.

Squeek counted his choices. This done, he dropped the six shoota and scarpered. Putting his stringy feet to a good use, he sprinted away along the canyon as fast as his little legs could him carry, all the time waiting to hear a gun go off behind him.

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Of a sudden, the grot turned tail and sprinted off the riverbed with blinding speed that belied its size, raising a cloud of red dust as it went, no doubt cleverly veiling its form from Hamilton and his men as they made to shoot after it. Not being able to draw a bead, the scouts soon lowered their weapons. It a trice, the grot had reached a bend in the canyon and was then truly out of sight. The men turned, as one, to their sergeant.

Sergeant Hamilton lowered his boltgun and raised a hand to wipe away the cold sweat that covered his face. Now that the greenskin menace was gone his old courage was returning to his heart. He felt his spirit lighten. The burden of horror was lifting.

'The grot assassin is gone, sarge,' one of his lads stammered, his teeth still chattering with fear. 'Should we not disengage now that we have the chance, sir? It may have gone to fetch it's friends.'

Hamilton only half heard his charge. For his eyes had espied something upon the place where the grot had stood. There it glitteted, invitingly, in the noon light. The six shooter. Hamilton's eyes filled with sudden avarice. Here was his boon. A way to marinehood. Were he to present such a gift to the warsmiths of his chapter, he would surely face immediate promotion.

And he was right in this reckoning. A boon it would have been for his chapter. For grot warriors were loath to forfeit their weapons to enemy, were it their sharp blades or their yet sharper guns. As it were, not one six shooter had yet been captured, though not for the want of trying. Still were unknown to them the secrets of the fabled six shooters, weapons dreared far and wide, and so for reason.

Sergeant Hamilton took few steps towards the alien weapon. There was a sharp intake of breath from his men. They could verily see his purpose. And not all liked it.

'Sir!' cried on of his scouts. 'Desist! It is a trap, I deem! Were you to reach the gun, the assassin would surely leap from hiding and rip out your throat! Do not go, sir, I beg! Let's away, rather!'

'Nay,' asnwered Hamilton. For the grot was gone and he felt brave in the noon sun. 'I shall take the chance. For the stakes are high. You, form up on me, and be ready give a covering fire if the fell assassin shows itself.'

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As Squeek crested the bend in the canyon and came to a spot where he could not be seen by the humies, he came to a sudden halt. There came a look of utter dismay upon his small face.

'Oh, nay!' Squeek cried out, wringing his hands in despair. 'Me forget me shoota! Ach! The humies will surely steal it!'

It was grim realisation indeed. For Squeek knew that his cruel masters would punish him severely for such a slight as losing his guard weapon. Last grot that had done so, had been fed to a giant sguig. It had not been pleasant sight. Squeek hopped upon his feet, indecisive. But there was naught but one avenue open for him. He had to go back.

Squeek peeped around the bend towards the humies. To his relief, they had not yet moved, but were rather dicoursing among themselves. Hitching up his breeches, Squeek sighed deep, and then shot off, towards his six shoota.

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Sergeant Hamilton had only taken two steps towards the dastardly greenskin weapon, when a cry arose from behind him.

'Ai! Ai!' one of his men cried out, a note of terror and dismay in his voice. 'The grot is returned! The grot is returned!'

And as Hamilton raised his eyes form the six shooter, he could see that it was so. The grot was indeed returned. It had cleared the distant bend in the riverbed and was making a haste towards him. There was no hesitation in the rapid step of the grot. Only pitiless determination as it closed in for a kill. It had indeed been a trap. Or say rather a play, for surely the grot had been just playing with his catch, making it seem as if it had scarpered, even letting its gun behind as a lure. It was canny.

Hamilton gauged the distance to the six shooter. But it was to no avail. For the sight of the elite grot warrior had birthed the terror and dismay anew unto his heart. Hamilton felt the cold blackness of despair overwhelming his soul. Sceaming in fear and in defiance, he turned tail and fled, scattering his squad as he barrelled through them.

'Fly, you fools!!!' sergeant Hamilton yelled as he passed his men and fled full speed up the canyon. His hapless men did as ordered, shedding weapons and equipment in their haste to be away.

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Squeek ground to a halt. His jaw dropped. The humies had scattered! But why?

Squeek turned to look if there were something very frightening, like a giang squiggoth, appeared behind him upon the canyon. But there was naught there. He was all alone, save for the body of the fallen humie. Squeek blinked, shaking his head in disbelief.

Slowly, carefully, Squeek walked up to his six shoota and picked it up. Looking onwards, he espied something else upon the dusty canyon floor. Closer look revealed to him a treasure trove! For the humies had left many of their prized weapons behind!

Grinning from ear to ear, Squeek jumped around and whooped. Then he went hastily about and around, gathering the weird guns of the humies, and hanging them upon his gaunt frame. They were very weighty, but he endured. For if he would manage to carry this loot back to the camp, he knew, he would become one rich grot indeed!

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'You did fine.'

The marine scouts stood in line, heads hung in sorrow and shame. They did not feel fine. They had retreated, and that was a disgrace for a true marine. Yes, they had retreated from a the most fell of fiends, a grot, a threat that would have quailed the heart of even the stoutest of marine heroes. Nevertheless, the terror of the encounter all but forgotten, all that was left, was shame and dismay.

'You did fine,' the commander repeated, looking kindly to his young charges. 'More than fine. Not many meet a grot and live to tell the tale. And of your squad, all but one survived. This is something for the books! Indeed, I have deemed that for this bravery, you men shall all be raised to the rank of a full marine, as of morrow. But alas! For your fallen comrade we can do naught. For we dare not go in to that canyon, not yet anyway, and not without great strenght. For there is sure to be more gretchin in the vicinity. But now, go and get some rest. And do not let your hearts be troubled. For I have doubled the watch at the gates. No grot will infiltrate this fortification tonight. Dismissed.

The men dispersed, looks of disbelief upon their faces. They had made marines! Shaking their heads, they went hither and tither, till they finally came to rest, each in his own accommodation and fashion. Sleep was not easy to come, and sergeant Hamilton was the last to fall asleep. Greatly troubled were his dreams.

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'Where have ye been, ye 'orrible grot!?!'

Squeek gringed at the sound of his slave master. He sonded pissed. No wonder: it had taken most of the afternoon for Squeek to drag all the humie stuff to the sight of the hidden ork stronghold. Huffing and puffing the grot continued his way, up to the gate where his master awaited with wrathful mien. But lo! The slaver's mien soon turned to one of wonder, as he espied the grot's load.

'I canna beliff it!!!' cried the slaver, hastening to his small charge. 'Are dem really humie gunz???'

'Yep, master!' cried Squeek, delighted. 'And dem is all for ye!'

'For me? Awwwwww.'

Grinning like maniac, the slave master took the proffered humie weapons and admired them, licking and sniffing them one at a time. The look of wonder in his eyes soon turned to one of avarice.

'Have ye showed dese to anyone? the slaver asked in hushed tones.

'Nah! cuze not! Me not silly!'

'Great!' The slaver cried out, then fell into a deep thought. Finally he continued, saying: 'I know! I'll get us ride! Ye wait 'ere! Us is to go and sell dem gunz to the mekboyz up north! Us is gonna make a huge pile of teef wid dis loot!'

'But me is gotta be cooking squig fodder!' wailed Squeek, whom indeed had other duties pending.

'Nonsense!' cried the slaver. 'I'm youse master am I not? So, as of today, ye, Squeek, will be me per-so-nal slave. It's easy life for youse form now on! As is fit: Ye gives me such nice presentz! But where did ye get this load anyways???'

Squeek thought it better to lie. It was not like anyone was going to belive the truth of it! 'Me took it off dead humie at the canyon dere!' he squeeked.

'Dead humie?' wondered the slaver. 'Was it fresh?'

'As fresh as can!' answered Squeek. 'Not even flies yet!'

'Hot damn! Tell youse wot: Us is to go and pick da humie up afore us head for da mektown. Us is gonna eat humie flesh tonite!'

'Wheee!!!' cried Squeek the grot, twitching from head to toe with excitement. This was indeed turning to a one dandy day. A promotion, and a humie steak for dinner. This, indeed was the life!


The End