Red’un

4.63/5 (2)

Mob Muncha took a wrench to his own teef. One solid blow knocked his remaining tusk free and sent it skimming across the junk strewn floor of his shop. It vanished under a pile of metal scrap and chipped rust. One of the grots looked up from his work on the Red’un, a yellow imperial jet turned six-wheeled sausage-shaped deathtrap. 

‘Iz you given out teefs boss?’ 

Mob waved the wrench. ‘Only fing I’m given iz dis WRENCH.’ 

The grot shoved his head down back inside a piston and mimed turning the screwdriver he lost an hour prior.

Artillery drummed against the earth a few kilometres out and rattled the entire garage like a rusted windchime of screws and pig iron. A long rack of tools and things Mob thought to be tools lined one wall while a heap of homemade guns hung from the other. Several of them worked, though Mob couldn’t remember which.

Mob ambled over to the pile of scrap and shoved his arm into it. He felt around with his fingers while his tongue dabbed at the bleeding gum where his tusk broke. To his side, two captured ‘umie shoota boyz moaned into gags as the adrenaline wore off and the pain of their shattered knees grew. 

While Mob fetched his toof his assistant mekboy, Glib, walked over to an ‘umie and ripped his arm right out of its socket. The scream caught Mob’s attention and the ork looked up in horror as Glib bit into the man’s hand and crunched into every bone. 

‘YOU ZOGGIN’ GIT! LOOK WHATCHU DID!’ Mob shouted. He wrenched free of the scrap pile, tusk in tow, skin torn, and stomped toward his lesser companion. 

‘What boss?’ Glib asked, blood and bone spilling from his mouth. ‘You’se said not’ta krump dese gits an’ I di’n’t krump ‘em.’ He took another bite. ‘Boss, you’se da one what krumped deir arms an’ legs!’ 

Mob grabbed the git by his woven hair shirt and shoved him to face the bleeding ‘umie. ‘Dat, ya dumb git, iz da PAINT! And you’se spillin’ it all!’ 

‘Oh. I’ll fix it boss!’ 

Mob let go and Glib shoved the arm back where it came. Glib grabbed some tape and wound it around the arm, then sat a bucket under to catch any blood that fell. 

‘Got it boss.’ 

From back behind they heard a muffled, ‘Oi! Boss! Me ‘ead iz stuck! Right in da piston boss!’ 

+ + +

It took all of Mob and Glib’s horde of teef, most of Mob’s real teef and all of Glib’s, but they bought it – the gleaming red helmet of one of those beaky space boyz. 

Mob shoved it up against the front of the Red’un and pulled a welding mask over his face. His torch lit a blazing blue and moved with wild abandon as it melted steel all over the helm. It left a messy, jagged circle of bubbled metal and burnt away the layer of paint on the gun laden prow. 

With a satisfied sigh, Mob turned to face nobody and said, ‘Boyz, we’ze done.’ 

Glib snorted, ‘Over ‘ere boss.’ 

Mob turned that way, blinking heavily. His welding mask lacked an eye shield. 

‘Ain’t we forgetting somefing boss?’ 

‘No.’ 

A drop of blood fell on to Mob’s arm, from one of the many ‘umie boyz hanging by their ankles overhead. It took a while to drain them and just as long to spread it over the scrapjet. In the hours since they’d finished, it turned a darker black colour. When asked, Mob said it was now mean-red and everyone agreed. 

‘Boyz, to yer stations,’ Mob shouted. ‘We’ze goin’ ta WAAAAGH!’ 

Their ‘WAAGH!’ shook the shop and set the tools to singing. The rush of ork and grot feet thumped like the distant beat of artillery. Mob jumped into the converted cockpit, Glib tied himself to the side, and the grots slung their shootas and grabbed the spikey bitz. Behind them, five orkz mounted ramshackle bikes with echoing bellows. 

Mob flipped a squeaking switch and the scrapjet roared into life. He hit the throttle and pulled a trigger. The trigger activated a light next to Glib which told him to pull the rope connecting to all the other triggers. A dozen weapons from repurposed canons to small shootas punched daylight into the garage door. The Red’un crashed into the rest. Its front crunched in then it broke out and tore down a ruined hive street, bikes running behind. 

They shot forward half blind in the smog and the engine missing. Ahead, a long siege encircled the last bastion of ‘umie ladz. A giant pit surrounded the fortress and fended off the orkz for too long now. The sight of it enraged Mob, he let off the gas then slammed it back down. A pop, then a grot head shot straight up into the air and the engine fired like new. 

It took minutes to reach the ork lines where all the ladz plinked at the enemy walls or built bridges to try and cross. Mob turned the wheel and ran over a line of captured ‘umies to touch up his paint. A few boyz shouted at him and chased with axes. 

Mob’s hand went to a switch. The Red’un’s jet engine awoke to spill dark smoke. 

‘Ladz, ‘old on!’ Mob shouted as the jet came to life. Grots disintegrated in its wake and the Red’un nosed up as it shot over the edge. Mob punched the throttle as the bikez dropped behind him. 

‘Boss,’ Glib called, ‘I fink we forgot da wingz.’ 

The fire behind them grew into a massive blue blaze as the Red’un took to the sky. 

About the Author
Kristopher is a hobbyist writer with his own little fiction blog, http://stonwardtales.com. His love of writing started with an assignment in 4th grade and grew into an obsession after an argument over a Warhammer Fantasy book, where he told a friend he could do a better job than the author. Since then he’s written nonstop, taken creative writing courses, and got a lot more humble. His writing focuses on characters and often humor, covering all sorts of genres and styles – whatever he thinks will make a good story. 
 
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