Dakka Bang Bang charged furiously toward the humies' positions ahead. In all his ork life, he had never been toyed with like this by humies who relied on numbers and cheating.
And then there were those idiot boyz under him, who never listened properly. The moment they heard any noise, they would scamper off to find a fight, just like those stupid Evil Sunz drivers—first to charge, first to crash into a ditch.
"Boss, Boss! I see lots of humies up ahead! Lots and lots of humies!" Standing behind Dakka Bang Bang atop a massive ammunition crate cobbled together from iron plates, his favorite Gretchin—Lao Ganma—was peering ahead through a monocular telescope.
"Good! Very good! Boyz, grab your weapons! We're gonna smash 'em good and knock the crap right outta 'em!"
"Waaagh! Smash 'em!" At their boss's command, the boyz raised their big shootas over their heads. Unlike the usual ork boy with a standard choppa and a little dakka, nearly every boy following Dakka Bang Bang carried a big shoota. There was not a melee weapon in sight—unless the club-shaped stickbombs tied to their belts counted.
"Why ain't you lot carrying big dakka! We're fighting in a city, but you're dressed in leaves meant for the jungle!"
"We forgot..."
"You could forget that! What kind of embarrassing gits are you!"
When Dakka Bang Bang saw the four or five fools in the mob who clearly did not fit in, he immediately felt that every one of his underlings was an idiot. But he did not dwell on it. A real ork was never troubled by his feelings or by his mates' incompetence, because he could turn those annoying emotions into a gentle fist and smash everything that pissed him off.
Driven by that fury, Dakka Bang Bang took the