The dull roar of the party was in full swing, and I was enjoying myself immensely. A mug of Fungus Beer in one hand, and a spitted Squig in the other. I took a large bite out of the delectable creature, a limbless slug that tasted better than the best steak I’d ever had, and I’d been to some of those REALLY fancy restaurants, so I knew what I was talking about. I sat on a makeshift chair around a roaring fire, surrounded by laughing kinsmen. The raid had been extremely successful, and loot was so abundant, nobody had even shaken me down. Yet.

  Every time I took a chug of beer, my back protested, but with every drink, the pain went away for a bit. I had learned quite a bit after the whole battle, mostly how after the battle and adrenaline was gone, some of my more Orky tendencies faded. Unfortunately, this included pain tolerance. Which is the main reason I was downing my seventeenth beer. While being a drunk Ork was a FAR different experience than humans experience, it very much helped calm the dull sizzle that tingled the burnt nerves all over my back.

  One of the newborns, who had taken the name Grutz Gluklut, was extolling a most incredible, and totally believable tale of how he fought off three Orks with just a club and his sheer savageness. Jeers and applause followed the performance, followed by an offer to reenact it live. The newborn backed down at the threat, and a new Ork took the stage with his own story of grandeur.

  A cough at my side heralded the return of my new favorite Grot, Grikkle Spit. A smile split my face as the little goblin handed me a small sack. I peered inside to find a nice pair of leather pants. I tossed the goblin the remains of my squig, which he grabbed with quick fingers, jumping up onto my shoulders. I gave the little critter a pat on the head, ignoring the little shrill of fear from the contact. He’d just have to get used to it. I pulled the pants out, admiring the thick leather. I ran my fingers across the fabric, ignoring the few tears and stains. A few defects were fine by me. Going around bare-assed was not something I was comfortable with. And besides, I had plans.

  Along with a pleasant pain reduction, the beer was making my brain run wild with crazy, BRILLIANT ideas. Not only was I going to become the biggest and baddest boy around, I was gonna do it in style. Visions of power armor, gatling laser weapons, and the slickest spaceship ever made flitted through my intoxicated mind, which I shared with my new companion. The little Grot nodded and complimented my impressive vision at the proper moments. Grikkle understood me, understood where I truly belonged. And most importantly, he was my in with the right crowd.

  You see, believe it or not, Grots are actually kind of important. I know, I know, what could knee-height, scraggly snacks possibly do that an Ork couldn’t? Well, anything and everything we don’t want to do ourselves, of course! This meant they did everything from farming and fetching, to making spaceships and guns, the latter being Grikkle’s specialization. Granted, from what Grikkle had told me, there were some sort of Ork overseer that had the ‘big ideas’, but that meant squat when all the little details were handled by the Grots.

  As for how I’d managed to get Grikkle on my side, it had been so easy, it almost made me cry. All I had to do was offer one of the workers in the workshop section, just a few minutes jog away from camp, a bag of treats, some teef, and a ragged aviator cap, and he’d stuck to my side like glue. All in all, the little critter had barely cost me a quarter of the teef from the previous raid. Quite the steal, if I do say so myself. Granted, this probably kept the kicks to a minimum, and no doubt offered him some sort of status amongst the lesser greenskins, but to see a sentient being so willing to enter my service was pitiful, which kind of matched the little Grot, now that I thought about it. Barely beyond knee height, Grikkle was on the small side of Grot-kind, like a teen that hasn’t quite hit puberty. He had his fair share of scars and burns, and half his left ear was missing. All in all, he had the look of a kicked puppy, which probably had something to do with me choosing him, rather than one of the smarter, more robust Grots.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I admired the little critter as he chewed down on the roast Squig. His only worries were staying out of range of the wayward kick, and being useful enough to not get eaten. As for me, I had bigger problems. Problems like 'What is happening to my mind?', and 'Is this all real?', or how all the Orks were starting to call me slow, all because I couldn’t speak ‘propah’. Stupid Orks and their shitty accents. It almost made me start asking questions about why they had accents to begin with. I mean, we clearly weren’t speaking english, so how could they have weird accents? But I was far too clever to indulge in that sort of logic. That road led to questions I did NOT want to think about, even subconsciously. One does not simply start questioning their own sanity, or how my soul might very well be mixing with a being so stupid, they didn’t even have a method of keeping TIME. No way I was going to go down that line of thought.

  But there were plenty of less dangerous lines of reasoning. The first being the most obvious. How the hell was I going to make it through the next week, let alone live a full and productive life, when the very first day had left me half-dead. Well, I’ll tell you how. The answer was quite simply, once I figured it out. All I had to do was become an Ork that DIDN’T fight. What's that, you say? An Ork that doesn’t fight? Impossible! Well, you’d be right. But, there are certain professions that tend to be both more respectable, and less dangerous than the typical Ork Boy. And it was this very line of thinking that had taken up most of my sizable cognitive ability these last few hours.

  All in all, from what I understood, there were three different options. The first was the Runtherd. Essentially, it meant rounding up and enslaving a horde of Grots and Gretchins, and making them do all your dirty work. Of course, this meant spending a fair bit of effort to keep them all in line, which was pretty much anathema to the Orkish way of life, and pretty low down on my own priorities, to be completely honest. But this would allow me to make myself a little army of tiny, worthless infantry with the morale of a wet kitten. Yah, not the best of ideas, but it was better than doing all the fighting myself. And then I’d have a bunch of workers to carry out all the ingenious works my most prestigious intellect could invent.

  The second was the industry overseer, or Mek, as Grikkle called them. They built all the fancy weapons and vehicles, or rather, forced their underlings to make whatever insanity came to mind. This would be most useful to someone in my position. My superior intellect, along with an understanding of physics that far surpassed even the most learned Mek, would surely come in handy. Of course, handling all that equipment was pretty dangerous, but all in all, a solid option.

  And the final option was the Doctor. At first, this seemed like a VERY good option. Job safety was no issue, since Orks are ALWAYS in need of medical care, as well as the knowledge to fix my own injuries, or maybe, just MAYBE finding a way to fix my, ah.... problem. What's not to love? At least, that’s what I thought, until I started asking for more details. By the fearful looks I’d gotten at the mere MENTION of doctoring, the job seemed like a poor fit. But my inquisitiveness forced my hand, and with enough Fungus Beer, I’d managed to convince a few Orks to fill me in on the details. Doctors, or Painboyz as they are called, are some of the most feared Orks of all. Not necessarily due to their battle potential, but because of what they’ll do to you when you’re unconscious and helpless. Stories of mutant limbs, mechanical ‘enhancements’ and brain transplants had been more terrifying than any nightmare I could even conceive of. But horrific surgery aside, it at least made it sound like it just might be possible to not die a virgin. And that one thought was more than enough for me.

  All in all, the three options all had great potential to them. And after much deliberation, I finally made my choice. And by ‘made my choice’, I mean I elected to NOT make a choice. Why choose just one career, when you can be all three? And with this drunken line of reasoning, I began the impossible task of becoming the best at anything and everything an Ork could do.