A young boy crouched behind a stack of barrels in the shadows at the back of the garage. He’d been there since the first green skins had descended upon the Imperial mining facility. His hiding place, a place that weeks before he and his friends had made into a den, could only be accessed by crawling through a ventilation shaft. The guttural sounds of the Ork language emerged from the room beyond the barrels. The boy peered out. The facility’s goliath truck, a squat four-wheeled transport vehicle, stood in the garage. Two green skins were stood by the vehicle, one wearing a large pair of goggles and a red coat, the other’s skin daubed with blue symbols and icons. To one side a handful of imperial citizens were hog-tied on the floor. The boy darted back, stifling a whimper as tears ran down his face, listening without understanding to the conversation going on.

‘Yep,’ said the blue skinned Ork, ‘Dis is one hell’uva find. I’d keep it for meself but da boss sez we don’t ‘ave da space on da roc. It a cryin’ shame to ‘ave to sell it. A hundred teef, can’t say fairer dan dat.’

‘Wut is it?’ said the other. The blue skin slapped the side of the goliath,

‘Dis, is a perfect opportunity for you to show your boss dat you are a kunnin’ boy dat’s worth a bit more of da booty. It a truck.’

‘A truck? We got a truck already.’

‘But dis truck is different. Look at dose tyres, dey could roll over a squig and you would not even notice up on da back. Ten minutes at da mek’s and dis fing will be roarin’; look at dem pipes.’ A metallic clash rang out as the blue skin hit the goliath’s exhaust with his axe. ‘Look at dat skorcha up dere, de ‘umies use it to melt rocks dat ‘ave fallen in da way, and look at dat arma,’ this time a gunshot cracked, the Ork demonstrating the vehicle’s toughness with his pistol, ‘not even a scratch. You boyz could roll up inta da fight and not get all shot up on da way.’

‘Wut are dese bits for?’ the red jacketed Ork said, pointing to the safety railings. For a second the blue skin hesitated, but then he rallied,

‘Dats so more boyz can ‘ang off da side, you can get a right big mob ridin’ dis fing. Ninety teef, any less and my boss wud ‘ave me gutz.’

‘Ninety teef? You say dat dis will make my boss fink I am a kunnin’ lad, but if I waste ninenty whole teef on a truck he’ll stomp me ‘ead in. Ninety teef would get us a nice shiny shoota for da truck.’

‘Tell ya what, tell ya what,’ said the blue skin, ‘You’re a good lad, I can see dat, for you I’ll say eighty teef and we’ll include one of dese ‘umies wiv it.’

‘Dose ‘umies aren’t worth nuffin”, the red jacket said, ‘Dey been workin’ in a mine and can ‘ardly breathe. I was finkin’ forty teef.’

‘Forty?’ the blue skin roared back, bashing his axe against the goliath, ‘You best be takin’ dis seriously otherwise your boss is gonna find bits of you in a crate. Seventy, without da ‘umie.’

‘Alright, alright. My boss don’t even need a new truck, and you won’t find any ovva boyz lookin’, so let’s say fifty five teef?’

‘I ain’t sellin’ dis fing for less dan seventy, dere might not be any ovva boyz lookin’ for a truck but I can sell da bitz for eighty at least, but dat’s trouble with da meks and dat, so I’m stickin’ at seventy.’

‘Dis fing ain’t worth seventy and you know it. If I did buy dis, I’d ‘ave to pay da mek at least ten teeth to get it runnin’ propa, get a few more shootaz on it, dat kind of fing.’

The blue skin sighed. ‘But you gotta fink long term. Dis fing will get your boss loadsa booty, which means you’ll get more booty. You gotta spec-u-late to ac-um-u-late, as dey say.’

‘What der Mork does dat mean? Spec-u-late? Who sayz dat? Dis fing ain’t even red!’ There was a grunt, followed by the sounds of a scuffle and a sharp human scream that was suddenly cut off to be replaced by a gurgling noise,

‘Sixty five teef and a fresh coat’a paint, dats my final offa.’

‘Done. ‘Ow does dis fing work?’