Platork
“Consider,” the elderly ork said, holding up a shoota to the assembly, “Dakka.” The other orks murmured in agreement. He reached behind him and picked up a double-barrelled kustom shoota, holding it up for all to see. “Now consider; moar Dakka.” The crowd this time were more enthusiastic in their assent, some clapping, some calling out. “Now,” he said, fixing them with a wink and a wry smile, “da MOST Dakka!” With a dramatic flourish, he gestured grandly to a huge pile of guns a pair of grots had just pulled a canvas cover off of. The room exploded, orks bellowing their wild endorsement. Some flexed, others mimed firing guns into the air. Fistfights broke out, orks pummelling each other in rapturous accord. Eventually, it all became too much and they all went for the pile of guns, grabbing what they could and spilling out into the streets. Roving bands of nascent philorksophers boiled through the scrap-city, shooting everything in sight and writing the teachings of Platork in bullet h