Da Metalwaaagh

Convinced that orks would rule the stars if they could only hear propa 'eavy metil, as played by the finest bands on Boff's Rok, Goff warlord Sirrus Bizniz has taken his best lads on tour. Initial tours included nicking stuff across the sector, discovering a Gateway to Hell, and building a growing fleet of proper killy ships by half-inching loads of ore from Eniola's Prospect. He's also proved himself a champ to the orks of Da Five Eyes by swinging the space battle against Hive Fleet Leviathan in the orks' favour. His success both there and on Boff's Rock have enabled him to begin amassing a waaagh! That is now attracting non-Goffs to the cause, with some of his original followers concerned that these newcomers might not respect the original vision, and are just tagging along for a scrap rather than respecting 'da kultur'.

Da Boss

No one, not even the boss himself, can remember what his original name was. He'd move from campfire to campfire, telling the lads to "pay attenshun" to Da Plan for the next raid. He'd tell them it was "sirrus bizniz." So after a while, that's what they called him. "Here comes Sirrus Bizniz," they'd chorus. The lads didn't know what was wrong with drinking and rokking out the night before, and then winging it on the day. Of course, they conceded, that was probably why he was the boss.

But who is Mr Bizniz, and where does he come from?

The artist latterly known as Sirrus Bizniz hails from Boff's Rok. A populous and comparatively advanced ork world, all sorts of subkultures await listless yoofs. Among them: Goff rokk. As soon as young Sirrus heard the wailing of atonal guitars and the pounding of the drums he was filled with a sense of awe. He got obsessed, spending all his time in drunken mosh pits and immersing himself in the subkultur. He wasn't much of a musician; rather, he was a connoisseur of 'da scene.' He had time for all the sub-genres, be it speed rokk, heavy rokk, deff rokk, tribul rokk, extra shouty rokk, doom rokk, prog rokk, djentle rokk, or just klassic rokk.

He gained a reputation for knowing all the bands, and who was 'metil' or 'not metil.' With so many people asking for his opinion, his influence grew. He gathered a warband of metilheads and, after orchestrating a surprisingly savage surprise attack, he took over a mortul kombat arena on the outskirts of Talltown. Sirrus quickly set to booking the best rokk bands he could find. Rokkers, and teef, came pouring in from all directions.

After a while Sirrus started getting funny ideas. What if there were other orks, in other places, who didn't have access to such good rokk? That wouldn't do.

There should be a rokk festival. A travelling rokk festival.

Sirrus gathered up promising bands, stage krew, docs (for the mosh pits) and an absolute pile of fangrots who understood that (a) metil was good, and that (b) Sirrus bloody well wasn't going to do the cooking, or dig out the drops. Indeed Sirrus' primary job, other than having an ear for good bands, mostly seemed to consist of shouting things like "We's going to Grimbul's Kanyon for da akoostikks," then spending several days drunkenly moshing while the bands took turns trying to induce a landslide with resonant frequencies.

After the Bloodstikk Festival had toured around Boff's Rokk a few times, Mr Bizniz started to feel weird, and not just because his boots were starting to feel too small. During concerts he'd have visions of orks all across the galaxy. Orks who needed to rokk. "We're taking dis fing to da stars, lads," he said one night, a tear in his eye. Everyone assumed it was the grog talking.

The next morning Sirrus gathered up his mountain of teef and, just like that, bought a ship. Some thought he'd gone funny. Who did this jumped-up festival organiser think he was? But the rokkers understood, and the rokkers became his krew. They were even joined by several renowned bands, including Metallorker, Iron 'Ead, Rage Against Da Everyfing, and Mastodork.

Krom Bignooz, Big Mek

Years ago, on the ork world of Boff's Rok, a po-faced mek named Krom came straight out of Bonkton with nothing but the wrench in his hand. He started out spannering for the Drop City Burnas, then managed to land a spot on Rezzgit Wurrlybitz' Formula Waaagh team out in Skid Row. It was here that Krom gained his first slice of notoriety: in his third year, he made a shokkjump drive and fitted it to the team's dragsta. This resulted in quite a lot of fighting when no-one could agree on whether tellyporting was cheating (most people came down on the side corresponding with the bets they'd placed). Sensing he'd just painted a target on his back, Krom snuck out and made for Mek Town, hoping to disappear into the crowds.

He resurfaced a few years later, having 'inherited' Gurdur's Garridge following an 'unfortunate' tellyporta accident in which the top half of Gurdur 'went to find Gork and Mork.' Over the next few months, Krom built a reputation as a Mek with a knack for fixing anything, no matter how complex. As time went by, he just couldn't keep up with the jobs, and took on more and more spannerz to assist him. His name got around. Warbosses came looking for snazzguns, forcefields, and mega armour. People started bragging about having acquired a Krom Speshul, even if it wasn't true. Krom was big news.

The news of a humourless mek with a penchant for tellyporta tek did not go unnoticed in Skid Row. The tellyporta debate had never died down, and had devolved into a constant war between the 'Portas and the Purists, leaving no time for actual races. One day, as Krom was shutting his workshop for the night, a couple of disgruntled Formula Waaagh fans made a drive-by attempt on Krom's life. Krom took a spinny blade to the face, and fell backwards into his workshop. With his remaining eye he sought out his prototype tellyporta blasta and spoinked the fans' engine out of existence. According to legend, it's the one time he ever laughed. 'Da sweet irony,' he said, stomping over to the crash site and beating the crash survivors to death with his now overheated blasta. Even as their blood soaked into the dusty street, Krom considered refining the design. More blastas, lower power settings, less burnout. Still killy, more dependable.

Keen to survive future assassination attempts, Krom built himself a suit of mega armour and took to more or less living in it. He found it extra useful in his work, enabling him to lift heavier loads. Soon he had all sorts of kustom tools on quick release clamps, enabling him to mount all sorts of know-wots on his gauntlets.

Years later, Krom was Mek Town's biggest Mek. Bitter rivals would sarcastically refer to him as Bignooz, pointing out their work was usually just as good. But Krom's name now carried weight, and with this weight, came teef.

Lots of teef.

Never one to wallow in materialism, Krom began to think about how he might use this wealth, and slowly, a vision formed: industyree... indoostrial.... the spelling wasn't important, it was the idea that mattered: factories. Whole factories, stamping out shootas, trukks, kans... the materiel of Waaagh. There was just one problem: the orks of Boff's Rok would sometimes go out pirating, but there'd never been a Boss capable of holding a proper Waaagh together.

And then came Sirrus Bizniz.

Krom didn't care one jot about rokk musik or kultur, but he saw the devotion Sirrus inspired in his followers. Krom's scarred frown deepend, which to anyone who knew him, meant 'thinky and excited.' He waited to see how Sirrus' initial forays into humie space went, and when Sirrus came back loaded down with plunder, Krom was fully sold, and came to the boss with a vision: fleets, planes, wagons, koptas, guns and choppas. Build everything, all at once. Be organised. Don't launch piecemeal. Get it all ready, and use it all together. Krom called this 'Kombined Harms.'

It was the doctrine that would signal the shift from ladz on tour to ladz on the path to Waaagh. And there, always, would be Krom Bignooz, harms dealer, raking in the teef and spending them on more factories, more ship foundries, more forges. An ever-growing Waaagh to spread across the galaxy. Also some nonsense about rokk musik, Bignooz conceded reluctantly.

Mobs of the Metalwaaagh

Wam & Blam

These absolute nobz have been with Sirrus from the beginning, inspired by the boss' vision and keen to headbang across the stars with some of the best bands in the biz. A motley succession of fanboyz come and go, but Wam and Blam remain, sturdy fixtures in the endless mosh of the Metalwaaagh. What can be said of such steadfast heroes? Not a lot. Being Goffs, they aren't keen conversationalists.

Grötley Crüe

The clanking three-piece outfit Grötley Crüe got their start in Runt Hill. It's just out past Skid Row, where the speed freaks test their dragstas. There at the periphery of Mek City, on a dusty hill too rubbish for proper orks to bother living on, the grots roam free. It's undoubtedly the least impressive neighbourhood on Boff's Rok, and yet it's the hometown of a truly unusual little grot.

Nikkit Stixx was originally an oiler working for Krom Bignooz, but after one too many unfair slappings he scampered off for the hungry freedom of the outskirts. Somehow surviving the journey out of Mek Town, he took to salvaging parts from the wrecked dragstas littering Skid Row.

He could never quite replicate Krom's ability to create actual working machines; nothing ever seemed to come together right. Frustrated, he took to drowning his disappointment with shroomgrog. He was soon hopelessly hooked, and didn't care. His little workshop fell into disrepair.

One night, blasted out of his wits and frustrated at his lot in life, he staggered back to Skid Row to half-heartedly pick at another wreck. He'd drunk far more than usual, and started to black out while tugging at a dragsta's battery. As the toxins tugged the life from his skinny little body, he slumped forward... and touched the bits of the battery all oilers know not to touch.

With a flash and a zap, Nikkit Stixx kickstarted his own heart.

His eyes opened wide. Veins bulged. His chest hammered away, and his chemical-filled brain entered some new fevered state. Filled with the clarity of the true psychochemical cosmonaut, he feverishly disconnected the battery and took it back to his workshop. All through the night he cut, and welded, and connected gubbins. As dawn broke over Grot Hill he was still going, and still taking swigs of shroomgrog. Other grots dropped by to see what all the noise was. Some even started helping.

A week later an engine started in Grot Hill, and a reedy cheer went up. Nikkit Stixx took his first clanking step inside his new suit. His new... killa kan. Every few minutes, he slapped the big yellow button to give himself a mild electric shock. It helped him think. And what he thought was that his new body could do more salvaging.

A lot more.

A month later, Nikkit - now known as Doc Feelgood on account of his chemical proclivities - had some kanned-up mates. At first, the other denizens of Grot Hill were extremely pleased to have some muscle defending their neighbourhood. Soon, however, Doc Feelgood's drunken behaviour and tendency to accidentally trash everything while wearing the suit meant he'd outstayed his welcome.

He and the rest of the Grötley Crüe set off in search of more fun. Said fun went on for months, and is a story for another time, but the important thing is that the trio developed a taste for Goff Rokk after happening upon the Bloodstikk Festival. While many disapproved of grots with so much agency, the festival's manager Sirrus Bizniz declared that self-made kans were "da metellest fing I seen today." After that they became a regular fixture of the mosh pits, providing great amusement as everyone tried to flee out of their way while they careened through the crowd during gigs. Feeling that they livened things up, Mr Bizniz took them along when he set out on his interstellar Rokk Tour.

Fangrots

Sirrus Bizniz believes rok is for everyone, even grots, particularly if they're going to spend teef on rok merch. After all, that touring fleet isn't going to build itself. Where most runts flee at the first sign of a loud noise, grots of kultur are instead drawn by the sound of rok. They become highly animated, headbanging and scampering about underfoot, although most avoid the orks' mosh pits. Some orks make fangrots feel unwelcome, claiming rok is proper musik for proper orks, whereas others are either indifferent or oddly charmed by the wee screeching loons. Either way, one thing is certain: having a small army of fangrots scrounging teef to buy rok merch has only swelled Mr Bizniz' coffers, and provided an ample supply of teknikal assistants for the Sound Meks.

Sweary Bozz da Mosh Deff

Sweary Bozz did a lot with tone of voice; it helped compensate for the limited vocabulary. It wasn't that he didn't understand other ork words, it's just that he found he could express himself perfectly well by saying 'zog' and just sprinkling the feelings on top. He could, for added flavour, add the word 'off' on the end. For anything else, there was 'bog' and occasionally 'git.'

'Bozz, did you know Metal Orker is playing tonight?' one of his mates would say. 'Zog off!' Bozz would answer, a surprised grin spreading across his face. 'Can you get us tickets? I know you and Sirrus Bizniz go way back.' 'Zog off,' Bozz spat, realising he was being used, and discouraging said cynicism with a crisp headbutt.

Lacking Sirrus' aptitude for articulating what was just so very metal about this band or that band, Bozz never had much influence of his own, but Sirrus recognised a fellow superfan. Bozz went to just as many gigs, and wasn't bothered about talking about it afterwards. He just turned up, dove into the most brutal mosh pit, and emerged with bruises, missing teef, and a big grin.

When Sirrus began his offworld tour, Sweary Bozz was one of many boyz who followed him. Unfortunately, this resulted in him being in the firing line when a bunch of lads got mown down, just absolutely mown down, by some cheeky bloody knife-ear teleporting panzies with hot wire guns.

Whilst Sirrus was miffed about the overall slaughter of his boyz, he did have to concede that you can't argue with guns that killy. Or at least, he conceded it after he tried himself and got badly battered for his efforts. After the panzies had left, he found Sweary Bozz, or at least the upper third of Sweary Bozz. He was still conscious, and as Sirrus looked down on his fellow metalhead, Bozz did his first proper sentence.

'If I dies, wot if I doesn't come back somewhere dere's proper musik?'

Sirrus wasn't about to take that lying down. He carried the pulpy ruin of Sweary Bozz to his best mek, Krom Bignooz, and summoned Doc Snippy da Snip for good measure. He explained the price of failure, and he left them to their work.

Two days later, a mechanically amplified deluge of delighted curses and laughter boomed out from Bignooz' camp. The Metalwaaagh's first deff dread had been created, and just so everyone knew who was inside it, Bignooz had his grot orderlies paint a big ZOG OFF glyph on the belly plate.

It just so happened Squig Destroyer were playing a set that night, and of course Sweary Bozz attended. He headed for the biggest mosh pit... which promptly evaporated as lads fled in every direction. He learned there was a horrifying cost to his new mechanical bulk: with great power, comes great stompability. The lads all understood his disappointment, but it didn't mean any of them were about to invite a stray elbow from what they were now calling Mosh Deff.

Sweary Bozz would always love the kultur and the music, but the gestalt joy that came with diving into da pit with other lads was lost to him.

That is, until Doc Feelgood heard what was going on. Leaking herbal fumes from every viewport, the three members of Grötley Crüe clanked into the crowd and jostled up against Bozz, who laughed, and swore, and jostled right back. All the fleshy lads gave them a wide berth.

Watching from near the back of the crowd, Sirrus Bizniz nodded along to the music in satisfaction.

Sky Kaptin Snodgrin an' da Goffs of Tomorrer

Strapping yourself to a rocket and shooting yourself at the enemy is undeniably metal, so when Sky Kaptin Snodgrin turned up to a Rage Against da Everyfing gig and tried rokkity crowd surfing, his ticket aboard Sirrus Bizniz' next raiding trip was all but guaranteed.

Despite being an ork of middling years, Sky Kaptin Snodgrin is obsessed with helping 'da yoof' gain a sense of purpose and discipline. "Today we is starting a yoof movement," he'd say, "from here to about forty feet over dere, so long as you don't over-juice yer jump pack." This, of course, would be met with blank stares on account of forty being a confusingly big number.

Snodgrin is also unusual for making actual friends with a grot, a source of significant ridicule by the yoofs under his command. Tattlegit Bommsnik is just as talented in the use of jump packs as his mate Snodgrin, and generally ensures that Snodgrin literally has another pair of eyes in the back of his head (so as to keep an eye on wayward trainees). While Bommsnik enjoys tattling on people, he also enforces discipline himself by waiting for wayward trainees to fall asleep, then finding extremely 'creative' ways of hiding stikkbomms near or, indeed, in them. Many a trainee has lost his cool and tried to skrag Bommsnik, but the jammy little shit always seems to smell trouble, fly away, then wait for the perfect moment to wreak his revenge.

Rotörhead

It is said that if you put a drumkit, a mic, and any sort of electric stringed instrument on a stage, then fire a special flare gun, you'll have legendary speed metal three-piece Rotörhead landing on that stage in minutes. This might not be true for orks everywhere, but it's definitely true of anyone travelling in Sirrus Bizniz' warband. Frontork Revvy and his mates get twitchy if they're not doing anything, which means they're generally either rokking or flying. They tried both once, with predictable results.