It took around a minute for the trash heap to heat into a decent inferno. Not long after, the sound of a revving engine could be heard, before quickly being joined by another, and then another, until a screaming chorus of roaring combustion engines could be heard approaching the trash heap from the other side.
As the roar of the engines reached its fevered crescendo, those present could begin to make out a repeated chanting.
"JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!"
A bellowed "WAAAAAAAAGH" added its voice to the diesel and promethium powered chorus as ten nob bikers came flying over the makeshift ramp of burning refuse in a nearly perfect wedge formation, swinging huge car axles and chains that would look more at home attached to a ship's anchor over their heads. At the head of the wedge was what appeared to be an even larger nob on a wartrike dressed in black leathers with a huge black and orange mohawk. Even more noticeably, this nob was unseated from his trike, and was currently doing a
Holy Man to Tsunami.
The biker boss stuck his landing perfectly, The nobs trailing him landing fairly well. All except for one. One biker jumped too hot and overshot the relatively flat and clear area the other bikers had landed in, and he and his bike were sent careening into a building as a result.
After the rest of the group all pointed and laughed for a bit, the biker boss wrestled his trike to point at the building and revved his engine, speeding towards it, with the rest of his boys following. Ten feet before he would have hit the building himself, he slammed down on the front brake, flipping his trike up and sending him flying over the handlebars and through a window into the building. The other bikers made a loose semicircle facing the front of the building and waited.
About ten seconds later, the other biker's ride tore through the door of the building, oozing even more black smoke then normal, its rider draped over the seat, his head seemingly on backwards. Only a few seconds later, the boss biker emerged through another window, having seemingly decided to forward flip through it rather than use the door, as if something so mundane was somehow below him.
He sauntered over to the seemingly dead nob, cackling madly, before talking in a very unusually high-pitched voice for an Ork his size, sounding more like a Grot than an Ork nob.
"HAA-HAA-HAAAAAA! OooommmmMister Skraps! Tisk-tisk-TISK! Gettin' yerself all skrewed again! Oh, weeeeeeeell! You sure do know how ta keep da boredom away! K-K-K-Yeaaaaah! Gotta put Dok Roxxo ter work! OWWW!"
Those present could now make out that his right arm seemed to be mechanical from his shoulder down, painted black with what appeared to be orange patterns tracing down his bicep and the inside of his forearm, and ending an a large and very dangerous looking buzzsaw. Strapped to his left arm was what looked like a giant syringe, filled with what looked like a boiling, viscous green fluid.
With a quick movement, he grabbed Mr. Skraps with his left hand and hoisted him off of his bike and onto his feet facing him (his head facing away) before letting go and pulling back his arm, then thrusting the syringe into his torso fast enough that Mr. Skraps didn't even have time to crumple down again. He then revved up the circular saw and punched it into Mr. Skraps's neck, neatly beheading his incorrectly facing head before cutting the saw's power, the disembodied head staring away from him while it sat upon the flat of the buzzsaw blade. He lifted the head slightly away from the body, and with a quick jolt of power to the saw, spun it around the right way to look him in the eyes, then set it back down before quickly pulling the saw away. The saw seemed to flip to some other tool, and he began viciously punching his bionik arm into Mr. Scraps neck over and over. A pneumatic hiss and a gleam of metal showed that he was stapling his head back on the right direction.
Having successfully reattached the head in the correct position, at least in the front, he pulled the syringe out of Mr. Skraps's gut and sidestepped, allowing him to fall face-first into the dirt, before he turned and knelt over him.
"Now den, here's da tricky part! Yella-ter-Yella! White-ta-White! Red thingy ter tha blue thingy. ... Huh?... Whuzzis doin' in 'ere?" he asked, pulling out what appeared to be six guitar strings, before grabbing Mr. Skraps's poorly attached head and yanking it so that it looked him in the eyes before screaming,
"MR. SKRAPS! When wuz ya gonna tell me you wuz a musishun!" He then shoved the string back in with his spine, before shrugging and continuing with a high-pitched and very over emphasized sigh.
"Oh well, prolly be alright. ... heh-heh. Now, fer da payment!"
He roughly flipped his patient over and slammed his forearm into his face, breaking off his two bigger tusks on the front.
"ALL DOOOOOOOOOONE! ... Mr. Skraps? Helloooooooooooooo? Yoooooooohoooooo! Ya can geddup now, Mr. Skraps! ... Oh right! One fer da road! Silly me! Must have something on MY MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIiiiind! CH-CH-CH-YEEEEAAAAAAAAAH!" he screamed, before flipping his patient face-down once again and stabbing the syringe into the back of his skull and into his brain.
Mr. Skraps screamed and his body spasmed, but when Roxxo pulled his syringe out of the back of his skull, he quickly rolled and jumped up onto his feet, eyes darting wildly and his mouth slightly foaming.
"Now den, Mistah Skraps! I want ya ta stay off yer feet fer about an hour!"
"..."
"So get back on yer BIIIIIIIIIIIKE! HAHAHA-YEAAAAAH!"
"Oi! Dok! Boss! Dere's sum boyz on our turf!" said one of the bikers, finally noticing the presence of Dread and Wrath.
"OOOOOOOOOH! Oh m-m-m-myyyyyy! Look, boys! It's da big boss! Dread! Finally 'ere ter show 'is face ter me an' my merry band o' boys! I wuz beginnin' ta wonder if da big boss even exis-" he stops as he seems to notice Wrath, a huge smile blooming on his face.
"Hello, hello, hell-OOOOOoooo! OWWWW! Wut 'az we 'ere! Such smooth, soft skin! Statuey proporshuns! Long, flowing, raven HAAAAAAAAAAAIR! SILKY SMOOTH! WOOOO! CH-CH-CH-YEAH!"
He then jumped back onto his bike, popped a wheelie and tilted his bike onto only one of the back wheels, spinning himself around by digging his roaring buzzsaw into the ground. He then headed towards the two at a slightly off-angle at a fairly slow speed, laying himself down onto his bike sideways in a seductive lounging position, his feet facing the handlebars, which he used to make minute adjustments to the bike's course.
"Mmm. Hmhmmm. Heehee-hm-hm-hmmm."
About 30 feet away from the two, he kicked the ignition switch to his bike, turning it off. While it was still rolling to a stop, he then flipped up from his incredibly creepy position into a handstand, and then back-flipped off of the bike to face the two, his bionik arm holding up his left under the elbow as he stroked his chin. The whole maneuver brought him and his bike about 20 feet away from the two of them. It was about then that the other bikers in his gang moved to surround the trio in a huge circle, about 280 feet in diameter, keeping 120 feet distant from the three in their little 20 foot circle in the center.
Dok Roxxo was about 7'2", taller if he wasn't hunched over, like all Orks. He had a long, flowing black and orange mohawk and his face was painted black, with the ghostly image of a skull painted onto that in white. He wore a small, tight, black leather vest that was flung open with nothing but his muscled green skin underneath, black leather pants that seemed to have been stitched together from many varied scraps, and black, belted leather boots. All of his leather seemed almost unnaturally glossy. His ensemble was complemented by bandoleers of ammunition and a belt with a flaming skull buckle, as well as a leather band with large spikes on his left bicep.
For weapons, he had a huge black revolver with an orange cylinder reminiscent of a pumpkin on his left hip, and his 'urty syringe strapped to his left arm. His whole right arm from the collarbone down was bionik and painted jet black. The orange patterns on the bicep and the inside of the forearm were now revealed to be bladed, bloodstained chains, and the buzzsaw at the end looked like it was once also painted orange, but had been stripped of paint by use and stained by blood.
"Hey dere, Angelcakes. Did it 'urt? When ya fell from 'eaven? Ch-ch-ch-yeayuh! HAA-HAA-HAAAAA!"
"Name's Dok Roxxo! But you can call me Dok Feelgud! OWWWWWW! HEE-HEE-HEE-HEYEAAH!" he screamed, while grinning creepily.
He seemed to exude an aura of wrongness and taint, similar to the aura of malice itself. He also felt like he'd been touched a bit to much by the weirdness of the weird boys, for those who had a sense for such things. The two auras were odd and disconcerting, but not remotely strong enough to inspire true revulsion like the touch of chaos would. They were strong enough to be noticeable and put those nearby on edge, though... not that his behavior wasn't doing a good enough job of that already.
"It'z so GOOOOOD ta meetcha!" he screamed. He then opened his arms wide and started awkwardly waddling towards them both, but mostly Wrath, presumably wanting to give a nice big bear hug, but leaving his bare chest wide open to being stabbed. So very wide open.
He smelled unmistakably of rotting pumpkin, leather, and baby powder.
