Cross-posted from the 40k fanfiction subreddit, and possibly the start of further 40k writings.

In an unremarkable system, on an unremarkable planet, in an unremarkable ramshackle war camp (well, unremarkable relative to the rest of the planet, at least), there was an unremarkable Ork. He was big, but not the biggest, or even in the top percentage like the elite Nobs. He was not particularly intelligent, lucky, stealthy, cunning, or gifted with the power of the warp. And yet, his days of being unremarkable were soon to come to an end.

It began one day, when our unremarkable Ork got into an argument with a fellow unremarkable Ork. The other Ork made a particularly crude comment about his shoota, declaring it to be 'pansy enuff to be a humie weapon'.

Naturally, this drew gasps, raucous laughter and a flurry of furious betting of teef amongst the watching Orks, while our erstwhile Hero was rather infuriated. However, being blinded by rage as he was and already being something of a simpleton, he did not think to prove his opponent wrong by actually shooting him with said shoota, instead opting to throw it directly at him, the ramshackle weapon bashing the unfortunate Ork on the head with a loud, clanking impact.

Normally, this would do little more than irritate even the lowest of true Orks (Gretchin notwithstanding), and our plucky protagonist began to realise his error as he found himself unarmed against an angry Ork who was readying to fire with his own shoota. However, something miraculous happened.

The Ork exploded.

Face locked in a mask of pained confusion, his skin bubbled up furiously, and he exploded in a shower of visceral green, scalding everyone present.

Naturally, this was paid absolutely no notice, given that it was an Ork camp and this was, in fact, the fifth spontaneous combustion this week. Our hero shrugged his shoulders, took the other Ork's shoota for his own, and continued to go about his day, thinking no more of the strange event.

In fact, so common were explosions of all varieties in such camps that it was paid no heed when the same feat was repeated, this time with our hero accidentally throwing his weapon behind him when getting particularly excited whilst spectating a particularly gruesome Squig fight. Throwing it into the tightly-packed crowd resulted in one unfortunate Ork exploding and several others dying instantly from the explosion of extremely acidic liquefied Ork Matter.

It was in a raid against a human settlement that the other Orks truly began to sit up and take notice.

Our Ork was one of many engaging the human defences, but he and his immediate cohorts soon found themselves unfortunately outmatched when a monstrously large, armoured humanoid, what the humans call a Bullgryn, encountered them and began smashing through them like a power sword cuts through flesh!

Now, our hero was slow to learn, but the ingrained combat instinct of the Ork was not. As such, his instincts kicked in far faster than his brain, and when faced with his imminent demise at the hands of a large blunt instrument wielding another large, blunt instrument, he did the only thing he could:

He threw something at it. A nearby Grot, in fact.

The impact of a terrified Grot on the faceplate of the Bullgryn blocked its vision long enough for him to begin to beat a hasty retreat. However, even as he gained some distance, a curious thing happened. The gigantic bruiser began to buckle and shudder unnaturally. Visible skin bubbled - and then it simple exploded in a spectacularly visceral detonation, scarring the landscape around where it once stood with burns and melting matter.

Impressed, his mates turned to him. "You just threw a grot at that big git and 'sploded 'im!" One said. "We gots ta take you to da Weirdboy," said another.

So of course, after the battle, he was taken to the Weirdboy - one of a mysterious clade of Orks who can utilize the power of the Immaterium, calling down the wrath of their gods, Gork and Mork. The Weirdboy listened to his story, and gave his sage advice.

"A wise Ork once sed," he said, "Once is circlestans, twice is da ovver fing, and free times is a magic hand of gitsplodin'."

"Who said dat?" Asked our hero.

"I did, just now," the Weirdboy confirmed, "You'z blessed by Gork and Mork, they're makin' your enemiez 'splode when you chuck fings at 'em. You'z got to go off and find your destiny as da leader of a great WAAAAGH! and set da galaxy on fire, or blow it up, or whateva."

Our hero strode from the Weirdboy's hut with great clarity of vision and new purpose. He would do as the weirdboy said. He would gather a WAAAAGH! unlike any the galaxy had ever seen, and at its head would be him, no longer going by his own name, but now the mighty Boss Gitsploda!

He told the other lads, and they thought it sounded like a great laugh, so they happily joined him. Unfortunately, fate had another challenge for Gitsploda before he could take to the stars on his fated campaign of galactic conquest.

"Which one of you grots," a massive figure demanded, "Is da one that makes gits 'splode?"

It was none other than Boss Grotcruncha, leader of the warband Gitsploda was part of, and a massive, hulking beast of an Ork, ten feet tall and laden with impressive armour and weaponry.

Against him was Gitsploda, holding nothing but a mug of grog.

"I is," Gitsploda announced, "I'm Gitsploda, and you'z better be bowin' down coz I'm gonna be da new boss around 'ere from now on!"

Grotcruncha's response was predictably straightforward. "I'll kill ya, ya git!"

Now, Gitsploda was faced with a particularly devastating dilemma.

A large, angry warboss was charging him with intent to attack, and he would surely die if he did not do something.

However, the only thing he could do was use the Magic Hand of Gitsplodin'. And the only thing he had available to throw at the boss was his mug of grog.

But he hadn't finished his grog. And it was impossible for him to down it in time to throw the empty mug at Grotcruncha before he was brutally murdered, killed and exhumed, possibly in that order.

This was the kind of crucible in which true heroes were formed. Do they make the terrible sacrifice needed to succeed against the odds? Or does their resolve crumble, and they fade away into obscurity?

Gitsploda mustered the courage and defiance he knew he always had, deep down, very, very deep down, and made a decision.

He threw the mug. It span through the air, grog spilling out everywhere, hitting Boss Grotcruncha square in the face.

There was a moment of silence.

Then, the mighty Boss Grotcruncha shuddered unnaturally.

"Bugger," were his eloquent last words before he subsequently exploded.

None of the other lads in Gitsploda's WAAAAGH! wanted to mess with someone who was blessed with both the ability to make enemies explode by throwing things at them and the clarity of purpose to intentionally throw away a nearly-full mug of grog to achieve his goals. They bowed to Gitsploda, and soon, his forces galvanised by the mystical powers of their new boss, overran the human forces on the planet and used the infrastructure of the world to build mighty space vessels to carry the boyz of WAAAGH! Gitsploda on to new battlefields... and new gits to explode.

"And that," Dranc finished his tale, "Is why there is currently a new and extremely enthusiastic horde of Orks rampaging through three different sectors in our immediate vicinity."

The Death Jester was surrounded by the other major members of the Masque of the Blameless Culprit.

First was the bombastic and suave Great Harlequin, Feubryn Valorbane, who was currently being bombastic and suave on the floor, howling with uncontrollable laughter.

The Shadowseer who was unusually un-mysterious and generally ended up playing the comedic straight woman, Imryl Fatewalker, who was currently staring at him with undisguised horror from behind her mask (it had taken him a while to figure out when she was doing that).

The ever-silent Master Mime, Cuddio, who was giving him an enthusiastic but entirely silent round of applause.

He also saw that, listening from a little further away, was their on-and-off guest dancer, Fallacy, and he was proud to see that even the Solitaire was somewhat dumbfounded by his tale.

"So you... selected a random Ork," Imryl repeated.

"Indeed," Dranc nodded.

"You followed him around whilst maintaining stealth and used your shrieker cannon to make anyone he threw things at explode."

"Correct," the Death Jester agreed.

"And you repeated this until he took over a horde of Orks who believed he had mystical powers and became the leader of a gigantic army of the beasts set on galactic conquest," the Shadowseer finished.

"An adequate summary of events, dear Fatewalker!" the Death Jester praised.

"...Why?" Her words came out as a strangled gasp of exasperation, one that he had long since grown used to.

"My reasoning may be beyond the ken of the uninitiated and the foolish, for it was devised according to the deepest and most mysterious whims of the Laughing God himself," he intoned, "You see, I did it, because," everyone leaned forward in interest, "I thought it would be amusing."

Fortunately for Dranc, their fearless leader was able to stop laughing before the Shadowseer caught him.