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post #1 of 13 (permalink) Old 09-30-11, 12:38 PM Thread Starter
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Default Grabbit's Story..a Gretchin's Tale

Hi all,
This is part of a backstory for a 40K Ork army which (like nearly all my armies) will probably never see the light of day on ther tabletop, but just putting this out there for enjoyment.
I'm always trying to improve as a writer, so I'd be very grateful for any comments, positive & negative criticisms and suggestions.

As always with my stories, it's 99% inspiration, so it's written as it comes to me and <sinister voice>: "Oh yes...there will be gaps!"<evil laugh>.
Thanks for taking the time out of your lives to read this humble offering,
AndyG.


Grabbit’s Story (Chapter 1)

Casting furtive glances around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard, Grabbit confided in his fellow Gretchin:

“I dunno much, ‘cept wot I hearz around da Drops and Da Boyz Kamps whilst I’s serving CastleSquig XXXXX, but anyways, ’ere’s wot I know ‘bout ‘im:

"Dey say...ee’z as mean as dey come.” Grabbit whispered, as though merely the mention of the Warboss’exploits would bring his wrath down upon their heads.

“Wot? Even meaner than Plonki IV, Boss Fangdeff’s new Cyboar when it malfunktions an’ orange sparks is coming out of it’s eyes?” came the incredulous query.

Much nastier.” came back the reply, to chorused gasps of breath from his assembled kin.

“Wot? Even nastier than Runtherd Gorzkilla when 'e breaks in a new trukkload of dem Purplefang Squighounds?”

“Even more ferocious” came the response.

This time it was accompanied by wails of anguish...they had all felt the ’eavy kickin’ boots of Gorzkilla and several of them still wore burnscars from his incautiously-applied Grotprod, 'Da Persuadertron freefousand'.

Trying to quantify the horror and ignore the thoughts of iron-shod punishments being handed out, one brave soul enquired: “Well,’ ow big is ‘e then?”

“Bigger dan your hut, Skabgit.” Grabbit replied.

“But, den again, even Gorzkilla’s third-best Squig has a house bigger dan yours!”

Eveyone laughed at the demeaned Gretchin’s expense, as Skabgit was notorious for living in the smallest shack on the entire continent.

“A nice small place means I can keep all my stuff where I can see it and not lying around for thieving fingers , don’t it..?” he sniffed indignantly, whatever passed for his pride obviously hurt.

Everyone knew he had the smallest place because he was the poorest of them all and didn’t have much ‘stuff’ to steal anyway. (Not that such a trivial detail had dissuaded most of them from trying, however).

Leaning forwards conspiratorially, dancing flames played across his face from the cooking stove -a former ‘green Marine’ helmet- Grabbit informed them:
“Bigger even dan Kaptin Badrukk wot visited last monf and nicked all da teef from Boss Grutsmash.”

A series of harsh denials rang out at the tale, but they turned to whispers as -through a partly-glazed window- they caught sight of an Ork sentry looking over and they suddenly remembered that they were supposed to look like they were doing something and didn’t want to draw attention to themselves.

Badrukk was not only infamously ‘hard’ and ruthless, but they all recalled the recent story of Badrukk strangling an Eldar single-handed, whilst simultaneously firing his radioactive belt-fed cannon from the other ham-sized fist.

The audible and olfactory by-products of fear increased in the small shed at the collective remembrances of huge Orks beating the daylights out of their foes and also out of any Gretchin within reach.
Such ‘friendly fire’ was not some mishap, but almost a way of life for them all.

“Is ‘e cunning, just like Mork, den?”
“Nah..!” Grabbit replied with an air of entirely false bravado.
“When e’s not fighting and drinking Wartrakk fuel, ‘e is too busy bellowing and klanking around to notice us Grots wot are sneaky enuff.”

The chittering in the room stopped..even breathing stopped...as realisation slowly began to seep into the audience’s feral brains.

“Did you say ‘klanking’?” one reedy voice exclaimed.
“Course I did. You dead or summat? Of course ‘e’s klanking, e’s got dis ‘uge fusion-powered suit made out of 10 suits of beakie armour, wiv’ two great claws and cannon-guns, ain’t e..?!”

In the corner, the most cowardly of the Grots evacuated himself in sheer terror and another cry of anticipated beatings echoed, shaking the thin wooden walls.

Not yet realising that he probably should have kept some details to himself -and recalling the sheer awesome Orkiness of his leader- Grabbit added enthusiastically:
“Yer, e’s so big and killy...just like Gork...and ‘e makes 'is Battlewagon look like a Warbuggy...!”

Confusion instantly reigned, devolving into a melee of abject horror and panic which washed over the assembled Gretchin.

Now alone in his wooden hut, Grabbit looked around at the various Grot-shaped holes in the flimsy walls and the door trampled into the dirt outside, for now ignoring the almost-catatonic Firkin who rocked back and forth in a corner.

In their panic to get away and hide from their own imaginations, his fellow Grots had left behind pocketfuls of so-called ‘valuables’ and trinkets. Ever the entrepreneur, Grabbit eagerly scooped them all up in a dustpan especially brought along for just such a task.

Totally lost in his accumulation of 'wealth', he didn't notice the visitor until a vast shadow loomed overhead, blocking out most of the light from Grabbit’s roofless shack and also that of the nearest 5 huts in every direction around it.

It's breath laden with petrochem vapours, a metallic voice boomed out: “Lazing around again, Grabbit? Maybe I should have given you to the Squigs after all..?”

Having been bowled over by the sheer volume of air from the Warboss’ exhalation (as well as trying not to look like he was avoiding the noxious fumes), Grabbit picked himself up off the dirt floor. Desperate for self-preservation despite their agreement, he replied:

“No, your awesome Highness-Overlord, sir, just tidying up yer camp and making it better so you’s don’t trip over this ‘uge pile of rubbish wot someone has casually...no, maliciously...left lying around.
“I fink it must be dem fine upstanding Blood Axes wot is trying to do you in, Sir...maybe...perhaps..?”

“Good” the voice rumbled back, huge face glowering at him for signs of deceit, but not seeing the really obvious ones written across the lying Grot’s face.

“Did tonight’s story go well?”
“Yessir, better than ever. They think you is Gork come to teach da humies a lesson they will never forget!”

“An dat's exactly right, innit?!" the voice roared.
"I ‘eard you said I was built like a battlewagon...good words to put the fear of Mork into 'em...but it depends on which one you meant?
"Dat little skinny wagon of da Evil Suns we beat up a fortnight ago?
"Or da big blue one wot I had built last week and wot collapsed as soon as I sat on it?”

Knowing that his next answer would see him reduced to a pale green paste if it was wrong, Grabbit initially tried to choose between the options he had been given.
But then decided to rely upon his greatest weapon -his imagination- and tried to recall various bits he had seen in the workshops and think of the most ludicrous suggestion for a wagon:

“Nah, not like any of dem, your Majesty Boss-ness, a proper big one.
“Extra-wide wheels; wiv tyes for speed and tracks for ‘da muddy bits’; two engines wiv Gnasher-Squig Juice overdrive-chargers; triple- sectioned so you can fit more boyz in; an observashun platform for you to jump off of and squish your enemies flat....and an 'uge big flag, so's everyone knows who it is as is doin' da squishin'."

“Of course, it’d be dead shooty too. I ‘eard dat Mekboss Cogbreff found a secret stash of fighta-bomba Kannons. E's been raving about it all monf, calling it a 'deff arsenal' or somethin'. One of dem will look great on da front, don’t ya think?”

“Sounds dead killy, but I haven’t got one of those, Grabbit!” the voice boomed impatiently and a teeth-rattling, grinding of metal-upon-metal told him of servo’s being fired up inside the Warboss’ huge claws.

“Yer...but...I fink it was an amazing idea of yours to 'ave one of these fast- shooty-and-really-killy-wagons built, oh destroyer-of-cities.” Grabbit grovelled in the muck before his master, praying frantically to both Gork and Mork, hoping his harebrained suggestion would let him see another sunrise.

“Yer, it was a good idea of mine that, wasn’t it..?” the Warboss agreed.
As he turned away, the very ground heaving at his every step, he added: “...and find out who’s been spying on me for those dirty Blood Axes, will yer?”

“Absolutely, oh powerful-one!” Grabbit shrieked and cheered in relief at being spared, already thinking of potential names and grudges soon to be repaid.

Casting a final glance around his demolished former residence as the last wall collapsed, he cursed anrgily at the remains of the first scapegoat he had had in mind, squashed beneath the near-20 tons of the Warboss’ exo-suit.

Urgently trying to trace any living relatives of Private Sam/Samuel "Jock" Wilson (Black Watch, No. 6 Commando, UK Army Service ID 2764432, died 10.06.44). Any info/suggestions gratefully received.

"Mockles! Pent on silpen tree, blockards three a-feening. Mockles! What silps came to thee, in thy pantry, dreaming?"

Please check out the HOES (Heresy Online Stories) threads and vote for the tales.
More feedback = better stories for everyone.

Last edited by andygorn; 09-30-11 at 04:03 PM.
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post #2 of 13 (permalink) Old 09-30-11, 01:21 PM
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Not bad at all for a greenskin tale.

You`ve done well to keep it credible.


Nonsense is our Salvation

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post #3 of 13 (permalink) Old 09-30-11, 04:39 PM Thread Starter
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Thanks, Serpion5 for commenting (it means a lot to me) and to people for viewing (ditto).

How can I say...there's actually very little of what might be called a traditional 'creative process' involved with any of my stories.

There is very little actual 'writing' (in terms of it's my idea of what to write about, or planning/'storyboarding' any themes or history, etc) of an overall 'tale' because I just try to faithfully record the inspiration that hits me and it's not a case of me thinking things like "What shall I write about?" or "What do I want the story to do?"

In this, I hope that I'm sort of a 'lens' for the story to come through to people -e.g. a bit like a psychic communicating messages onto others, if you believe this sort of thing happens (not presuming)- rather than as an 'author'.

It means that the stories will virtually never be in chronological order, may appear to be 'already in the middle of something' and won't start at the beginning of something, because I don't actually know where/when "the beginning" is, or what the catalyst/start was.

I understand that this may be a bit frustrating as it's not a typical "here's the start, the middle and the end with no gaps (flashbacks notwithstanding)" kind of process, but I only get snippets of the story at a time myself.
I wouldn't want to lose this "write about what comes to me"/inspiration side of things in order to get more structure.

Whichever race I type about, I always hope that the stories are believable, as the visions come to me as 'concepts and characters' (see my ideas about character generation on another thread here), so I just try to reproduce them as faithfully as my abilities will allow.

With Orks, my personal fondness is for the 'Freebooters' book -era (can't remember which Edition) where Orks actually had personalities, held conversations with each other, etc.

The style of the Warboss is based on a scratchbuild/conversion I'm doing (for an army I haven't even started - lol), but everything else such as his personality/motivations, Grabbit and the location/army/etc are all just whatever came into my head and I transcribed it as it revealed itself to me.

At the moment, it seems like Grabbit has a few more stories to impart, so I'm hoping he sticks around.

Thanks again all for reading. Feedback and viewing helps to keep me sane.

Urgently trying to trace any living relatives of Private Sam/Samuel "Jock" Wilson (Black Watch, No. 6 Commando, UK Army Service ID 2764432, died 10.06.44). Any info/suggestions gratefully received.

"Mockles! Pent on silpen tree, blockards three a-feening. Mockles! What silps came to thee, in thy pantry, dreaming?"

Please check out the HOES (Heresy Online Stories) threads and vote for the tales.
More feedback = better stories for everyone.
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post #4 of 13 (permalink) Old 10-01-11, 10:32 AM
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Interesting. Very similar to my own process. I flat out refuse to write something unless the inspiration is fresh (hence the lack of my own works recently) because I don`t want my stuff to be anything less than what it should be.

Grabbit shows a lot of potential, and I look forward to seeing more of him.


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post #5 of 13 (permalink) Old 10-02-11, 04:25 AM
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Great story. lots o fun and I would like to see more. You have to be able to spell real good in order to destroy the English language so badly. Great job at that by the way. I also like the spacing between paragraphs, so much easier to read.

Keep it up.

A good reputation take a long time to build, but only a moment to destroy. Wow, that's deep! Check out the H.O.E.S. short story competition.
Other stories from Adrian.
Look up Adrian in the "Compendium" to find them. Thanks
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post #6 of 13 (permalink) Old 10-03-11, 07:44 AM Thread Starter
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Thanks, Adrian, comments from writers like yourself and Serpion keep me going.
I'm glad the character of the characters came through.
Everyone in the HOES competitions and elswwhere here keep me motivated to do more and write better...like I know wot I can (lol).
Yeah, I really try with the spacing for legibility for people.
In the end, if I ever get some Orks painted and playing with them, I think that Grabbit & Co. may be in the army (the Warboss definitely is) and with Grabbit doing a narrative for the fluff+description before, during and after the battles.
(However, he may have some tales in him about previous fights before I actually start gaming with these guys).

Urgently trying to trace any living relatives of Private Sam/Samuel "Jock" Wilson (Black Watch, No. 6 Commando, UK Army Service ID 2764432, died 10.06.44). Any info/suggestions gratefully received.

"Mockles! Pent on silpen tree, blockards three a-feening. Mockles! What silps came to thee, in thy pantry, dreaming?"

Please check out the HOES (Heresy Online Stories) threads and vote for the tales.
More feedback = better stories for everyone.
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post #7 of 13 (permalink) Old 10-03-11, 10:23 PM
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I've only seen one other story from a Grot's point of view and that was in Gorkamorka. Keep it up.
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post #8 of 13 (permalink) Old 10-04-11, 09:58 PM Thread Starter
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Thanks very much, jaggedjaw, glad you're liking it.
40K books used to have plenty of Ork tales in them written from the Ork's (or Grot's) point of view.
I don't know how easy they are to get hold of now, but older publications like Space Marine, Adeptus Titanicus, Ork Freebooterz, former Ork Codices and old White Dwarfs had plenty of humour and character in them.

Urgently trying to trace any living relatives of Private Sam/Samuel "Jock" Wilson (Black Watch, No. 6 Commando, UK Army Service ID 2764432, died 10.06.44). Any info/suggestions gratefully received.

"Mockles! Pent on silpen tree, blockards three a-feening. Mockles! What silps came to thee, in thy pantry, dreaming?"

Please check out the HOES (Heresy Online Stories) threads and vote for the tales.
More feedback = better stories for everyone.
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post #9 of 13 (permalink) Old 10-16-11, 09:56 AM Thread Starter
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I got a little bit more inspiration about this, so here's Chapter 2, I hope you like.
As always...no pressure, only if you have any time...please leave me some feedback (good or bad, I can handle it - lol) as I am always trying to improve my transcribing.
Many thanks for reading,
AndyGorn.

*****

Grabbit’s Story (Chapter 2)

A mayhem of grunting noise woke Grabbit out of his reverie and he cautiously opened one beady yellow eye to find himself face-to-face with one of his ‘Top 10 worst horrors’.

Obviously, not nearly as squishily awful as being sat on by Da Boss.
Nor as nightamrish as falling into The Drops with no way out.
Or...

Anyway, Grabbit had spent nearly half his life either running away from (or trying not to think of) fatal situations, but he knew that it was certainly a sight to rival most of the other ’scary stuff’ his basic neurons could conjure up.

A rough wet tongue licked his face eagerly, only just catching his face with it’s huge chrome tusks as the stench of old diesel and unhygenically wet pig assailed his senses.

Sitting up and dabbing away the blood from his face, with a sickening lurch back to reality he realised that Plonki IV had entered his new hut....again, as the great steaming mound of droppings in the corner testified to his startled eyes and injured sense of smell.

“Aww ‘e luvs you, ‘e duz!” bellowed a particularly gruff and humourless Ork voice.
It could only belong to ‘Ard Boy Roksteala, Boss Fangdeff’s most loyal apprentice and ‘minder’ of the cyboar which now excitedly nuzzled Grabbit’s nether regions.

Grabbit’s years of experience and survival techniques at weasling out of nearly every sticky situation told him how to delicately broach the question with just the right sort of decorum and sensitivity (without revealing his desire to get the hell away from the unusually friendly cyber-pig):

“Ain’t your Boss got enuff teef ter get a leash fer dat stoopid fing..Sir Roksteala, Sir..?” he enquired, walloping the beast on it’s hairy snout with a spanner which had fortunately come to hand.

Although it barely registered the pain of the impact, the animal’s formerly excited gruffles immediately turned into snorts of indignation and it’s eyes started to bulge and glaze over in barely-checked fury.

The vial of pale blue liquid encased within the creature’s forehead began to turn to an angry red colour... a sure sign of impending destruction...however, even this vivid hue paled in comparison to the creature’s infamously psychotic rages.

With a horrendous yelp, Plonki IV convulsed and a smell of charred meat and hot metal greeted Grabbit as it ran behind the familiar safety of Roksteala, blissfully unaware that it had been the Ork who had dealt it a 50% charge to the backside with his Pigg-Prod.

“Dat’s no way ta be talkin’ ‘bout Boss Fangdeff! ‘E eats squighounds fer breakfast and washes ‘em down wiv da juices from black-snakes. An’ you’d better r’member dat.

“Or do ya wanna see dem squighounds sooner dan’ ya fink, ya pesky Grot?!” Roksteala replied venomously.

Grabbit’s former bravado instantly disintegrated under the possibility of meeting ‘Mista Teef’, Boss Fangdeff’s prized squighound. Over the last two months, it was believed to have accounted for at least 17 Grots who had fatally proved to be too inquisitive for their own good.

“ ‘Course not, Boss Roksteala, Sir. I hope you’s can put in a good word fer me wiv Da Boss Fangdeff..?”

"Dok Blitzfingaz ‘as promised me a new set of Iron Gnasha’s if I can get im da parts. So if yer ‘ave dat bit from dat beakie robot, I might fink about it.” Roksteala’s eyes glinted consipiratorially.

Possessed by self-preservation, Grabbit whirled into manic activity and began ransacking his store of ‘liberated’ goods, overturning piles of pots and boxes of ‘stuff’ even he had never opened.

“I bet Snatcha ‘as stolen it...it’s just like dat thievin’ Grot to go ‘looking around’ my abode when I was out tryin’ ter make a few ‘onest teef.
“If it ain’t nailed down, ‘e steals it from under my very nose...an’ if it is nailed down, ‘e just comes back wiv some ‘uge pliers...e’s got a set specially fer dat job, you know..?”

Bitz and junk flew all over the outhouse in his furious search as Grabbit tried to tempt the Ork with alternatives.

“Wot about a nice new shoota, Boss...only one careless owner..?

“Nope? Okay, ‘ow’s about one of dose red beakie helmets we got last monf? I know ya like da red ones.
"I fink dis one was pulled off by our glorious leader ‘imself, but I’s just a poor Grot and you’s a big brawler, so you’d know more ‘bout dat dan me...”

Roksteala made a great play of inspecting the former Marine’s cranium disinterestedly, occasionally jabbing Plonki IV’s behind to keep it in a state of agitation.

Unsurprisingly, with it’s every snort, Grabbit seemed to work faster and assorted flotsam from almost a hundred battlefields flew wildly across the room.

A sense of relief washed over Grabbit as he found the item beneath a pile of rusted cogs, however, it took all his strength to pull it out.
“Don’t mind me, Mr Roksteala, Sir, I’ll have this out in a jiffy, don’t strain yerself ‘elping or nuffink.”
The Ork feigned a yawn, oblivious to Grabbit’s jibes, as the item was revealed.

Manhandling it up onto a table, the Dreadnought’s legplate was revealed. Caked in dust and mud, it was nevertheless obvious that it had once belonged to a vaunted Imperial hero.

Grabbit knew that even 'oomies weren’t stupid enough to carve intricate winged angels onto the armour of just anybody.
If he’d looked close enough -and could read Imperial script- the illustrious roll of honour of a former Sanguinary Guard could have been read.

Roksteala cast a dismissive look over it “S’pose it’s alright,” he sniffed. “Gotta get rid of all dis fancy stuff though...wings an all dat...’oo ever ‘eard of a flying Ork wiv wings? Unnatural, I tell ya!”

“Well, funny as you mention it, cos I ‘ave seen Stormboy Kaptin Krusha trying out a few new designs on dem flyboyz.”

Under Roksteala’s baleful red glower, Grabbit hastily added: “Yep, completely unnatural and Trukks is da only way to travel.

“Did I ever say ‘ow you have a really nice Trukk, Sir Roksteala? Dead shooty and all dat.

“Anyway,you want dis? I can do yer a good price, only twenty teef ‘cos yer a loyal customer. Wot do ya say?”

The Ork’s booming laugh resounded through the room, shaking the walls:
“Price? Wot do ya take me fer, Grot? You wasn’t getting paid fer dis.

"I fort you said it was for me putting in a good word wiv da boss...I’m very busy at da moment an’ I might forget.

“I’ll give ya two teef fer da shoota, ten teef fer dat helmet and dat legplate and I might remember wot you asked me to do fer ya.”

Grabbit’s keen business acumen sensed a profit as he enquired: “Twelve will be okay, ya got a bargain! I guess ya want all dem nasty wings and dese scribbles an’ stuff taken off too, Boss?”

“ ’Course I do...I can’t go around wiv dose things plastered all over my face, can I?!” Roksteala replied, his Orkiful self-esteem hurt by such an image.

Copying the language and mannerisms he’d seen from Big Mek Cogbreff, Grabbit tutted and shook his head, casting an expressive arm to indicate his jumbled pile of worktools.
“Dat’s Kustom work, that is, so I can’t do it wiv just these bits I ‘ave ‘ere, Boss.
“I gotta get some extra parts, torches an’ stuff. Gotta order them in special like, but it’ll cost me anuvver fifteen teef fer dem. Specialist equipment...imports...ya see..?”

Cuffing Grabbit across the back of the head, sending him sprawling to the dirt, Roksteala replied: “I wasn't spored yesterday, ya cheeky Grot!
"I’ll give ya anuver ten teef fer dem tools and fink ya’self lucky. I’ll be back da day after tomorrow to collect it.”

Picking himself up, Grabbit’s sense of pride hurt more than anything.
As (the now hated) Roksteala and Plonki exited the store, Grabbit was already thinking about which of Mad Dok Blitzfingaz’s orderlies to contact to add a few ‘extra’s’ to the Ork’s next visit.

Urgently trying to trace any living relatives of Private Sam/Samuel "Jock" Wilson (Black Watch, No. 6 Commando, UK Army Service ID 2764432, died 10.06.44). Any info/suggestions gratefully received.

"Mockles! Pent on silpen tree, blockards three a-feening. Mockles! What silps came to thee, in thy pantry, dreaming?"

Please check out the HOES (Heresy Online Stories) threads and vote for the tales.
More feedback = better stories for everyone.

Last edited by andygorn; 10-16-11 at 10:09 AM.
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post #10 of 13 (permalink) Old 10-16-11, 03:38 PM
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nice work. It would be nice to see what those "extra's" are and the dreadnought leg is neat too. Still how did he get it if the Meks get the pick of tech?
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