Orcs Fucking Hate the Army
Orcs really hate the army. Those little fucking shits—how the hell do they all sync up so perfectly when it comes to shitting on everyone else, even though they're from completely different species? No matter where I looked, I was the only orc in the entire unit. To be precise, there wasn't a single pair of the same species in that whole outfit. Take me, the lone orc; one elephantkin; one chill troll; that kind of deal—one freak per species, crammed together like some twisted collection.
At first, I figured it was the same everywhere. Then I saw the goblin legion next door—all goblins, marching in perfect formation—and pure despair hit me like a brick.
This was a unit handpicked from the absolute maddest bastards across the world, every last one vetted and judged. It was like a horror show of a foreign legion, stocked exclusively with mutants and oddballs—one per race. Put a fancy spin on it, and it's an elite foreign legion. Call it ugly, and it's fantasy-world Green Camp.
The shit they pulled? You'd wonder how any of these fuckers were still breathing. Take the twin-headed ogre: two heads already, like some dual-core processor straining under dual personalities in one meat sack. But no—each head had its own split personality, making four goddamn psyches crammed into a single body. Wanna know what that lunatic does?
“I am, very, thirsty!”
Hear that and you'd think, Okay, multiple personalities, but at least hunger and thirst are shared, right? Wrong. A minute later, that fucker's chugging food and water simultaneously while shitting its pants.
Four clashing egos in one body pulling that crap—how the hell hadn't it died yet? Later, I casually asked another guy. Turns out, day-to-day they each do whatever the fuck they want, but when it's life-or-death against enemies, even idiots hate dying. So they cooperate. Ogres are thick-skulled anyway, but four brains squeezing together? Your IQ 40 plus my IQ 40 equals 80—dolphin-level smarts for the perfect plan!
Another standout weirdo: a male minotaur lactating from his nipples. I'll never forget that bastard till the day I die. Later on the battlefield, I watched him fight—milk spraying from his nips, blinding the enemy, then smashing their skulls like melons.
That's the unit in a nutshell: a clusterfuck of insane retards.
But then it hit me. Wait—what about me? No multiple personalities, no titty milk. So why the hell was I here?
Curiosity burning, I tracked down the unit's de facto boss: a balrog with bald patches everywhere except around his horns.
“...Just... colorful... caught my eye, you fucker.”
Apparently, the complementary contrast of my red bear pelt and green skin screamed "lunatic" on sight. He got all excited, rambling nonsense. Anyway, on day one I got beaten half to death. Day two? Straight back into survival mode.
They spared me only because it was initiation. This "unit"—more like a lawless mob—was packed with species that'd never cross paths in the wild. Collusion? Teamwork? Camaraderie? Shove that goblin shit. Extreme individualists, every one. Me included.
Weaklings worshipped survival of the fittest—lose your life and your balls. Stick 'em with other races? Impossible. It was like tossing Jurassic king Allosaurus in with Cretaceous tyrant T-Rex for a dream match—any second now.
Dinos too gory for breakfast? Fine, fairy tale time. Know the Three Little Pigs? The one where the wolf huffs and puffs their house down? Imagine those pigs shacked up with the wolf.
Think the wolf lasts? Wakes up to three cheeseburgers on the next bunk going, "Morning! Sleep well?" To the unit's top dog, we're all walking buffets taunting him—pure madness.
Me? Never really got hungry staring at the others. They talk and shit—hard to salivate over that. Plus, orcs just don't see sapients as grub; instinct or whatever.
Still, things weren't total chaos thanks to the boss balrog gripping the unit iron-fisted. Out of fear, they restrained themselves... somewhat. End result? "Fights like demons among themselves before the enemy even shows—kills off their own, constantly recycling newbies. Total trash unit." Brutal rep.
Now drop a "delicate" orc into that? Game over. Chaos.
Orcs got numbers, sure, but combat-wise and size-wise? Meh compared to others. We kick goblins around like soccer balls for fun. But ogre or troll? Tread careful. Average orc height: 2 to 2.5 meters. Ogre baseline: 4 meters. Fuck up, and you're the ball.
We can win fights, but no real upside—higher odds of losing. Spot an ogre? Play nice, eye it, bolt.
But here I was, grounded orc who couldn't outrun shit. To the bigger boys? Prime rib.
Idiots started brawling over who got to eat me (literally), and I squeezed through the scrum, personally proving why shrimp backs explode in whale fights.
One slip? World ends. Some dimwit goblin newbie showed up—next day, only a toe left at his spot.
That savage. Most cannon fodder couldn't hack it. Life says aim middle—not too front, not too back. Here? No middle. Crushed from above, dragged from below. Blink and die. Cold reality.
So how'd I survive the madhouse? Simple.
Started with the weaklings—smashed 'em first, honing my body on real fights. For the scary ones? Watched slow, fed 'em my pre-beaten chumps as bait. While they drooled, smashed 'em.
Hey, I'm orc now, but I was human once!
Crushed 'em one by one. Last holdout: the four-personality twin-head ogre. Real tough nut.
Dumb as rocks, but ogre physique— one wild swing, and I'm burger meat. Observed hard. Verdict: brute force? Suicide.
But pen beats sword, right? Worst foe's from within. My sly tongue sowed discord among the heads. Idiots started punching themselves—I landed the finisher, out cold.
Straddled him, struck a heroic pose like I solo'd the beast. His dumbass bought it wholesale—started crawling at my feet like a goblin.
"Beat" him mentally, sure—couldn't kill physically; species gap. Like beasts submitting to the alpha, I broke 'em one by one, spreading my sway. Boom: unit's No. 2.
Boss balrog was temporary anyway—pre-transfer pit stop. Liked me handling his shit, so he sloppily delegated half the unit's affairs while clocking out.
Army terms: private to acting battalion commander. Real CO? Lounging in his quarters.
All in three years post-enlistment. Believable?
Balrog backed me hard. Twin ogre—biggest, strongest—crawling under me? No physical or power threats left.
Whoa, high rank, success—life's golden now, right?
No doomsayers here; you know the pattern.
Yeah. War broke out.
The likes of which continental history had never seen—a great war for the ages.