Don't ever stop them drums if you knows what's good fer ya! You know, them drums the big guys is always beatin' on! That's the whole bizness right there! Without them drums bangin' we just a bunch o' slime-covered wossnames standin' around in the mud and the flames, snarlin' and yellin'!
Them drums gives us purpose! They encourages us ta yell everythin' and they make long, sweepin' camera pans through our base all sortsa intimidatin'!
I do good job for Master. Always doin' good job the best. I boss orcs around, keep worg birthing marsh workin' all day long, have infernal forge make many weapons wif extra spikes and wotnot. We got gains across all sectors for three 'secutive quarters.
Master should not eat me. I do not want this happenin'.
So many teeth in Master's mouth. Them are big and he are big too. Master is troll wizard, so's if he get angry he might cast spell up on my self and bite off my whole head in one chomp.
Gettin' that done to my self would hurt lots. Don't wanna hurt. Don't wanna die. Please! Please!
It just my opinion tho.
Right! Listen up, youse!
Want dis here evil army to be as 'uge as possible? Wanna exceed investor estimates? Thot so.
Da answer is so easy you gonna say something like "Da answer was so easy" and I nod cuz I knew it was so easy. In fact, I was the one that told you it was so easy!
Look, productivity relies on yer underlings bein' alive and havin' most of their body parts on 'em. You got clinky blade traps all over da place, right? Put yellow signs in front of dem so no one gets chopped up. Take a big rock and roll that big rock in fronta the giant spider lair. Do stuff like that until dere's hardly anything in your base that squishes, splats, grinds, zaps, burns, or pokes your own guys.
Make your workplace safe like dis and more thing will get done. Imagine all them resources wot gets wasted when an injured worker is slowly dissolvin' in worm trap, screamin' and yellin'. Now also imagine all them resources wot gets wasted by other workers stoppin' to point and laugh.
All them orc hours could get put to more good use, like makin' a hunnerd dwarfskin loincloths wit little skulls swingin' from em.
Ya works tirelessly under dat cruel middle manager. He whips ya and kicks ya while ya tracks nasty humans through the Forest of Whispers. He ignores yer formal requests fer arrows that aren't crooked and wobbly-like. Yer birfday goes by without cake or even a passing comment.
Then it finally happens. His superior gets mad at him cos he makes a mistake and the enemy (Hssss! I hate enemy!) gets away. Yer middle manager promises to make up fer his mistake but he gets kicked right offa a cliff.
Now dere's an open position. This is yer chance! Da secret of promotions is they always work based on who's standin' around when someone dies.
Laugh yer weird greasy laugh. Don't stop if old blood clots spray outta your gob. Point at the tumblin' carcass of your old boss and slap yer knee. Show your 'preciation fer a witty gag. Long as there's no other canditates wif like, distinctive scars or magic-lookin' armor, the job's yers.
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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