Nephew of the legendary Urglash Blitzmor, Ugluk has the stuff of BloodBowl greatness literally flowing in his veins. After a promising season in Da Yoof Leagues he got drafted into the Brunchmunchers after belting the choice before him and using his teef to buy a splendid serving of broiled dwarf for the coaching staff. They were so thrilled they named him Blitzer 13.

I would like to introduce you to: Laffton, one of da Blitzers for da Düsseldorf Brunchmunchers! Numbah 77, 'eez one of da few orkses ta take 'tea' afta snappin' some humie's legz. In fact, 'eez got "Tea" tattooed on one 'and, and "Crumpets" tattooed on da otha. He ran outta fingaz part way thru da tattoo, so he 'ad to borrow some from some git what interrupted da opera. 'Iz motto? "Smashing!"

Originally a member of the world-famous Headstompa Boyz dance team, after being caught taking illegal steroids, Rompa Stompa was out of work. With his new 'roided out body, he needed a job somewhere - somewhere where he could use his natural grace and athleticism, and combine it with his rage at the dance associations' stupid rules.

That job would be in Blood Bowl. After showing off his moves in tryouts (including dodging a pair of Black Orcs by leaping into the air and twirling), he got picked up as one of the Brunchmunchers' newest blitzers.

The long-time owner of the marginally-successful Graghnokt's Squig-Based Skin Lotions, Rut-Thord Graghnokt is that most unusual of orcs; one apparently capable of running a business. A particularly ruthless business, mind you; few customers are initially enthusiastic about squirting vaguely-identified squishy goo onto their skin, purchased from a yellow-fanged, musclebound orc wearing a shop apron and showing extremely suspicious stains of all colors on his hands and arms. Yet, somehow, Rut-Thord has managed to build his business, at least in part due to a series of decidedly fortunate deaths on the part of his competitors in the skin-care market.

His son, Bruk-Thord Graghnokt, has helped out his father with the business since he was barely bigger than a snotling, performing a variety of tasks including shouting out slogans on the street, assisting with squig wrangling (a strength-building exercise), and serving as test subject for new preparations his father comes up with.

Despite the experimental nature of many of these compounds, Bruk-Thord has absolutely perfect skin (by orc standards): gleaming, green, tough, and flawless. His hands are as soft as a baby's. (Well, a baby that has been repeatedly chafed with pumice-stone for months, building up a thick scabby callous. Which is still much softer than typical for an orc.)

"Soft-Hands" Graghnokt is big, strong, and not very bright. Spotted by a bloodbowl scout while he was orchandling two uncooperative (razor-fanged, rabid, insane) squigs at once in a pen outside his father's manufactory, Graghnokt the younger may prove to be a particularly talented find; if you can wrestle two squigs into submission at once, hanging on to a bloodbowl ball while several armored dwarfs beat you about the head with brass knuckles is child's-play.

As a bonus, the young lad's father may be interested in a sponsorship deal with the Brunchmunchers.

Introducing the Düsseldorf Brunchmunchers thrower, #23, Blork! Blork is actually rather smart by orc standards, which isn't saying much. He's a thug, but he prefers to hang back and throw spears, knives, and the like rather than go in and melee. He like making elves dance and sing their gay elf songs before he kills them. He has a tattoo that says "Mom" on one arm and attempts to play instruments, although he isn't very good at it.

Born Grunta Thugatta, he received the nickname Goatface because of all of the goat faces he eats. Lightly fried in lard, served on a nice bed of nettles. Goatface enjoy cooking, freeform poetry and pulling the legs off intelligent creatures. He has an intense dislike of trees, because they have neither faces to eat, nor legs to pull off.

He punches stuff for the Düsseldorf Brunchmunchers under the jersey number 28.

Mr McKracken had since he was a wee child had a longing for blood and glory. But being an ork such thing didn't not come around very often. Ooh the days spent daydreaming for mayhem and dismemberment as a wee lad was something he looked foundly upon. So at the old age of 6 he joined the first bloodbowl team he could find, was promptly beaten half to death and since then have been playing bloodbowl. He recently signed on under the Düsseldorf Brunchmunchers as jersey number 3, the largest number he happens to know.

Written under threats to his life by Niels Davids, Spike Magazine writer

Late the following morning an insistent knocking rouses McBeer from his sofa in the Brunchmuncher's office. knocking over his still packed suitcases, he clambers to the door flinging it open with a cry of "What the hell do you want bub." He is greeted by a well groomed human butler, whose gloved hand extends a monogrammed card.

"Excuse me for the intrusion, Mr. McBeer. I am Wellsley, a butler of the great house of... "

"Yeah yeah, can it buddy. Look, what do you want?"

"The master of the house was so impressed by the game yesterday that he insists you take his son for a position."

"Well, I'm sorry, but Blood Bowl is a dangerous sport. I don't think his lordship would want to risk his kid son's life."

"Well sir, naturally his lordship is willing provide monetary assistance to protect the young master." The butler held out a promisary note with rather more numbers on it than McBeer was used to receiving legitimately.

Dollar signs in his eyes, McBeer shook the nancy's hand and asked him to send the boy over. Only after he closed the door did he notice the card read, "Githump Gobsmasha The Lesser". Suddenly his hangover returned and he started groping for the aspirin bottle on his desk. "How many of these weirdos are there?"

"Erm, iz dis where I sign up for da Brunchmunchers?"
"Yes it iz. Why do you think ya got what it takez? We'z not in the habit of takin juz anyonez." Replied the talent scout.
"Iz Killy Yeallatit. I be needing money to support my artz."
"Whatz Ya Art being?"
"Easier to show than tellz. stand back pleaze"

With that Killy moved to the centre of the pitch, pulled on a tattered leotard and began to dance. ten minutes laterhe sat back down in front of the stunned looking talent scout.

"Az you can see. Iz Orc Ball-e Danzer."
"Really?"
"Yez. Me need money, very hard to find sponzership for Orcish Ball-e Danzer. Iz get through Ball-e shoes like no tommorow."
"I find itz hard to beleive that youze get much employment. you notz the most agile of people"
"Thatz true. but me great at liftz. me once lifted partner into rafterz, very much saught after in some circlez."
"Well Killy, We'z may just have an opening for you."

Line Orc #04 - Dok Goffikdeff

Once a licensed practitioner of Ork Medicine, Dok Goffikdeff put up his stethoscope and bone saw when he discovered that it was much more pleasurable to inflict wounds rather than treat them. Besides, there just wasn't any teeth in medicine for ol' Dok Goffikdeff, what with his 100% mortality rate and insane malpractice insurance premiums.

Blitzer #82, Brewboy was a former alcohol manufactured soldier gone pro seeking fame and fortune. Shadowed by a past of mercenary work and war, he decided the best part to escape a life of suffering was the Blood Bowl gridiron. Clearly he suffered great psychological damage in the wars, but what can you do, he's stuck serving Nuffle now.

He wanted to be a Blitzer, but it turned out he didn't have the skills required. By the time he learned his mistake, he had already signed all the papers out.

Named fer da sound a 'alfie git makes wen ya run 'em down and numbered for 'iz familee's ongoin' record uf 65 niggles caused. 'E ain't too smartful, but 'e's got da rite stuf (not enuf skillz ta be a blitza or enuf tuffitude ta be a Blackie) ta centa tha line an' stare down da bigguns. "But I isn't dum as a brick like mah folks. I kin fit in wif da smartie iffn ya gives me a chanse!"

Hyargie' here SAYZ he'z numba 65, and dat's sure what 'is jerzy seyz, but Toof finks dat'z his number. So them two don't get along too good.

Name: Jork Bignutz
Position: Lineorc
Jersey Number: #99
Description: Jork is a lineorc who enjoys the finer things in life, such as smashing stunty league players, milling their bones into flour for his bread, and writing and reading epic poetry. No one is sure if he really has big balls or if it's just a nickname. A particular stench keeps the curious away.

Holy shit, boss! What the hell? I didn't sign up for this!

Postgame celebrations in Düsseldorf take many interesting turns. The Brunchmunchers typically adjourn to some of the city's finer cafes, and there proceed to have discussions on the issues of the day. After a particularly involved discussion of health care policy over passable tea and biscuits, (Goatface and Blork were in favor of increased use of sparky bitz, while Dok Goffikdeff held forth at great length on the traditional use of 'more choppy') the team's favorite venue, Chez Hereaux, faced an enormous remodeling bill in the near future.

The owner, a Otto von Schnitzelpusskrankengescheitmeyer, originally toyed with the idea of suing the Brunchmunchers for damages, but abandoned the idea when he was informed by the law offices of Skrak, Skrak, and McSkrak that any attempts to sue would result in his mouth being filled in with cement and the summary execution of his entire family. This dissuaded him.

So he rebuilt, and taking a cue from some of the less reputable establishments in the city, he hired someone to enforce the atmosphere of his beloved cafe. The fact that Dat's Me was twelve feet tall and weighed something close to a metric ton seemed likely to guarantee that the atmosphere smelled largely of troll, but it would be maintained, that's the thing.

In retrospect, Mr. von Schnitzelpusskrankengescheitmeyer should have screened for the job a little better. Dat's Me had been a bargain buy because of a dirty habit. Perhaps, somewhere, getting into single-syllable philosophical disputes that ended with breaking a building over someone's head was a useful trait, but it wasn't good for a bouncer and it was even worse in anyone whose job was to keep the Brunchmunchers out.

However, all's well that ends well. After three long hours and the majority of a city block destroyed, the Brunchmunchers and Dat's Me had formed a healthy respect for each others' intellectual capacities and debate techniques. Otto, knowing a business opportunity when he saw one, promised that for the low, low price of a hundred thousand gold they could have him.

Otto now lives in Acapulco.
Dat's Me now lives in the Brunchmunchers' locker room.
Neither has been happier in their lives.