The Lone Ranger - Or 'You Learn Something New Every Day'.

The Lone Ranger and Tonto had been tracking the bloodthirsty bandit Blackheart Bart for five days now.
They crouched in the undergrowth near his hideout, watching the single sentry pacing up and down.
"Well here it is old friend," said the Lone Ranger. "Blackheart Bart's hideout."
"Yes, it is Kemo Sabe." Said Tonto.
"Do you think you can take out that sentry with your bow and arrow?"
"Of course I can Kemo Sabe." Tonto drew his bow, nocked an arrow to the string and took careful aim.
"Remember, don't shoot to kill - we don't work like that." Said the Lone Ranger.
"Of course not Kemo Sabe." With that, Tonto loosed his arrow, which struck the sentry right between his thighs. He collapsed without a sound.
"Great shot!" Said the Lone Ranger. "You got him!"
"Yep," said Tonto. "Right in the Kemo Sabes."
And that, historians determined was the exact moment the Lone Ranger's relationship with Tonto went sour. 

Sook The Wook.

Sook the Wook was the oldest of all the cats. Being so old, she was also considered the wisest of all the cats. This may or may not have been entirely true, but she was certainly wise in her own way.

All the other cats came to her for advice. One day, two cats approached with a mouse. They explained to her that they had both pounced at the same time, and were currently arguing as to which of them would get to eat it. Sook the Wook heard both their stories patiently before ruminating a while. Finally, she came to a judgement and without a word sprang forward and swallowed the mouse whole. "Now, it belongs to neither of you. You shouldn't have been so foolish in arguing between yourselves."

Reluctantly, the two cats accepted her judgement and went their own ways. When she was sure they had gone, Sook the Wook leaned forward and coughed hard. After a couple more coughs, she brought the mouse up and spat him on the floor, still alive and quite confused. Sook the Wook bent down and spoke in soft tones to the mouse. "I'm sorry I had to do that; had I not, one of them would surely have eaten you. Go from here, and be safe little friend."

The mouse looked at Sook the Wook in surprise, then bowed gratefully and ran away. The next day, Sook the Wook awoke from her mid-morning pre-lunch slumber to find the mouse had returned with some friends, and they had brought her some cheese. "My family and I brought you this to say thank you for saving my life," said the mouse.

"There is wisdom in mercy," replied Sook the Wook. "Thank you for your gift."

In fact, so grateful was the mouse that he and his family would bring some cheese to Sook the Wook every day, which made her most happy. Sook the Wook loved cheese.

Devices for defence of the self from Burkenhare incorporated.

In these increasingly-troubled times, it’s reassuring to know that there is a company out there that has your best interests at heart – for a price of course.
THE HOUSING BOOM:
Your plasmatronic defence shields failed, the space pirates holed both your engines and you were lucky enough to send a distress call and get to the escape pods before the warp core breached (if you don’t know what that last bit means, it’s not good). Unfortunately, you are now stranded on a hostile ice planet with no shelter, and the evening’s drawing in.
That’s when you need Clarence Burkenhare’s Patented Housing Boom. Simply take the four-inch spheroid in your hand, give it a good shake, pull the pin and throw and in a split second you’ll have a comfortable and surprisingly roomy shelter big enough for up to four persons of average height, weight and diet.
The patent-pending Buckymax(tm) buckminsterfullerene and long-short-overchain polymers are lightweight, but sturdy enough to tolerate any* atmospheric conditions, and the natural design of the quick-drying foam means it can withstand up to a force 12 gale. The expanding doorway-tube automatically cuts off at three feet, creating a natural entry/exit from your new shelter, and once erected it can last a lifetime** if needs be.

* Within reason.

** Considering anyone in such a situation would in all probablity have neglected to bring food or water with them, lifetime is construed as two to six weeks, maybe longer depending on circumstances.

CHRONOMITE:
Ever wanted to blow something (or someone) back to the stone age? Well, with Clarence Burkenhare’s Patented Chronomite(tm) temporal disaffection explosives you can! Just place your charge, light the fuse and BOOM! the chroniton-heavy particulate detonation will hurl any given body backwards (or forwards, if you use Clarence Burkenhare’s Patented Blue Chronomite) through time. Full instructions are supplied with each shipment, including how much Chronomite is needed to disassociate any given body through any given amount of time. As an example, one half-stick of Red Chronomite, correctly applied and detonated can project an object the size of the average family car eighteen months into the past. Better act fast, as an unfortunate incident at the processing plant has rendered the entire Isle of Wight suspended sometime around last Tuesday, so stocks are limited.
Clarence Burkenhare Defence Systems Incorporated – If it kills you twice as fast, it’s probably a Burkenhare.

DOOM GRENADES OF DOOM!:
Is there a pesky planet obscuring your lovely view of the Horsehead Nebula? Neighbours getting noisy? Just don't like people? Then this is the product for you! Utilising Clarence Burkenhare's patented molecular energy bond dissipation system, the Doom Grenade Of Doom collapses the energy bonds between atoms, causing a catastrophic chain-implosion that can turn entire planets into miniature black holes in a matter of minutes. Just press the button, place on any solid surface and retreat to a safe distance (preferably an orbit of approximately 3500 miles or greater) and watch the planet itself crumble, fold and simply disappear, leaving nothing more than a rock the size of a small warehouse (we were going for the size of a cricket ball, but physics got in the way).

NARRATIVE VEST:
Do you have an annoying tendency to get fatally shot? Would you like to avoid being gratuitously killed at inopportune moments? Do you have occasional moments of gut-wrenching existentialism? Then you should buy the Narrative Vest! Simply don this stylish double-breasted (single-breasted available by special request) garment and you will become the chief protagonist in the story of your own life, with the added bonus that you cannot be killed. The patented automatic narration system ensures that your every move is documented by our reknowned Narrat-O-Tron, while the perpetual cascade of Narrativite particles ensures your continued survival.
Warning - while you can not be killed, you can still be injured, although there is always a good chance of a decent recovery, given time and a sympathetic audience. Narrat-O-Tron voices vary according to region, budget and other factors currently out of our control.

THE RANDOMISER 3000:
 You're down to just three men and your last two energy cells, and that rampagnig mob of enraged locals keeps getting closer and closer. This sounds like a job for the Randomiser 3000! A single shot from this ergonomically-designed psycho-magnetic electro-pulse crowd control device will have them all wondering why knees bend in one direction, or what the price of fish has to do with anything, or any one of countless random topics of intense thoughtful debate. It's hard to rampage when the question of 'how can you tell when you've overcooked black pudding?' is running through your conscious mind. With a study rechargable power cell capable of a thousand shots, the Randomiser 3000 is the perfect device for utterly non-lethal crowd control, that is assuming the debate over why sour cream has a sell-by date doesn't get too out of hand!

(This message presented on behalf of Clarence Burkenhare Defence Systems Incorporated. All rights reserved. Clarence Burkenhare Defence Systems Incorporated cannot be held responsible for any loss of life, limb, mobility, sanity, property, planet or solar system due to misuse (or correct use) of any products. Always read the instructions before use.)

Tyburn-English

Sometimes I speak my own language. Not literally as in every word, but I tend to use a lot of personal shorthand. I shall hereby attempt to bring you the basics of, as I call it – the Tyburn language.

To BAF – Blue-Arsed Fly – i.e. run about GSD PDQ.
To GSD – Get Shit Done, Getting Shit Done, Got Shit Done.
Squirrels! (Or Squirrel Pants) – Usually a single-word exclamation, denoting that unpleasant experience (in men, no female equivalent has been determined yet - feel free to add your own suggestions) where one’s underwear is attempting to devour one’s nuts (or stuff them in the nearest convenient hole)
Sweeny! – Upon entering a coffee shop with my wife, a quick cry of “Sweeny!” means “I’ll get the coffees, you go and find the comfy chairs”. From an old Sean Hughes routine about fighting over the comfy chair in which to watch The Sweeny.
(Quick note – do not, under any circumstances say the phrase “There’s no ‘I’ in ‘Team’ to me, unless you’re prepared for and willing to accept the response “Maybe, but there’s a ‘U’ in ‘C*nt’)
(Additional note – probably not a good idea to say “At the end of the day…” to me either, unless you’re okay with me saying “…the sun goes down” under my breath.)
(Additional Additional Note - "On the other hand..." usually ends in "Your fingers face the other way.")
Aren’t Fluffy Bunnies Cute? – This actually means ‘Your arguments, which I am not a part of but am caught in the middle of is getting a little too heated for my tastes – I’d really like you to change the subject.
I Hear The Himalayas Are Tall This Time Of Year - Same as above, originally a line by Vila in Blake's 7. 
(Not sure how to spell it, but it’s pronounced as a quite lazy-sounding ‘fu’m', with a glottal stop in the middle.) – Never mind, on with the next bit.
Mission, Mission Up, to get Missioned or Missioned Up – To set about doing a particular task with great gusto and intensity. It’s not just wanting to GSD, it’s having to do it at the expense of everything else.
Dot, dot, dot. – Used when I can't be bothered to finish the sentence but you know where I'm going with it.
‘Simons’ – my own little bit of Cockney rhyming slang (I’m half-Cockney) – Simon Cowell = Bowel. A case of the ‘narky Simons’ refers to Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

The Castaway.

Dragging himself up the beach, John spat out a mouthful of sand, his head still reeling from the whirlwind of events that had led to him finding himself stranded, naked on a small island in the South Pacific. What had started as a quiet and romantic cruise ended in disaster as the ship struck first a reef, then the wreckage of a battleship that had last seen the light of day in 1943, then sunk straight down with a loss of all hands – except John. Having swum for nearly six hours, his joints screaming at him, he pulled himself onto dry land and passed out.
The next morning (it had to be morning, the sun never usually looked that mercilessly cheerful any other time of day), John sat up, looking round. There seemed to be some flotsam washed up further down the beach, so he scrambled to his feet to see if he could find anything of use. Several empty suitcases, they’d suffice as the basis for a shelter of some kind. A rather large embroidery box, all sorts of needles and threads for all occasions. Which would be great if he had anything to sew. Finally, a small loom; his loom to be precise. Well, that was a start. As a professional tailor, John could quite easily manufacture himself a suit to keep the sun’s relentless rays at bay, and his hobby of weaving would also come in handy. If only he could find something to weave. . .
Then he saw it – a small patch of some native grass which, upon further inspection seemed to have just the right tensile strength and attributes to weave into a rudimentary cloth. Gathering up great handsful of the grass, he set up his loom and started to work.
The loom clickety-clacked into the morning, the odd native grass turning into a surprisingly good cloth which John, after having cut to size and shape, turned into a rather fetching two-piece suit; comfortable, protective and stylish to boot. Folding the two lapels of the jacket together, he noticed the suit’s one downfall – a distinct lack of buttons. Another quick beachcombing exercise came up with the solution: three small stones, each with a small hole which would be perfect for the purpose. And so, seated on a nearby rock, he started stitching his makeshift buttons onto the jacket.
So intent, so focused on the task, John never noticed the tiny sparks jumping from the needle as it struck the stone. The light was starting to fade, so he sewed faster. Without his even noticing, his trousers had started to smoulder and soon, his lap was ablaze. Gripped with a haze of panic, John first tried to take off the trousers, then made a last-ditch attempt to leap into the nearby sea, but it was no good. The fire had taken hold. He died in a fury of flames, the needle still threaded held in his outstretched hand.
It was three days later when a search and rescue ship showed up. The lifeboat slid ashore with a muffled crump, Captain Bright stepping off first. Surveying the scene, Bright motioned to his first officer, a haggard-faced old seadog named Carl. “What do you make of it?”
Carl studied the tableaux – a body burnt to a crisp amidst the ashes of his improvised clothing, the needle, the ersatz buttons. He nodded grimly. “Seems like people in grass trousers shouldn’t sew stones.”

Future-Past-Present History of the Russian Empire (Space Captain Flight)

As I have stated previously, the world Space Captain Duncan Flight inhabits is not like our current world. For those of you who may be interested, here is what happened to Russia…
1948 – As Hitler kept to his side of the bargain, so did Stalin. Not getting involved in the war the Russian economy stagnates.Eventually Stalin is ousted by the Slavograd Independent Beetroot and Borscht Combine in the Capitalist Revolution.
1956 – The Russian Capitalist Empire is overthrown by fascists in the Fascist Revolution. This lasts for two years until:
1958 – The fascists are overthrown by anarchists, who accidentally overthrow themselves twice in the space of one week with the Anarchist Decemberist Revolution Trilogy.
1959 – Just six months into anarchist rule, they are overthrown during another Revolution by the Surrealists. Moscow is renamed Bwah, which leads to enormous arguments as to how it is spelled, and for two weeks everyone is required under punishment of death by tickling to wear a fish. This ends when -
1959, two weeks later – Rodney Stiles, a taxi driver from Islington arrives in Bwah with documents proclaiming him to be a long-lost distant relative of Tsar Nicolas II. As the whole fish thing is starting to get a bit tired, the people embrace him and the surrealists are kicked out. Bwah becomes Moscow again and the Russian Empire is reborn. Tsar Rodney creates impressive policies which help the floundering Russian economy and gets the country back on its feet.
1987 – Tsar Rodney dies peacefully in his sleep. He is buried in Moscow with full state honours. His son, Tsar Rodney the second takes control amidst wide public approval.
Today – Tsar Rodney the Second is still in charge of a Russian Space Empire which extends over many star systems.

The Warrior's Lament

If you should choose to follow me,
Know that I am bound for Hell.
For the gates of Hades open’d wide,
As we all march’d on side by side,
Into the flames eternal.
Left for the shores of Bloody Hell,
Ten thousands strong and true.
But when we reached upon the scene,
Not one sole man stood whole nor clean,
Cast into flames eternal.
We fought the throng of daemon souls,
Two thousand still survived.
But still the daemons forth they came,
They bore Old Sinister’s evil name,
The Horde of flames eternal.
Then Sinister himself did rise,
He stood unholy ground.
His hordes, their spirit out had run,
And then at last Our will be done,
Down in the flames eternal.
Our mission spent, we turned to face,
The dawn of morning’s eye.
But morning’s sun it would not face,
The visage of Our bloodied race,
Back to the flames eternal.
For forty nights we fought and died,
The Sun did crack a frown.
And shed her tears not lightly,
Forever we battled nightly,
To quench the flames eternal.
And now men talk of deeds and words,
Forever from that day.
We are those who they call the damned,
Those souls that ever were condemned,
Unto the flames eternal.