I felt around for Outback Lonnie - but I was clearly in someone elses’ bed.
As I opened my eyes, my ears flapped shut from the sudden roar of a chainsaw. The woman whirling it over my head made Cthulhu look like a pin-up girl. Wherever I was, it had Archetypal Ramshackle Hillbilly Hut Of Slaughter written all over it.
The woman grinned and sliced open a huge wooden chest with frenzied swings of her weapon. Manacles rattled, rubber squeaked and as the lid lifted, my nostrils screamed from a nauseating melange of stale breath and old ladies’ soap.
As gimps went, he was the Full Monty - right down to the Tarantino tattoo visible under his goggles. He hobbled towards me, cupping his exposed balls with a wooden ladle. I thought of Arnie and flexed my butthole - but to my surprise he crossed to another, slightly smaller, wooden chest by the wall.
The ladle, it seemed, was a key; its turn springing a dislocated midget who moved like an injured spider. That’s when I noticed all the other chests piled way up to the ceiling - and nearly swallowed my tongue.
For several agonising minutes, I watched helplessly as manservant after underling after slave consented for the next obsequious pet to be released, till they thronged around me in the slip of their own sweat like a gibbering A to Z of Sub-Dom.
After a slurping intake of drool, the hut fell silent.
From under the bed I heard a frantic scratching sound. A scrawny rodent in a hessian thong scrambled its way up my legs and onto my favourite sky blue waistcoat, dragging a bundle of crumpled papers in its teeth - papers labelled MANUSCRIPT.
'1 - 2 - 3,' whispered the Cthulhu woman.
'Happy birthday to Ratty! Happy birthday to Ratty...'