A good night out drinking never ended with an expertly delivered, two-footed kick to the chest in dark back alley.

I’d been taking a leak when it happened. Not just hanging out in back alleyways.

As I lay there in a puddle of piss of my own making, a rat scarpering mere inches past my head, I had the presence of mind to suspect the perpetrator of the assault, was not from around these parts. Which begged the question.

What the hell was a ninja doing in the heart of Sunderland’s city center on a Friday night?

I was a fairly big bloke, six-four. And I worked out a few times a week, too. So I could handle my business in most altercations. Tonight, however, was not one of those occasions. Probably due to the fact that I’d been celebrating with passion, after the bank agreed a business loan for my new restaurant.

I’d barely been able to stand up straight before this little back lane soiree, and now, despite the adrenaline raging through my veins, I was like Bambi on ice.

Now, as I attempted to get back to my feet, while simultaneously trying to put myself away and fasten my zipper so I could focus more clearly on fighting my remarkably short, black-robed assailant. He decided he wasn’t too enthusiastic about me standing back up. A blunt, heavy object bash me in the back of the skull, and it was goodnight, Clive.

Upon waking, I found myself in total darkness and from my position and pain in my wrists and feet it didn’t exactly take a genius to work out I was tied to a chair. The next logical leap was to assume I wasn’t in the back lane anymore. Beyond that, I knew nothing at all, which terrified the ever-loving shit out of me.

All efforts to make sense of the attack, resulted in vague, disjointed memories that swirled around my mind, like rogue eggshell in batter. Unwilling to link into anything meaningful.

The mere effort of trying to think brought on the urge to spew, which had the domino effect of bringing another very important realization to my attention. I had a sack over my head. I couldn't understand how I’d missed it. Wherever I was may not even have been dark, after all. Hell, it might not even have been a room.

I suspected I was still drunk and most likely concussed. The sheer terror wasn’t helping matters either.

“He’s awake.” A scratchy, high pitched voice said in a not particularly comforting tone.

“Is he now? Good, good.” A lower and far more sinister voice replied. I started freaking out, trying to free myself from my restraints.

“What the fuck do you guys want? I’ve barely got any enemies, and I’m pretty sure none of them are ninjas.”

“We’re not your enemies, Clive. You are merely in possession of something we require,” the second more sinister voice replied, as if speaking to a child.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Okay… okay. If you’ve heard I’ve got money, then you’ve gone and fucked up. The bank’s sorting me out with a loan for a restaurant, but I’ll never see the actual cash,” I rambled on desperately.

“Your money means nothing to us,” sinister voice said. “We are here for the power you hold. Give us the recipe!”

“A recipe! You kidnapped me for a fucking recipe?” I said disbelievingly. “Come on then, spit it out. Which of my creations are you after? Is it my famous Cheese and Ham souffle? My next-level roast potatoes? The secret for those babies is semolina flour. Parboil. Fully cool. Then salt, pepper and semolina, those tasty little bastards. Honestly, it’s a fucking game changer, lads. In your roasting dish, you want lard, but if you're one of these vegan types, then the only substitute I’d recommend is coconut oil,” I explained. Entirely forgetting my predicament for a brief second as I conjured images of crispy, fluffy, golden potatoes.

I was snapped back to reality by a deep and forceful grunt. I was pretty sure neither sinister nor screechy voice made the noise. So there was definitely another kidnapper here. I felt my odds drop further.

“You are obtuse and unpleasant Clive, but no matter. The recipe we require belonged to your master Hakan. While he may have perished on your plane, you are marked by its power. Which if I’m not mistaken, means you have it in your possession,” the sinister voice said.

“You want Hakan’s recipe book?” I asked, disbelievingly. Hakan was the one who had trained me to be a chef. I was a bus boy for him from the age of eleven and at sixteen he took me on in the kitchen.

Fourteen years, I’d worked with him until his disappearance and apparent death a year ago. The pain of that loss was still raw.

“Where is it?” The super deep rumbled dangerously. The bass, even when he spoke quietly hurt my head.

“Look. I knew Hakan, for sure. But I ain’t got no book of his.”

There was a moment of tense silence, before super deep spoke again. It had me feeling like I’d sat on a speaker at a Slipknot concert.

“If he does not have the recipe, then dispose of him. Send people to remove everything from his abode, then continue the search.”

“Woah! Wait a damn minute here and let me think. I might be able to help you find it.” I snapped, trying to convey confidence I didn't feel.

“How will you find it?” sinister voice asked.

“Hakan and me go way back. He was like my abusive step dad or something. I can help. Trust me.” I said cringing inside as the words fell from my lips. I didn’t know how the hell I’d find it. All I had, was a desire to live and I'd just had to rely on my sober, less terrified me to find a way out of this.

“Grashuyk. Take this wretch with you. Should he pose any problems in your quest, you may devour him,” Super deep said.

“Thank you, sir,” Grashuyk, the artist formerly known as sinister voice, replied. I heard the one with the high pitched voice, let out a peal of delighted laughter. What in the hell had Hakan gotten me into.

The bag was suddenly whipped from my head, and I wished to high heaven that it hadn’t been. Initially, I was blinded by the well illuminated room. I took a quick moment to reflect on how excellent the head covering had been at blocking out the light. Whatever material they’d used would make some awesome curtains. The supposed blackout ones that currently hung in my apartment were utter dog shit. I might as well have hung a pair of tights over my window, for all the good they did.

As my vision cleared, my Ninja assailant stood to the side of me. I couldn’t make out his face, but when he spoke, I knew it was the one called Grashuyk.

“He will make good eating.”

I ignored the terrifying threat to check out who he was talking to. It didn’t compute at first. On the other side of what appeared to be a glowing portal stood… I kid you not, a gigantic fuckoff demon. Deep crimson skin, marbled with pulsating black veins stretched over an insane amount of muscle. Wicked looking protrusions, jutted from all angles. Lining its thick arms and legs and crowning its head.

Above that crown, it had what looked like a goddamn NPC identifier just floating in the air.

Buer: Baatazu Demon Paladin of Destruction Level 73

It was the last thing I saw as I received yet another forcefully delivered blow to the back of the head. This time, a part of me was actually grateful, as the world spun back into darkness.