Marty blinked and tried to sit up in the near darkness. His neck screamed in pain and his head throbbed as if someone had tried to twist it off. He was aware of a wet spot on his sleeve and realized he'd been drooling while passed out. This combined with whatever drug they'd given him probably accounted for the terrible dryness in his throat. He was lying on a small gray concrete ledge which was part of an equally depressing concrete wall. The only source of light was a scant trickle through a small opening in the steel door. An opening at eye level. It illuminated the interior enough to reveal he was in a small cell.

    Moving as slowly as possible to avoid jarring his brain, he managed to get in a sitting position and take stock of his surroundings. There was a stainless toilet/sink combination against the back wall and another, smaller, concrete ledge next to him which served as a table of sorts. On this outcropping was a small plastic bottle with a piece of paper taped to it. Marty carefully reached out and took the bottle, holding it close to his face. The paper was a note, which said simply "Drink Me".

    The analogy to Lewis Carroll's classic was not lost on him, even in his current state. Someone at O.C.D. seemed to have a sense of humor. Well, he'd see how funny they thought it was once his lawyer got through with them; once he got a lawyer, of course.

    Ignoring common sense and driven by the pain in his throat, he cracked open the small bottle and sipped it cautiously. It tasted like a typical sports drink and his parched gullet cried out for more. He gulped down the rest of it and immediately felt better.

    After about five minutes he actually felt like he might be able to stand. Like a drunkard, he staggered over to the toilet and proceeded (after much fumbling and swearing) to piss all over it. He didn't care in the least.

    He was navigating back to his concrete bed when some recessed lighting fluttered to life. The light caused him to squint hard and he unceremoniously plopped down and jammed his palms over his eyes. He heard a key scrape in the door and he looked up to see it opening noiselessly. Two of the suited O.C.D. agents were looking at him. He recognized them both from the incident in the street.

    "Mister Bish," said the one he identified as having been in charge of his abduction, " you need to come with us."

    Marty prepared a number of crushing retorts in his head, but none of them seemed likely to precipitate a happy ending to his situation. Instead of responding, he stood shakily.  The two agents stepped forward with practiced efficiency and flanked him. Surprisingly, their touch was light -- just enough to support and guide him.

    They led him out of the cell and down a short corridor of similar cells, stopping in front of an open elevator at the end of the hall. The buttons inside the elevator were numbered 1 through 5, and Marty noted they were currently on floor 2, for whatever that was worth. The agent who had spoken to him pushed button number 5 and the doors closed.  As the elevator started to move, Marty spoke.

    "Say uh, Chuckles" said Marty "I don't suppose you'd be interested in telling me why the **** I'm under arrest, would ya?"

    "Mister Bish, your questions will be answered shortly; and my name is not Chuckles."

    "It is now," muttered Marty, feeling he'd won a small victory over the implacable agent.

    They left the elevator and entered straight into a large office. There was a man seated behind an oak desk; he had an open file in front of him.

    "Sit down, Mister Bish," said the man. If possible he looked even sterner than the other two, even though he was not as physically imposing. His hair was graying and he gave out a command presence that Marty could actually feel. He felt himself pushed into a chair facing the man.

    "Why am I here?" asked Marty. He frowned but he didn't think it would make much of an impression on this guy.  He did look up, though, and met Marty's gaze with a set of piercing blue eyes.

    "We have been following your Internet postings with some interest, Mister Bish."

    "What?" asked Marty.

    "You are quite the prolific little poster," said the man glancing down at his paperwork.

    "So what? I can say anything I like. Ever hear of the First Amendment?" said Marty. He was desperately trying to remember anything he could have said which would have landed him here.

    "You appear to have a rather poor opinion of President Boxwood."

    "Yeah, me and about half the country," said Marty.

    "I was particularly taken with your criticism of the Patriot Act." The man glanced up again, leaning slightly forward.

    "Is that what this is about? You **** have got to be kidding me. Are you trying to say that I violated that piece of **** somehow?"

    "No, I'm actually concerned with your thinly veiled threats against the leader of the free world. Do you really think he should die for something as ridiculous as the crafting of the Patriot Act?"

    "No...," said Marty in a small voice. He now remembered the specific posting to which the man referred.

    "I think you are lying to me."

    "Look, I was drunk at the time...," said Marty weakly "just exactly how much trouble am I in?"

    "You misunderstand, Mister Bish. You are not in trouble at all. In fact, we have a proposition for you." Marty's confusion must have shown on his face, for the older man laughed lightly and closed the file folder. "Perhaps you are wondering what O.C.D. stands for?"

    "It crossed my mind...," said Marty.

    "It stands for Office of Consitutional Defense," said the man, and he gave Marty a humorless smile.