The story so far:
Marty opened his eyes and was immediately assaulted by an all too familiar pain in his head and neck. He was laying on a soft bed and a ceiling fan turned lazily above him. He recognized the view at once -- he was in his own bedroom.
"You ****," he croaked, and immediately wished he'd remained quiet. The burning in his throat was agonizing.
He thought about sitting up, but settled for turning his head toward the nightstand; he wanted to know the time. ****, he thought, I'd settle for knowing the date.
Blocking his view of the clock was a duplicate of the small bottle he'd drunk in his cell at O.C.D., taped to was another note. Marty closed his left eye to help him focus; the note was essentially the same as before, with one notable exception.
Marty sighed and took the bottle, damning Chuckles the Agent into whatever level of hell was reserved for smart-assed government types. As before, he felt better immediately and was soon up and around. On his way to the bathroom he glanced outside and noticed his car was in the driveway. There was no sign of the damage done to it during his introduction to the O.C.D. clowns, a testament to their efficiency.
As he turned to face the bathroom door he froze. There was a large manila envelope hanging on the door. It was impaled there by a cheap stiletto switchblade. He knew it was cheap because it belonged to him. The knife was normally locked in his safe, along with his financial books; the ones detailing his lucrative beggar's existence.
After removing the knife from his bathroom door, Marty opened the envelope and inspected its contents. It was his last five years of tax forms, stamped with the IRS time clock and initialed by some nameless government clerk.
These were not copies; the O.C.D. had a long reach.
Two men stood near an ice cream stand just down the road from the Mall. Both were dressed in tan chinos and Hawaiian shirts, and wore RayBan Wayfarers. The taller of the two casually glanced around then spoke.
"Do you think he bought it?" said the agent now known as Chuckles.
"Yes," replied the blue-eyed man "I know the type."
"What sort of time frame are we looking at?"
"Three months. Maybe sooner, if everything goes to plan."
"I'll make sure he draws the appropriate attention," said Chuckles.
"You'd better. I'll work the other end. He's due in from Jordan tomorrow."
The two men separated and melted into the smattering of tourist groups that exist in perpetuity at the nations capital.