I've spent two days looking for Max.

Two days! All I can say with certainty is that he's not being held captive down the back of the sofa, or on the front lawn. With any luck, he's being imprisoned in a camp like the one used in The Prisoner. He won't take that well - Max is, of course, afraid of number designations. As for me, I have a far bigger problem. This morning, I awoke to find myself on a strange medical table set up in my living room. A discarded bottle of chlorine and a handkerchief doused in the stuff confirmed my suspicions I'd been knocked out. Struggling up, I tried to search my body, to see what had happened to me. I confirmed everything was where it should be, but noticed a pain spreading across my shoulder blades and back. Dragging myself to a mirror, I turned this way and that to make out what had happened to me.
 Reading slowly, I read a short paragraph crudely tattooed across my back. Of course, I quickly recognised the description of Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment scrawled across my flesh. On the mirror, there was a note. On the note, a message:
 this is a warning. If you continue you search for the prisoner Max, we will tattoo more than just blurbs to your body.