text:
[I wanted to post the first chapter of a novel I've finished the third draft of for feedback. I don't know if this is the right place, but it seems like it. Constructive criticism is welcome and encouraged.]

Chapter I: The Spawn of Satan

In a land far, far away (the land of Brampton, Ontario to be specific), there lived a boy named Luke Jones. He resided with his father, David Jones, and cat, Biscuit, in a small house on a quiet street.

Like most people, when Luke was a child, he’d fancied the thought of becoming a pirate or superhero. But, unlike most teenagers, he never grew out of it. His head was full of fantasies. Not fantasies of summer romances, but of a lab accident that would give him superpowers, of meeting an alien, of time travelling… in other words, of adventure.

Luke daydreamt of all sorts of adventures, though he probably never dreamt of the one he got, for it turned out to be quite a misadventure in the end.

~ 666 ~

The misadventures of Luke Jones began one night shortly after his seventeenth birthday.

He was brushing his teeth before bed like on any other night. As he did so, he stared partly at a tiny pale spider on his bathroom mirror, and partly at his baggy-eyed reflection in the streaked glass.

He had small dark eyes and black hair and brown skin. His chin was sharp and his nose was large with a slightly crooked bridge. He wasn’t ugly, but he didn’t turn heads either, not that he minded.

He spat in the sink, rinsed out his mouth, and dried his face. He looked back at the mirror and the spider was still there. He didn’t much like spiders. He contemplated letting his cat in and holding the fat feline up to the mirror to kill it, but that required far more effort than he could be bothered to make just then. *Okay spider, you live for tonight. Don’t kill me in my sleep*, he thought, *if I can get any sleep, that is.*

Luke yawned. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately. You see, Luke had always been prone to nightmares. They were the kind most people only get when they’re children; dreams of being chased by cackling witches through the rooms of his house and not being able to make his legs go fast enough to outrun them, as if he was running through syrup… of soaring through the clouds in the upper troposphere, only to have gravity switch on without warning and make him fall towards the Earth at an alarming rate… of being trapped underground with no way of escape, while the air slowly ran out.

As of late, however, he’d been having these nightmares more frequently. Now they came every night. At first he tried to shrug them off like they were no big thing, even though he often woke up in a puddle of sweat, sore from fighting against the paralysis of sleep. But after four nights of the shadows, ghosts, and whispers beneath his eyelids, he was starting to feel paranoid that something was wrong with him. Was it that, unbeknownst to him, there was something on his mind, or was there, as they say, ‘something in the water’?

After drying his hands on his mint green towel, Luke shuffled into his room, closing the door on the washroom and the spider. He collapsed onto his bed and within five minutes was asleep. That night he had the strangest, most harrowing nightmare yet.

You know how, in a dream, when you're falling, you wake up? Well, that wasn't happening to Luke. He was falling, falling down a dark shaft. All the while he could sense something immobile and unyielding rising up to meet him. *Oh yes, the ground*, he thought as it came into view, like a solid shadow twenty feet below. In anticipation of the impact, he put his arms up over his face.

Something blotted out the light from the opening of the tunnel through which he fell. There was a rustling as of feathers just behind his ears. With a jolt, he realized it was a set of vast wings, falling with him. Now, this might not seem like such a terrible nightmare to you, but, if there were two things Luke Jones feared above all others, they were falling and tight spaces. So, you can see why a dream that incorporated both was terrifying for him.

He awoke just before he smacked, screaming, into the ground, and found himself breathing heavily, his damp black hair clinging to his forehead. He sat up, a hand pressed to his brow, pushing his overgrown hair back. There was an aching in his shoulders, as if they’d been bearing some heavy load, and his throat was raw and dry, as if his dream scream had followed him to waking life. He swallowed and his throat burned. He needed water.

He reached over to the glass on his nightstand and found it empty. Reluctantly, he pushed away his comforter and swung his legs over to the side of his bed. The hardwood floor was cold beneath his feet. For some reason, Luke always liked things a bit warmer than most people. The heat in his room was always turned up high in winter, and he slept under covers, even on the hottest summer nights.

He scowled as he walked across the cold, bare floor, until he reached the carpeted hallway, which led to a set of stairs, which themselves led to the living room.

Luke had lived in his house for as long as he could remember, and could probably navigate it in complete darkness, but (as he was afraid of the dark) he never got the chance to find out for sure. He felt around the wall for the stairway light and flicked it on before descending. When he got to the kitchen, he flicked that light on too.

He shivered as he opened the door to the fridge. The cold air hit his bare chest and fell against the thin cotton of his pyjama pants.

He poured himself a glass of water from a plastic jug with a filter in it, and leaned against the fake-marble counter as he gulped it down. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he noticed a shadow move by the recliner in the living room. It seemed to take the shape of a person sitting in the chair, its hands planted on the armrest.

At first he thought it was his dad, but no, the person was too short, and had long frizzy hair that streamed past their shoulders. He wished he’d switched on the living room light on his way to the fridge, but now he was too scared to leave the comfortingly bright kitchen to do so.

When the figure stood and took a step towards the kitchen, toward him, he dropped the cup he was holding. It shattered against the tile floor, spraying water and shards of glass against his feet. He reached out onto the counter behind him for something, anything to defend himself with, and came up with a wooden spoon from the dishrack. He held it out in front of him, as threateningly as a wooden spoon can be held by a shirtless teenager standing shoeless in a puddle.

“Who the Hell are you?” he shouted at the intruder.

He’d tried to shout it in an intimidating manner at the intruder, but his voice had out all high-pitched and shaky. “Get out right now, or I’ll call the police!” he shouted, this time with more vigour, louder than he’d intended.

All he got from the shadow was a laugh, trilling and amused, in a woman’s voice.

Cutting through the laugh came his father’s heavy, vaulting footsteps down the stairs. A baseball bat gripped in one hand, he slammed his fist into the light switch, flooding the living room with light.

“Well, Luke,” the unknown intruder said, “I see you and your father share a proclivity for unconventional wooden weapons.” She looked David Jones up and down, “and have a matching style of dress.”
For some ungodly reason, Luke’s father lowered the bat. A blush erupted over his cheeks and neck as he slapped a modest arm over his chest.

The intruder had curling black hair, much like Luke’s when he let it grow too long. She had a broad nose and skin the colour of jasper, peppered with onyx freckles. She’d painted her lips a dark red to match her pumps, her nails black to match her loose-fitting clothes (black jeans and a black hoodie).

“What are you doing here, Lucy?” David asked. He sounded equal parts scared and annoyed. He actually dropped his bat against the hardwood floor, “After so many years?”

“Lucy?” Luke repeated in a hollow voice. He was trying desperately to make sense of what was happening. Maybe he was still dreaming. He stepped out of the glassy puddle, careful not to cut his feet on the shards.

“And how did you get in?” his father continued at the stranger, as if Luke hadn’t spoken.

The woman held up her hand. Off two fingers dangled a key ring, off it a single silver key.

“You never bothered to change the lock,” she said, shaking the key ring. The key clamoured against it like a shrill bell.

“What the Hell is going on?” Luke asked, interrupting what appeared to be a reunion.

Luke’s father held up his hand towards Luke to silence him.

“Would... would you like anything to eat or drink?” David asked the intruder, who had her hand on the back of the leather recliner. She was leaning forward against it in a casual manner.

“You never were the type to keep hard liquor,” Lucy said, aiming a sly smile at Luke’s father, “So I suppose I could go for a cup of tea.” And Luke could swear she winked at his dad. It was an odd sight, since she didn’t look much older than Luke. In any case, she was certainly no older than her mid-twenties.

“Oh. My. Gosh. Will you please tell me what’s going on and whether I should or should not call the police on this lunatic?” Luke shouted at his dad, still holding up the wooden spoon.

“Be quiet, Luke!” both David and Lucy said in unison, turning to stare at him like distorted mirror images of each other.

*This is too weird*, he thought, *I must still be dreaming*.

“And while you’re at it, set down that ridiculous spoon. What are you going to do, stir me to death?” she asked, and after she said it Luke did feel pretty silly. He set the spoon down on the countertop, though it had been reassuring to have something solid to hold onto.

“Luke,” his father said, sounding serious, “put the kettle on. And you,” he continued, pointing a finger at Lucy, “sit there in that chair and don’t get up ’til I’m back, or I swear to *God* I’ll send you back where you came from.” He widened his eyes, which had the colour and shine of lacquered mahogany, to show he meant it. Lucy rolled her own eyes in response, but she spun around and plopped down into the chair anyway, just as Luke’s father had requested. She strummed her black nails off the brown leather of the chair’s hand rests as David climbed the stairs and Luke begrudgingly turned to fill the kettle with water. Luke was tense, averse to having his bare back turned to this strange woman, who somehow had a key to his house. Had his dad *dated* this lady?

She was so young. Midlife crisis, much?

“My real name isn’t Lucy,” the woman said to his back as he used a cloth to inadequately mop up the water and shards of glass from the broken cup, “It's just my nickname. My real name’s Lucifer, but you can call me ‘mom’.”

“Mom?” Luke asked, turning to look at her. If she was his biological mother then she must have conceived him in grade school.

“Oh, he didn’t tell you, did he?” Lucy said.

“Tell me what?” Luke asked, feeling over exposed under Lucy’s sharp stare.

“That you’re the spawn of Satan,” Lucy said. Luke could have sworn her eyes flashed red for a moment, but it must have been a trick of the light.

Just as Luke went slack-jawed, wondering if this stranger was insulting him, David came down the stairs. He was wearing a t-shirt and tossed one to Luke.

“Hey, this is my shirt. You went in my room,” Luke whined as he pulled the shirt on.

“Is that truly your biggest concern right now?” David asked, shooting his son a sideways glance as he pulled three mugs from the cupboard. He poured boiling water, plopped a teabag, and stirred sugar into teach, an extra spoonful in the one meant for Luke. He took all three mugs in his two hands and set them down on the dining room table.

Lucy got up unbidden and walked over to the dining room table. She sat in one of the four chairs, the one that faced Luke in the kitchen. She stared at him as she picked up the steaming cup, brought it to her painted lips, and took a gulp of the scalding liquid. Luke winced, thinking of the burn she’d get on her tongue and down her throat.

David plopped himself down opposite Lucy, obscuring Luke’s view of her.

“Come sit, Luke. There’s some things we have to discuss,” his father said. His voice was gritty, tired.

Luke abandoned his sloppy clean-up job, dropping the cloth into the glassy puddle. As he approached the dining room table, he glanced at the cable box under the television in the living room, which displayed the time, and saw that it was three-goddamn-o’clock in the morning. He’d have to tell Jess, his best friend, about this whole charade when it was over.

Yawning, he took a seat to his father’s left. He felt odd sitting between them, like a third wheel.

He slid his cup of tea towards himself. He chose to frown down at the kittens painted on the mug rather than look up at his father or the stranger. He could smell her foreign scent, like metal and melted wax and fermenting flowers.

“Son,” David Jones said, placing a grounding hand on Luke’s shoulder before going on and saying, “This is Lucy. She’s your mother, and well... well, she’s also the Devil.”

“She’s that bad, huh?” Luke said, sarcasm infusing his tone.

title: [FN]The Misadventures of Luke Jones

question: Summarize Luke's movements over the course of the story.

answer: Luke is brushing his teeth in his bathroom. He then shuffles into his room and collapses onto his bed. He wakes up and heads down the hallway and stairs into the living room and finally to the kitchen.

question: What does the story say about how Luke's parents met?

question: What does the story say about Luke's mother?

answer: Luke's mother is short, has curling black hair, a broad nose and skin the color of Jasper. Her lips are painted a dark red to match her pumps and her nails black to match her jeans and hoodie. Her name is Lucy, and she is actually Lucifer, also known as Satan.


split: test

text:
_INTRODUCTION TO CIRCLE PACKING: THE THEORY OF DISCRETE ANALYTIC FUNCTIONS_ is a mathematical monograph concerning systems of tangent circles and the circle packing theorem. It was written by Kenneth Stephenson and published in 2005 by the Cambridge University Press.

Topics

Circle packings, as studied in this book, are systems of circles that touch at tangent points but do not overlap, according to a combinatorial pattern of adjacencies specifying which pairs of circles should touch. The circle packing theorem states that a circle packing exists if and only if the pattern of adjacencies forms a planar graph; it was originally proved by Paul Koebe in the 1930s, and popularized by William Thurston, who rediscovered it in the 1970s and connected it with the theory of conformal maps and conformal geometry. As a topic, this should be distinguished from sphere packing, which considers higher dimensions (here, everything is two dimensional) and is more focused on packing density than on combinatorial patterns of tangency.

The book is divided into four parts, in progressive levels of difficulty. The first part introduces the subject visually, encouraging the reader to think about packings not just as static objects but as dynamic systems of circles that change in predictable ways when the conditions under which they are formed (their patterns of adjacency) change. The second part concerns the proof of the circle packing theorem itself, and of the associated rigidity theorem: every maximal planar graph can be associated with a circle packing that is unique up to Möbius transformations of the plane. More generally the same result holds for any triangulated manifold, with a circle packing on a topologically equivalent Riemann surface that is unique up to conformal equivalence.

The third part of the book concerns the degrees of freedom that arise when the pattern of adjacencies is not fully triangulated (it is a planar graph, but not a maximal planar graph). In this case, different extensions of this pattern to larger maximal planar graphs will lead to different packings, which can be mapped to each other by corresponding circles. The book explores the connection between these mappings, which it calls discrete analytic functions, and the analytic functions of classical mathematical analysis. The final part of the book concerns a conjecture of William Thurston, proved by Burton Rodin and Dennis Sullivan, that makes this analogy concrete: conformal mappings from any topological disk to a circle can be approximated by filling the disk by a hexagonal packing of unit circles, finding a circle packing that adds to that pattern of adjacencies a single outer circle, and constructing the resulting discrete analytic function. This part also includes applications to number theory and the visualization of brain structure.

Stephenson has implemented algorithms for circle packing and used them to construct the many illustrations of the book, giving to much of this work the flavor of experimental mathematics, although it is also mathematically rigorous. Unsolved problems are listed throughout the book, which also includes nine appendices on related topics such as the ring lemma and Doyle spirals.

Audience and reception

The book presents research-level mathematics, and is aimed at professional mathematicians interested in this and related topics. Reviewer Frédéric Mathéus describes the level of the material in the book as “both mathematically rigorous and accessible to the novice mathematician”, presented in an approachable style that conveys the author's love of the material. However, although the preface to the book states that no background knowledge is necessary, and that the book can be read by non-mathematicians or used as an undergraduate textbook, reviewer Michele Intermont disagrees, noting that it has no exercises for students and writing that “non-mathematicians will be nothing other than frustrated with this book”. Similarly, reviewer David Mumford finds the first seven chapters (part I and much of part II) to be at an undergraduate level, but writes that “as a whole, the book is suitable for graduate students in math”.

title: Introduction to Circle Packing

question: What does the article say about circular logic?

question: What are some related fields to circle packing?

answer: The theory of conformal maps and conformal geometry are related. It has similarities to the analytical functions of classical mathematical analysis. These similarities can be applied to number theory and the visualizations of the brain's structure.

question: What parts of the book does the reviewer David Mumford call out as exceeding the abilities of a novice?

answer: Mumford says the sections about the degrees of freedom that arise when the patterns of circle adjacencies aren't fully triangulated and the formal proof of the analogy between classical analytic functions with the different extensions of the previous case is beyond the ability of an undergrad.


text:
The Los Angeles Valiant took me under their wing, developed who I am as a player and gave me so many amazing opportunities that I never had before. They gave me a chance at pro gaming and I’ll always be grateful for that, I know the mistakes I made and how to improve on them in the future.

When Valiant first picked me up, I had never really played on a professional team – besides trialling for a short time with Counter Logic Gaming. I played on stage for the first time wearing the Valiant jersey and I learned so much from that experience.

My overall experience with the Los Angeles Valiant was positive, though obviously, as time went on, it became less than ideal for me in terms of my playing time. For the last stage with Valiant, I didn’t get as much playtime as I did during Stage 1, mainly due to coaching staff decisions and preferences.

As my playtime started decreasing around Stage 1’s halfway point, I started to feel awkward, unsure of what I could provide to the team moving forward. I wouldn’t say I was frustrated, but it did put a dent in my confidence as a player; it was affecting my motivation to improve and play the game.

The team began to segment itself, split between the main roster players and the ‘sister team’, the ‘Inside LA Valiant’ series depicts this pretty accurately. That split amongst the players was prominent and was unhealthy for the team overall since it created two distinct identities where ideally, you only want one identity as a team.

I identified with the sister team and I made many close friends with people on that sister team, who I miss dearly now that I’ve moved on. Since leaving, I’ve heard that things are improving a lot over there.

[]

The trade proposition came around one day when I had a group meeting with Noah, the coaching staff and the LA Valiant management. In short, they told me that they were going to start shooting my name around to other OWL teams.

When they told me, I immediately felt really empowered and I gained a huge surge of motivation; I wanted to work harder than I had before and I wanted that chance at a fresh start on a new team. I did some talking of my own to my agent and I secured myself a try-out with the Los Angeles Gladiators.

The transition from Valiant over to the Gladiators has been really smooth, certainly a smoother transition than I thought it would be when I initially tried out for the team. The most difficult part was probably going from having my own apartment – where I had my own bedroom and bathroom – to living in a team house.

Other than that, I was integrated into team practice really quickly. I’m rapidly synergizing and gelling with the team as well, which is all due to the help and support I received from the coaching staff; they appreciate that I’ll need a little bit more playtime now so that I can get used to how the team plays.

Something I’ve noticed on this team is that everybody is a lot more talkative and open when it comes to feedback and what we could do differently. We’re constantly looking for changes we could make that would help us improve – which I prefer – especially the increased involvement of the coaching staff during scrim time.

At Valiant, I always wanted more direct feedback, I wanted to be told by my coaching staff exactly how I could improve. It was like that for a while, but as I started getting less playtime, I stopped getting that feedback, I wasn’t getting the direction I needed to improve. The Gladiators’ coaching staff have been giving me exactly that and for me, that’s the biggest difference.

However, the most supportive people of all have been the fans. Even though I’ve transferred to the ‘rival’ team of LA, they’ve been super supportive and want the best for me; it’s one of the most heart-warming and heartfelt things I’ve experienced in a while.

[]

Obviously, I always want to improve my mechanical skill, but the most important thing right now is communication. Coming from Valiant, a team with multiple ethnicities, cultural and language barriers, I learned how to communicate pretty decently. Here at the Gladiators, it’s kind of the same scenario.

I want to be able to communicate more effectively when those language barriers are present because Overwatch League is international; to be able to communicate in that way is super-beneficial. I also want to improve my overall game sense, to a point where I feel a lot more confident as a player and in my own play.

Instead of simply putting in 90%, I want to put 150% into every aspect from now on; whether that be in practice, at home, on stage, just in general. I’ve even started taking a lot of notes on my phone, so I can look at them and make sure I don’t forget anything, I want to continue improving at a steady rate.

Our goal as a team, for this stage, is to make the playoffs. I definitely think we have the potential to do that, considering we have insanely talented players. Everyone’s attitude towards improvement and open feedback will be important; nobody has an ego that prevents them from improving.

With this fresh start, I’m more motivated than ever to grind and improve, I realized I could have put more effort in when I was at Valiant. I acknowledge that now and I plan on never making the same mistake again.

_Image Credit: Robert Paul for Blizzard Entertainment_

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: Information not found.

question: What's the main plot point?

answer: The narrator became a part of one gaming team then switched to another one.

question: What skills does the narrator want to improve?

answer: He wants to improve his mechanical and communication skills.

question: What demotivated the narrator while he was playing with valiant?

answer: The fact that they gave him less screen time after Stage 1.

question: Which team did he move to?

answer: To Los Angeles Gladiators.

question: Who are the people that support the narrator the most?

answer: His fans

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator got recruited to play e-sports in the L.A. Valiant team. After Stage 1 his playtime decreased and he didn't like that. Even though his experience was mainly positive he felt like he needed a change and moved to Los Angeles Gladiators. He liked that he got more feedback from his new team. In the end, the narrator is very motivated to improve both his mechanical skills but more importantly his communication skill.


text:
CRIMSON CURSE – GWENT’S FIRST EXPANSION, is now available for PC, PS4 and Xbox One! With this update, we’ve added over 100 new cards and 5 new leaders to the game, as well as introduced some balance tweaks to the Base Set cards!

FULL LIST OF CHANGES:

-   The card shader has been reworked and has different lighting behavior during gameplay. Card art should now be more vivid.
-   The "shimmer" effect for disabled premium cards has been replaced with a glittering border effect.

NEW FEATURES

-   New Monsters Leader: Dettlaff van der Eretein
-   New Nilfgaard Leader: Anna Henrietta
-   New Northern Realms Leader: Queen Calanthe
-   New Scoia'tael Leader: Dana Méadbh
-   New Skellige Leader: Svalblod
-   New page in the Reward Book for new Leader Trees
-   101 new cards from the Crimson Curse expansion
-   Card abilities that trigger from damage and boost effects will not be triggered by abilities that "set" a unit's power.
-   Visual changes to card status icons.
-   Visual changes to icons for Order and Charge abilities.
-   Letting your turn timer expire 4 times during a single game will cause you to auto-forfeit.
-   57 new Contracts - subdivided as follows:
-   44 General (for new CC keywords)
-   11 Mastery (for CC Leaders)
-   2 Arena (for CC cards)
-   Added audio feedback for applying and removing card statuses.
-   Cardbacks can now be rotated in the cardback selection screen.
-   Ambient sounds for game boards can now be heard in the game board selection screen.
-   In the Shop, press and hold the shoulder buttons on gamepads in order to add and subtract from the total keg amount you would like to purchase with Ore.
-   The Lock status no longer removes other card statuses and no longer remains on cards after entering the graveyard.
-   Cards with the Doomed status are now Banished when they leave the board rather than after entering the graveyard.
-   A new card type called "Strategem" has been added. Cards of this type cannot be targeted by any other cards. This card type currently applies only to Tactical Advantage.

NEUTRAL

-   Alzur's Double-Cross provision cost changed from 10 to 9.
-   Avallac'h: Sage's power changed from 2 to 1 and his provision cost changed from 12 to 11.
-   Caretaker's power changed from 3 to 2 and his provision cost changed from 12 to 14.
-   Chironex's Deploy damage amount changed from 4 to 3.
-   Unicorn's Deploy boost amount changed from 4 to 3.
-   Commander's Horn boost amount changed from 3 to 2 and its provision cost changed from 14 to 11.
-   Duda: Agitator and Duda: Companion (special cards Spawned by Zoltan: Scoundrel) now have the Doomed status.
-   Eskel's power changed from 3 to 2 and his provision cost changed from 7 to 8.
-   Lambert's power changed from 3 to 2 and his provision cost changed from 7 to 8.
-   Vesemir's power changed from 3 to 2 and his provision cost changed from 7 to 8.
-   Hanmarvyn's Blue Dream provision cost changed from 11 to 13.
-   Nivellen's power changed from 5 to 4 and his ability changed to: "Deploy: Move 3 adjacent units to their other row".
-   Roach's provision cost changed from 9 to 10.
-   Royal Decree's provision cost changed from 12 to 11.

MONSTERS

-   Eredin Bréacc Glas's provision bonus changed from 15 to 16 and his Leader ability changed to: "Order: Boost a unit by 4 and give it a Shield."
-   Gernichora's provision bonus changed from 13 to 11.
-   Whispess: Tribute's provision cost changed from 10 to 9.

SKELLIGE

-   Crach an Craite's provision bonus changed from 17 to 16 and his Leader ability can now only target enemy units.
-   Birna Bran's provision cost changed from 8 to 10.
-   Ermion's provision cost changed from 10 to 9.
-   Heymaey Skald's power changed from 4 to 3.

NORTHERN REALMS

-   Queen Meve's provision bonus changed from 17 to 16.
-   Keira Metz's provision cost changed from 10 to 9.

SCOIA'TAEL

-   Brouver Hoog's provision bonus changed from 15 to 14.
-   Isengrim's Council provision cost changed from 10 to 9.
-   Paulie Dahlberg's power changed from 5 to 6 and his ability changed to: "Order: Boost the unit to the left by 2, or give the unit to the right a Shield."

NILFGAARD

-   Morvran Voorhis's provision bonus changed from 18 to 17.
-   Ceallach Dyffryn's power changed from 5 to 3 and his ability changed to: "Deploy: Purify all allied units on this row."
-   Ability of Cow Carcass (unit Spawned by Rot Tosser) changed to: "Doomed. Spying. On enemy turn end, give adjacent units Poison and destroy self."
-   Rot Tosser's power changed from 2 to 3 and its provision cost changed from 7 to 5.
-   Vattier de Rideaux's provision cost changed from 12 to 11.

GAME FIXES

-   Bran Tuirseach's and Coral's passive abilities no longer trigger when the opposing player uses Kambi to Discard a card from hand.
-   Fixed an issue whereby timers/counters for certain units' abilities would sometimes not display correctly.
-   Fixed an issue whereby, when using a gamepad, canceling a match search in Seasonal or Classic mode would result in Training mode being selected.
-   When using a gamepad, upon accessing the Play menu, Classic mode will now be the mode selected by default rather than Seasonal.
-   Fixed an issue on the PlayStation 4 version of GWENT whereby, after resuming GWENT from Rest Mode, a pop-up for a disconnected controller would appear but could not be dismissed.
-   Fixed an issue on the PlayStation 4 version of GWENT whereby pressing the Square button on the Play Menu in order to edit a deck would load a different deck than the one selected.
-   Fixed an issue whereby the "turn button" would flash during the opponent's turn.
-   Fixed an issue whereby the ability of Botchling (and Lubberkin) would cease working after being moved to another row.
-   Fixed an issue whereby the "'Tis not Right!" contract was not listed under "The Witcher Tales" filter in the contracts menu.
-   Added a prompt in Leaders' card preview screens within the Deck Builder stating that the Leader used in the given deck cannot be milled.
-   Tooltip of Mastercrafted Spear in Korean now correctly states "Damage an enemy by 1" rather than "Damage an adjacent enemy by 1."
-   Tooltip of Slave Driver in French now correctly states that all units are taken into account for his ability rather than only Locked enemy units.
-   Tooltip of Coral in Polish now correctly states "Whenever you Discard a special card" rather than "Discard a special card."
-   Fixed an issue in the Polish version of GWENT whereby Egan was incorrectly referred to as Auckes in Letho of Gulet's tooltip.
-   In the Player Profile screen under the Ranked Score tab, the description of Match Progress in the Legend now displays the correct value of matches needed for match progress maximum potential.

question: What is Crimson Curse?

answer: It's the expansion to Gwent, a game within a game. Namely, it's the card game featured within the Witcher 3 The Wild Hunt.

question: What's different about Gwent with the Crimson Curse expansion?

answer: They've added over 100 new cards and 5 new leaders to the game, as well as introduced some balance tweaks to the base set cards. They've added new features like new Monsters Leader Dettlaff van der Eretein, new card abilities that trigger damage and boost effects.

question: What kind of fixes were implemented?

answer: Various types of errors were fixed including display errors and gameplay errors. For example, they fixed an issue on the Playstation 4 whereby pressing the square button on the play menu in order to edit a deck would load a different deck than the one selected.

question: How was The Witcher 3 received?


text:
Super Dan climbed in through the police commissioner's fourth floor office window."You called?" he said with a cocky grin."Yes Dan Man, we need your help and also some of your assistance." said the police commissioner."Hey, hold on! I'm Super Dan, not Dan Man." "Oh," the police commissioner chewed on a finger nail, "the chief inspector and I thought you called yourself Dan Man. We've always called you Dan Man - haven't you noticed previously until up to now?""You have a large 'D' on your chest." pointed out the chief inspector of crime, as he moved a handheld magnifying glass in and out over said 'D'."Well, that's because 'S' is already in use." said Super Dan."Say what?" said the police commissioner."It's being used and basically, is ruled out forever now." said Super Dan."It is?" said the chief inspector, "that's sad.""Yes, well, whatever, a 'D' is what it is" said Super Dan."For Super Dan?" said the chief inspector."That's right." said Super Dan."Not Dan Man." said the police commissioner."No.""Dan Man sounds alright though, don't you think?" said the chief inspector."Look," said Super Dan, his patience coming all unravelled, "anyway - what did you want me for? First I saw a 'P' projected into the night sky - the next minute it was slowly turning around clockwise to form a 'd' in lower case." Super Dan frowned in an obvious manner, "You need to be careful about that, you could have ended up with Pee Man.""We know, we switched it around as soon as we noticed." said the police commissioner."Believe me, you do not want Pee Man turning up unannounced." said Super Dan."Yes, yes," the police commissioner wiped an anxious white handkerchief across his perspiring forehead "for sure - we know Dan Man, we know.""Anyway, now that I am here," said Super Dan, hands on hips, "what is the mission?""Your mission tonight Dan Man, take it or leave it," the police commissioner pulled down on the hem of his waistcoat and pushed his chin forward, "is to fly past every circular intersection roundabout within the county and each bed sheet daubed with birthday greetings that you find, you are to remove - and dispose of in a responsible manner.""Well, okay, fly no, bicycle yes, I accept." said Super Dan."Eliminate these eyesores, this plague upon our land, promise you will not fail us." said the chief inspector."You have my word." said Super Dan."Er-umm, Dan Man," the police commissioner said, "you've laddered your tights."
Two evenings later...
On this occasion, Super Dan rang the front door bell."Dan Man!" cried the chief inspector, ushering Super Dan quickly inside and up the oak banister staircase."Yes! I am here again - and you did it again didn't you, a 'P' and then a 'd'. You really must be much more careful, one of these days you are going to have Pee Man arrive.""Yes - yes, we know - we know." said the chief inspector.They clambered up the next three flights of stairs in silence, until they reached the office where the police commissioner had been waiting, pacing backwards and forwards impatiently."So, what is it this time?" Super Dan said."Dan Man, you remember the task we set you the other night?" said the police commissioner."Y-es, indeed I do." Super Dan said, sashaying his cape over a shoulder with pride."Well what's all this we hear about the makeshift, roadside shrines being cleared away?" said the police commissioner."As well as the birthday bed sheets? We-ll," said Super Dan, "It just seemed a natural extension for the mission, two birds with one stone. I cycled past them at first, barely giving them a second look, but as I got more and more into the bed sheet job, I found I couldn't stop myself.""DAN MAN! You shouldn't have done that!" the police commissioner and chief inspector chorused together (only fractionally out of sync)."..." Super Dan came speechless."Earlier today we received instructions from the lord city mayor, telling us to tell you to go back and reinstate all the makeshift roadside shrines you've taken down." said the police commissioner."What?! Are you serious? Why exactly?" said Super Dan."He wouldn't say - even when pressed to tell. He just wants it all put back." said the chief inspector."How am I going to be able to do that? I can't remember what where went!" said Super Dan."What went where?" cut in the police commissioner, rubbing his thumb across the stubble on his chin."Yes, that as well. If I try to put the makeshift roadside shrines back together, the bereaved families and friends are bound to notice they won't look anything like how they remembered them. I mean - I didn't take any photos as a record, I just tore them down and shoved all the rubbish into black bin bags.  How can you expect me to do this?" said Super Dan."Well Dan Man, you are just going to have to try your best, or..." said the police commissioner."Or what?" said Super Dan."If you do not carry out your instructions successfully, then you'll just have to wait and see what the consequences are."Both the police commissioner and the chief inspector of crime folded their arms across their own chests in a pugnacious fashion, throwing back their heads in loud and demeaning laughter, not stopping until their cheeks ached, as Super Dan hurriedly exited the building.
to be continued...

title: [HM] Birthday Bed Sheets (923 words)

question: Why do the police keep almost summoning "Pee Man"?

answer: Then the police try to summon Dan Man, or "Super Dan", they project a giant "D" into the sky. Unfortunately they tend to do it lowercase. This makes it appear as a "p" rather than a "d" because things projected in the sky look different from different perspectives. Because of this, Super Dan warns them that they may summon "Pee Man" a pun on the letter "P".

question: What does Super Dan do that he should not have done?

answer: Super Dan is tasked with tearing down happy birthday bedsheets at roundabouts across the country. Unfortunately he is overzealous and also tears down roadside shrines. This makes the police commissioner and the chief inspector upset, and they inform Super Dan that he must restore the roadside shrines or suffer unnamed consequences.


text:
Earlier this week, we were slightly surprised to hear Senator MARCO RUBIO admit in the pages of the _The Economist_ that the Republican tax bill was a complete and total scam. Despite his party’s insistence that a giant corporate tax cut would ultimately benefit the middle class, Rubio said in an interview that rather than spending their boatloads of cash on average workers, corporations, shocker of shockers, “bought back shares, a few gave out bonuses,” and “there’s no evidence whatsoever that the money’s been massively poured back into the American worker.” Which is another way of saying—cover your ears PAUL RYAN— that trickle-down economics, the theory on which the bill was based, is utter horses--t. And while it would’ve been a tad more meaningful for Rubio to have come to this realization a little earlier, to have pulled a crazy stunt and voted _against_ the bill, or to have not introduced a tax plan in 2015 that was extremely similar to the one passed last year, the mere fact that he was saying these things aloud seemed, if not subversive, then at least bordering on insubordinate, given the G.O.P.’s feelings about the upward re-distribution of wealth. _A massive tax cut for corporate America not actually trickling down to the middle class_? _That’s the kind of talk that will land you in some deserted warehouse on the outskirts of Virginia with MITCH MCCONNELL brandishing a cat o’ nine tails,_ The Levin Report thought to itself. Of course, just days later, Rubio has taken it all back.

“On the whole, the tax cut bill helps workers,“ the invertebrate lawmaker’s op-ed for _The National Review_ begins. “It’s just not massive tax cuts to multinational corporations that do it,” it continues. “Overall, the Republican tax-cut bill has been good for Americans. That is why I voted for it. But it could have been even better for American workers and their families.” Rubio then goes on to to mildly criticize the “Tax Cuts and Jobs Act,” saying the corporate rate could’ve been _slightly_ higher than 21 percent, and that the bill would have been better if it had increased the child tax credit. Overall, though, he takes pains to make clear that he’s fully behind this thing and was a naughty little boy who misspoke when he made his heretical statements to _The Economist._

Unfortunately, the piece was apparently only supposed to be seen by Republican leadership and Rubio’s corporate donors, and not members of the wider public who might have the audacity to recognize the about-face for what it is: the sort of time-honored flip-flop we’ve come to expect from the Florida senator. Which, we assume, is why this happened:

Screw you, intern! How dare you accurately report Rubio’s change of heart. Marco doesn’t know what they’re teaching in college these days, but back when he was a co-ed, no one could reasonably read the words “the tax cut bill helps workers,” and come to the inexplicable conclusion that a guy who said just days prior, “there’s no evidence whatsoever that the money’s been massively poured back into the American worker,” was walking back his criticism. When Rubio said the tax bill “has been good for Americans,” he was _clearly_ sticking to his original thesis that the tax bill hasn’t done anything for average Americans. So hightail it back to the quad, ya jerk.

_IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO RECEIVE THE LEVIN REPORT IN YOUR INBOX DAILY, CLICK HERE TO SUBSCRIBE._

SPEAKING OF TAX CUTS . . .

The brothers Koch are hard at work attempting to convince people that the positives ($1.50 extra per paycheck!) outweigh the negatives (certain economic doom!):

  [LANDON] PORTER, 25, is the grass-roots director of the Indiana branch of Americans for Prosperity (AFP), a conservative public-advocacy group that’s part of the political network built and partly financed by billionaires CHARLES and DAVID KOCH. Although he makes no mention of the Koch brothers in his pitch, Porter’s door-knocking campaign is part of a $20 million effort by Koch-affiliated groups to boost support for the $1.5 trillion in tax cuts Congress approved last year. Republicans have so far struggled to make the party’s signature achievement this cycle a winning campaign issue. Only 39 percent of respondents viewed the tax law favorably in an April Gallup poll.

  For Republicans hoping to stave off Democratic victories in November’s elections, the party will have to do a better job of selling the overhaul to the public. It won’t be easy. Tax policy is notoriously complicated. And if the responses to Porter’s efforts on a recent Saturday are any indication, people are skeptical. “I don’t think my check has changed,” says LINDA MEREDITH, a 52-year-old bartender who was among those visited. Meredith says she supported the tax changes. Then she adds: “They’re going to benefit the rich.”

TRUMP CONFIDANT HOPING PEOPLE CAN FIND IT IN THEIR HEARTS TO LEND HIM SOME CHANGE

To pay off his legal fees associated with the Russia probe, yes, but also to sue his enemies:

  ROGER STONE . . . has taken to the internet to mount a desperate plea for cash. In lengthy fundraising e-mails and sprawling state-of-play updates in recent weeks, Stone writes that his family is facing financial annihilation from the legal bills he's incurring to defend himself in what he calls “frivolous, groundless, defamatory” lawsuits.

  But while plugging his “legal defense fund,” Stone has given discordant explanations for both the size and origin of his legal bills. He also told CNBC that he’s planning to use donors’ money to sue the government—a notion Stone omits from his appeals for money, which invariably paint him as the victim of a “nonstop onslaught of malicious attacks on every front.”

According to Stone, he needs to raise upwards of $1 million for legal fees, but $350,000 will go toward “proactive government litigation.”

In other Team Trump legal news, MICHAEL CAPUTO, a former campaign communications adviser, testified before the Senate Intelligence Committee on Tuesday, telling the panel, among other things, “God damn you to hell.” “Your investigation and others into the allegations of Trump campaign collusion with Russia are costing my family a great deal of money—more than $125,000—and making a visceral impact on my children,” Caputo told the committee in a prepared statement. “What America needs is an investigation of the investigators.”

U.S. TARIFF NEGOTIATIONS ARE GOING STUPENDOUSLY

Europe is livid with Big Orange, no one expects a quick resolution to the China negotiations Mnuchin and friends are working on, and Brazil has put it out there that the Trump administration is whatever is Portuguese for _full of s--t._:

  From the perspective of the White House, the United States had negotiated a preliminary deal with Brazil, as well as Argentina and Australia, to exempt the countries from punitive steel and aluminum tariffs.

  From the perspective of Brazil, it was issued an ultimatum.

  Brazil accused the Trump administration on Wednesday of breaking off negotiations over the tariffs last week and issuing a take-it-or-leave-it offer. According to the Brazilian authorities, the United States said the country’s steel and aluminum industries could opt for tariffs or quotas.

  That account appears to contradict the White House’s version of the events. On Monday, White House officials said they had reached agreements in principle with Argentina, Australia and Brazil with regard to steel and aluminum, saying the details would “be finalized shortly.”

JIM BELUSHI IS LOOKING FOR POT INVESTORS

“So nice to host all you gentlemen and ladies in the money honey business,” Belushi said at a Green Table Global dinner hosted at his Los Angeles mansion Tuesday. “You’re going to make money in this space. But you’re going to have a sense of healing our community. You’re going to have a sense of doing something really important—and making money.”

ELSEWHERE!

Bitcoin Analysts Brace for “Dogfight” (Bloomberg)

Fed Leaves Rates Unchanged, Says Inflation Close to Target (Bloomberg)

The Jared “Cleanse”: The Endgame Approaches for the Kushners’ Looming Tower (The Hive)

Cambridge Analytica Is Shutting Down (The Hive)

Tariffs threat ‘already hurting US soyabean sales’ (Financial Times)

“Hi, It’s Amazon Calling. Here’s What We Don’t Like in Your City.’ (_W.S.J._)

Trump confidant pleads for money to help sue his enemies (CNBC)

New York Bans N.R.A. Insurance Program and Fines Broker (_W.S.J._)

Tesla burns through $6,500 every minute. This is the guy trying to rein in the cash crisis (CNBC)

Play-Doh fingerprint leads to arrest of Walmart suspect (UPI)

question: What does Marco Rubio reveal?

answer: He admits that the Republican tax bill was a total scam.

question: Where does Rubio make the admittance?

answer: On "The Economist"

question: Who was the corporate tax cut meant to benefit?

answer: The bill was meant to support the American worker and the middle class.

question: What did Rubio say originally?

answer: That the tax bill helps workers.

question: Write a ~6 sentence summary.

answer:
Earlier in the week, Senator Marco Rubio admitted to "The Economist" that the Republican tax bill was a total scam. The giant corporate tax cut was meant to ultimately benefit the middle class. Instead, bonuses were handed out. Rubio explained that there was no evidence that the money had been poured back into the American worker.
Rubio blamed Paul Ryan's "trickle-down economics", which the bill was based on, and called it horseshit. However Rubio was walking back his criticism when he originally had said the tax bill was good for Americans.


text:
	2 bags
	Sometimes you stop retelling a story because people look at you like you're a liar. Some stories embody the unbelievable. Sometimes strange things happen and bare the cross of sneers and disbelief. This is such a story. It's really the last half that bears no resemblance to truth, yet there it is striving for the light of retelling, time and time again. It's a tale of stupidity, triumph and a tale of balls so large even Atlas himself refused to bare their weight. Atlas yelled No! No balls could be that huge. Being a friend of Bob's is exciting. He's got a lust for life like no one I’ve ever met. He is a gentle giant at 6'2” coming in at just under 225 lbs. We were both raised by hippie parents. A lax attitude towards drugs and drink got me into more trouble than I can tell in one tale.

	What I remember the most about speed is the sour smell of methamphetamine burning off of a broken piece of light bulb. I can still smell it from time to time, place to place. It's a smell you don't forget. The smell is a little like glue but not entirely. I was up all night smoking speed with this lunatic chick Vanda and about 4 creeps in her shitty East Van basement suite, low ceilings, no windows and lino in every room. Speed freaks are the worst kind of drug freak. Long time users go insane. I hate speed freaks, gib heads every last one of them. God invented heroin so that speed freaks and crack heads could have someone to look down on. The speed was running out and I reached for my heroin flap to come off of with. You don't want to take uppers without a downer. It evens everything out so you don't go through that awful sketch. I cannot find the flap. I can't find it anywhere. The four freaks finally start noticing I’m kind of panicking and rooting through the table and shit. I'm seriously freaking out now. Anxiety has me by the balls. One of these losers who have been smoking speed with us every step of the way asks what I'm looking for?

	“Hey buddy, what are you looking for?” he says.
	“I can't find my Heroin” I responded.
	The fucking speed freak has the goddamn nerve to look down his nose at me and says incredulously “Heroin? What the fuck man, that shit's for fucking losers!”
	I shoot back “You're a fucking meth head asshole, fuck off!”
	Well I guess that’s that. I'm removed from the meth party.

	Now trying to kick the heroin habit is a different beast. People look at you as if all it took was simple willpower. Just give it up they say. Get your shit together. I quit smoking, why can't you shake that monkey. Try to imagine the worst fear inducing anxiety you have ever had. Try to imagine going to a shrink telling them you think you might kill yourself from fear. Now imagine the sickest, most fucked up vomiting and diarrhea you ever had the misfortune of experienced and lump those two sick mother fuckers together in an unholy alliance of all that is shit and you might come close to Day 1 of kicking heroin. There's still 5 days to go just to get close to losing the every minute craving for sweet sweet smack, but you’re not done there. It's a couple of years before you get a full night sleep and stop twitching.

	I was one week into the bends when I hatched the idea to drive up to Kaslo to see Bob's brothers Sarsh and Cody. If I could just get out of this shitty Strathcona house for a couple of weeks I might just make it. It's November too and if you've lived in Vancouver in November you'll know it's the shittiest month in the calendar. Everyone is still clinging to that Van summer but the cold wet rains are pushing in on the delusion of sunshine like a boxer takes a punch to his chin. You gotta have a strong chin to live in this city from November to March.  I just need get out long enough and smoke some of that Kootenay weed and some dark delicious malt beverage.

		The idea of a geographical cure is that you get out of town for a couple of weeks, just enough time to get over the physical dependency of heroin. Heroin addiction is maddening. It drives people insane, if they weren't already.  It pushes you further and further in the direction of madness no matter where you start on the plane of sanity and madness.  Madness always wins the struggle.

	We would take my 82 Chevy Blazer, the one with the fiberglass roof and no roll bar, real fine American engineering. I bought this piece of shit off of an old boss for $500, worth every penny and but not a penny more. The tires were so worn out they looked like racing slicks. You could run your finger along the sidewall and not a bump to be found. Great winter tires for sure. The rear window was busted so I fashioned a piece of plywood to take its place. It would stay up as long as you had shit stacked against it and left the front driver side window down to push air up against the back of the truck. The passenger side seat belt was busted too, totally fucked.  She was a real beauty. A real Surrey Limo. I found a crack pipe and a coke vial in it a couple of weeks after I bought it. I guess the boss had a habit and wasn't too adept at cleaning up after his business. He lost his job because he was high all the time. I think he's in jail somewhere in Colorado for drug smuggling.

	It takes about 10 hours to drive from Vancouver to Kaslo. I wanted an early start so we wouldn't put too much pressure on the beast up through the Coast Mountains. They roads are sketchy at best, let alone in the middle of November. Problem with my plan was I wasn't traveling alone. Bob is always late, really fucking late. You have to count on at least 2 extra hours with Bob. I think I arrived at his mom's around 11am. He wasn't ready until 8pm that night. I'm one of those assholes that has to be early too, not on time but early. Bob and I butt heads constantly over this difference. He starts packing his stuff into the Blazer. I notice he has two giant garbage bags of shake weed he's trying to stuff into the back of the truck.
	I laugh and say “What the fuck is that for man?”
	“I'm making oil up there dude” he replies
	“Sweet, well then stuff that shit in man!” I laugh again.

	I take the first shift. I'd like to drive the whole way up. Bob scares the shit out of me when he drives. I think he still has a Noob on the back of his car. One word describes pretty much everything he does from driving to partying, RECKLESS. While I love it in every form, I hate it for driving.
Especially this shit box we're taking up one the most dangerous highways in the middle of the night.
But I can't stay awake for 10 hours tonight, I didn't prepare for it and I’m detoxing still and pretty shaky myself. We spark the ride the right way. Bob lights a spliff and cranks up the tunes. Good times a coming.

	We switch up at about 2am somewhere just outside of Castelgar, gorgeous little mountain town in its own right. Having no seat belt and a bucket seat make for a comfy sleep. I settle in for some much needed sleep. I awaken rather rudely to the Blazer shaking the shit out of itself!
	I yell “What the fuck man you're driving 130k in this piece of shit, you're going kill us both!”
	Bob yells back “CHILL OUT MAN! I got this, you worry too much. Just sit back and relax”
	“Dude this truck can't take this speed. You're vibrating the shit my truck”
	“Ya ya dude, relax, go back to sleep”

	Reluctantly I close my eyes and reluctantly Bob slows it down a notch. I'm guessing it's maybe 10mins later we hit what I found out later to be the S curves, a stretch of highway, outside Castlegar, windy as a snake and 300 foot drop off down to a lake or river or something. Now we are fucked. Right fucked in the ass. The truck starts rocking violently back and forth, side to side, up on one wheel and back to the other. You can bet this shit wakes me up. The truck slams against the right embankment like Thor’s hammer tossing the truck with ease upside down and in the direction of oncoming traffic. I make one last scream as my shoulder and head hit the fiberglass roof. “I GOT NO SEAT BELT!”
As soon as I hit the roof and I am thrown with such amazing force into the well where your feet usually reside. I have no idea how this happened but in that moment Bob reached over and grabbed me in that well, stopping me from flipping out the well and out the fucking window to my certain death. The truck slammed down on the driver side where the door meets the top side of the front windshield.  The fiberglass roof and no roll cage folded down with the structural integrity of a soggy pizza box, what a piece of shit death trap. If I had a seat belt on and Bob hadn't leaned way over to hold me down, keeping me in the feet well, he would have had his head crushed from the impact.  Bob had almost killed us both.  We skidded probably twenty feet across the highway upside down on the roof. I came to my senses moments after we stopped.  I started to crawl out of the truck, and the lights of a very large freight truck were coming up on us. Thankfully we came to full stop at the top of a long steep hill and the freight truck was driving Miss Daisy, otherwise we would have escaped the wreck just in time to be killed by an oncoming freight truck.

	I guess the truck driver radioed the authorities because it wasn't long before the ambulance arrived. The medics wanted to take me to the hospital. I had a pretty badly fucked up shoulder. I didn't really have a choice, my truck was toast. Bob stayed behind to greet the RCMP, while I took a ride to the hospital for what turned out to be an overnight stay.

	Finally this is where I usually end the story because the next part is ridiculous, brass fucking balls on that guy. The RCMP pull up and make sure no one's dead. They make sure Bob isn't loaded, which he isn't thankfully. Turns out the cop is pretty nice and offers Bob a ride to the hospital to meet up with me. She even offers to help bring some of our stuff from the accident in her cruiser. Bob and the Cop load up our bags, guitar and Bob calmly throws the TWO GARBAGE BAGS FULL OF WEED into the trunk of the RCMP cruiser. Shake doesn't have much smell to it like fully formed buds, nevertheless Bob threw two GARBAGE BAGS of weed into a cop car from a three am accident scene in the middle of fucking nowhere. The cop drove Bob, our stuff and two huge bags of weed from the accident to the hospital.

	Bob showed up around five am, the nurses are nice enough to give Bob a cot beside the hospital bed I’m in. Bob wakes me up.
	“How ya doing bro?” he asks.
	“I’m good man, just a really sore shoulder.” I respond wearily. “Did you grab my guitar man?”
	“Yep” Bob smirks
	“What happened?” I pull myself up, rubbing my eyes. “What the  ...”
	“Instead of tossing the two bags of weed, I put them in the trunk of the cop car!” He says with a huge shit eating grin.
	“Dude, you are fucking awesome” I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.

title: 2 bags

question: What does the story say about the narrator's car?

answer: The narrator has an 82 Chevy Blazer he bought from an old boss for $500. It is old and worn out and the narrator and his friend Bob use the truck to drive from Vancouver to Kaslo. Bob drives recklessly and crashes it.

question: What does the story say about the two garbage bags?

answer: The two garbage bags are full of weed that Bob brings with him on the road trip. When the narrator and Bob meet with an accident, the narrator is carried in an ambulance, while an unknowing cop helps Bob bring their stuff, which includes the two garbage bags full of weed, in the police cruiser and drives Bob to the hospital.

question: What does the story say about how Bob drives?

answer: Bob drives the narrator's old truck recklessly. His speed even goes up to 130 kph, which scares the narrator. So when they are at the S curves, the truck starts to skid out of control, and they crash.

question: What does the story say about how to stop drug addiction?


text:
I am breakfast's baron.
I am the fluffy flat flapjack master.
I am the panned pastry prince.
I am Jacob Greenfield, but you may call me The Pancake God.
I stood in my royal house at the corner of Lafayette and Duncan, waiting for the fated ring of the bell.

"Tttttrrrrrrrrrrring," sounded the door.

Visitors had entered my sacred realm. Hiding myself in the protective darkness of the kitchen, I listened to the familiar poem that falls upon all visitor's ears.

"Welcome to IHop. Just two?"

I moved closer hopeful to hear the response.

"Yes please," replied a chirpy northern voice.

A mischievous grin spread across my face. Northerners were often more appreciative of my unique art. Perhaps The Pancake God's skills would be required soon.
I watched keenly as strangers were led to their seats and fake smiles were exchanged with my frontman, Rodger.

Rodger was always the raisin to my cookie, rain to my parade, or poop to my party. Never satisfied and ever unpleasant, his advice was often taken to sore and ignorant ears of mine. Bearing the nickname Rapscallion Rodger, a name of my own choosing, he had taught me the ways of patience.

Rodger placed two menus before our new guests and turned to return to his typical post before the doors, but atypically turned to the entrance of my domain.
The gray kitchen doors swung open, and I hurried to busy myself with the tedious task of readying my tools, as if to seem not to have heard of our visitant's arrival.

"Okay buddy, lets talk."

I turned to Rodger bearing a surprised look on my face.

"Rodger, what a delight it is to unexpectedly host you. Do we have guests?"

Rodger stared at me, visibly trying not to roll his eyes.

"Cut the shit, Jacob. I know that you watch every person who comes in. All I'm asking is that you behave, alright?"
I nodded politely.

"No more of this creepy God of Breakfast or whatever it is, okay? Don't get me wrong, man. You're a great cook, but stop putting random crap in our food, and don't destroy the kitchen again."

"Rodger," I began to explain, "The battles held during the creation of the perfect pancake are beyond my control. I cannot pro-"

"Dude, shut the hell up," Rodger cut in, "All I'm saying is if you wreck the kitchen one more time you're fired, okay?"
I nodded politely once more.

"Roger that, Rodger."

This time Rodger actually rolled his eyes, He vacated my kitchen-like kingdom muttering under his breath.

"Swear to God, I'll flay him with his own spatula if he tries to-"

The gray kitchen door swung shut cutting him off.
I turned my ear once more to Rodgers's transaction with the transients.

"Okay, ya'll ready to order?" he asked as he approached.

"Yeah, I'll have a ham cheese and spinach omelet," said a low gruff voice. I winced.

What kind of man orders an omelet?
While I did not know this person, nor know his appearance, I could say one thing with absolute certainty. This poor man suffered a terrible disability. He surely had no tastebuds.
There was a long pause filled with only "ums" and "uhs" from the northern woman.

"I guess I'll have the chocolate chip pancakes, please."

Those words sounded like music to my ears. It was my clarion call to arms. I manned my spatula and spoon like a warrior mans his sword and shield. They would serve me well, and I would serve our guest the same.
It was time for war.

I danced in my kitchen with the confidence beauty and ability akin to an artist. Like a madman, I whipped around the kitchen, letting my trained hands lead me to the ingredients. I painted my bowl with precision and prestige only compareable to great artists like Van Gough, Beethoven, and Shakespeare. Explosions of flour, sugar and other mysterious and personal ingredients colored the counters.
The gray doors separating my joyful empire and the cruel outside world were breached as Rodger emerged from his unholy bubble of dissatisfaction.

"Okay, one omelette and one choc- JESUS WHAT HAPPENED IN HERE?" Rodger cried out.

He stalked around my kitchen with an unappreciative and frankly horrified gaze.
I watched him and whisked a wondrous whirlpool of batter while sprinkling in chocolate and a few favorite flavors of my own. I will not disclose them to you now for neither I nor a magician shall explain his greatest trick.

"Jacob, I told you not to ruin the kitchen, man," Rodger said, in the most calm and collected tone he could muster.

I ignored him and turned on the pancake hot pad.

"Dude, I'm not cleaning this up. You have to clean after our shift," he pointed out, growing more frustrated.

I continued ignoring him and spooned a sizable circle of batter onto the flat hot stove top. I watched as the white creamy batter cooked and browned into a golden pancake. I gazed upon it with a father's pride. My little babycake had grown into a risen johnnycake.
It almost brought a tear to my eye.

I wasted no time. I delicately flipped my flapjack, and baked its bottom. I gently placed it on a plate to add additional decorations. This had grown from a mere makings of a pancake to the hotcake that was forming in my masterful finger. With last touches completed, I stepped back for a final observation.
It was a masterpiece.
I was truly The Pancake God.

I grabbed the batter bowl, still full of supplementary dough, and turned it over onto my head. It oozed into my hair and over my face. I wore it like a crown. I deserved this. I was a king today.

"What the fuck, Jacob?" sounded a voice to my right.

Rodger stared at me with a dumbfounded look splattered across his face. I grabbed a handful of the batter and splattered it across his face to cover it up.

After a short flurry of curse words and the assistance of a towel to reveal a scowling Rapscallion Rodger, he turned his attention back to my plate.

"Alright, I'll take this out, and you clean up this mess."

I had done so well ignoring him until now, I felt it only natural to continue.
I walked past Rodger and through the gray push doors, plate in hand. Time almost slowed as I approached the table. Rodgers vain desperate calls to usher me back into the kitchen seemed distant and mute, like a vague memory. I wanted to show our guests my craftsmanship and see their joyous reaction.
They stared mortified up at me. They watched as a wild madman wearing a mixing bowl of pancake batter for a hat arrived holding a grotesque plate of chocolate chip pancakes. I set it before the horrified woman, and gave her a crazed smile. I opened my mouth and heard a dark devilish voice speak.

"Breakfast is served. Pancakes."

Super-cool pro writer's subtext:
I haven't really shared my stories much, so I wasn't sure where to post this.
Sorry for existing lol

title: [HM] Pancakes

question: How old is the narrator?

answer: There's no specific age mentioned but the narrator seems to be of legal working age.

question: Who is Rodger?

answer: The narrator's co-worker. He constantly reminds him not to mess up the kitchen.

question: Is the narrator a chef?

answer: Possibly, he works in the kitchen.

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: Jacob.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: Jacob believes he is the Pancake God and gets scolded by his co-worker, Rodger, for messing up their kitchen.


text:
ALFREDO DIEZ NIETO (b. La Habana, Cuba, 1918) is a Cuban composer, conductor and professor.[1][2]

Academic background

Alfredo Diez Nieto studied sight singing, piano, music history, counterpoint, fugue, composition, orchestration and pedagogy with professors Juana Prendes, Rosario Iranzo, Jaime Prats, Amadeo Roldán and Pedro Sanjuán at Conservatorio Iranzo in Havana. At a later time, he attended the Juilliard School of Music in New York where he studied piano with Edward Steuerman, composition with Bernard Wagenaar, and orchestral conducting with Fritz Mahler.[3][4][5]

Professor

Diez Nieto worked as professor of harmony, orchestration, piano, counterpoint and fugue, music history and composition in the Instituto Musical Kohly, the Amadeo Roldán Conservatory, the National Art Schools (Cuba), and the Instituto Superior de Arte in Havana. In 1959, he was one of the founders of the Alejandro García Caturla Conservatory, in Marianao, Havana.[6][7][8]

Composer

It is possible to observe in Diez Nieto's compositions a search for a Cuban identity through the utilization of typical elements from the Cuban folk music. Although, these elements are never used in its original state, but transformed through an imaginative process; as it is shown in his pieces “Los Diablitos”, based on an Afro-Cuban Abakuá dance, or "Yo ta pedí un “aguinaldo” for voice and orchestra. His compositions have been performed in Spain, Russia, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, Hungary and Poland.[9][10]

Conductor

One of the most significant contributions to the Cuban musical activity from Maestro Diez Nieto was the creation and conduction of the “Orquesta Popular de Conciertos” (Popular Concert Orchestra), which was integrated by independent musicians and other members of several popular music orchestras. The concerts offered by that ensemble at “Iglesia de Paula” in Havana during 1967, as well as in the “Amadeo Roldán” Theatre in the same city, in 1972, are memorable.[11] Maestro Diez Nieto has conducted the Orquesta Sinfónica de la Escuela Nacional de Música, the Orquesta Sinfónica de Camagüey, the Orquesta Popular de Conciertos, with which he interpreted pieces from Johann Sebastian Bach, Antonio Vivaldi, George Frederick Handel, Joseph Haydn, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Ludwig Van Beethoven, Felix Mendelssohn, Ignacio Cervantes, Eduardo Sánchez de Fuentes y Alejandro García Caturla; and premiered his “Concert for organ and orquestra”, with Manuel Suárez as a soloist. Diez Nieto accompanied the sopranos Lucy Provedo, Yolanda Hernández, Susy Oliva and Emelina López; pianists Roberto Urbay, Julio Hamel, Alberto Joya and Frank Emilio Flynn; violinists Rafael Lay, Armando Ortega and Celso Valdés Santandreu; flutists Richard Egües and Alfredo Portela; oboist María de los Ángeles Castellanos; guitarist Flores Chaviano; and clarinetist Rubén Noriega.[12]

Other activities

Maestro Diez Nieto developed a systematic investigative work along with renowned musicologist Odilio Urfé, with which he founded the “Folkloric Invertigations Institute”, that was renamed “Popular Music Seminar” since 1963.[13]

Work

A partial list of his compositions include:[14]

PIANO

-   Estampa núm. 1 y Estampa núm. 2, 1938.
-   Estampa núm. 3, 1939.
-   Tocata, 1947. Impresiones, 1948.
-   Capricho núm. 1 (para dos pianos), 1949.
-   Canto fúnebre, 1974.
-   Gran sonata, 1978.
-   Preludio, 1979.
-   Danzón (para dos pianos), 1982
-   Sonata núm. 2, 1987.
-   Intermezzo, 1993. Toque, 1994.
-   Consolación, 1995.
-   Preludio núm. 2, 1996.
-   Quemada, 1999.

PIANO AND ORCHESTRA

-   Concierto, 2000.

SOPRANO AND PIANO

-   El paje, 1986.
-   La castellana, 1986.
-   La esclava, 1986.
-   La princesita, 1986.

VIOLIN

-   Sonata, para violín solo, 1971.
-   Fiesta con tambores, 1974, para violín solo.

VOICE AND ORCHESTRA

-   Yo tá pedí aguinaldo, 1968.
-   Sudor y látigo, 1981.
-   La castellana, 1986.
-   La esclava, 1986.
-   El paje, 1986.
-   La princesita, 1986.

GUITAR

-   Cuarteto, 1983
-   Sonata, 1989
-   Lilian (preludio)
-   Sonata

BAND

-   90 aniversario, 1989.
-   Recuerdos de España, 1990.
-   Evocaciones de España, 1991.

ORGAN

-   Preludio.

CHAMBER MUSIC

-   Quinteto núm. 1, 1960, para flauta, oboe, clarinete, fagot y trompa.
-   Elegía, 1962, para orquesta de cuerdas y corno.
-   Sueño fugitivo, 1967, para flauta y piano.
-   Preludio, 1972, para viola y piano.
-   Capricho núm. 2, para clarinete y piano 1973.
-   Fiesta, para dos trompetas y piano, 1973.
-   Movimiento, 1974, para tres contrabajos.
-   Trío, 1975, para dos clarinetes y fagot.
-   Cuarteto, para saxofones. Capricho núm. 3, 1981.
-   Para clarinete y piano. 1981.
-   Quinteto núm. 2, para flauta, oboe, clarinete, fagot y corno y Capricho núm. 4, para fagot y piano, 1982.
-   Concertino, 1983, para fagot (solista), orquesta de cuerdas, flauta, oboe, clarinete, corno, trompeta, vibráfono y percusión.
-   Sonata, 1984, para flauta y piano.
-   Cuarteto núm. 1, para dos violines, viola y cello. Pieza, 1985.
-   Para oboe y piano. Cuarteto, 1986.
-   Para cuerdas. Capricho núm. 5, 1989.
-   Para trombón y piano. Quinteto, 1998.
-   Para orquesta de cuerdas. Cuarteto núm. 2, 2001, para saxofones.

ORQUESTA SINFÓNICA

-   Estampa núms. 1, 2 y 3, y Sinfonía núm. 1, 1943.
-   In Memoriam, 1967.
-   Los diablitos (Estampa núm. 5), 1969.
-   Danzón centenario, 1981
-   Para piano y orquesta In Memoriam, 1992.
-   Dos versiones, 1993.

Recognitions

Diez Nieto has received numerous recognitions for his contributions to teaching and developing the music of Cuba, among which we can mention de following:

-   Premio Nacional de Música (National Music Award) (2004)
-   Premio Nacional de Enseñanza Artística (National Award of Artistic Teaching) (2005)[15][16]

[1] EcuRed: Alfredo Diez Nieto: https://www.ecured.cu/Alfredo_Diez_Nieto

[2] Angulo, Héctor: Orovio, Helio: uban Music from A to Z, DukeUniversity Press, Durham, U. S., 2004

[3]

[4]

[5] http://www.cadenahabana.icrt.cu/premios-musica/alfredo-diez-nieto-20181205/

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11]

[12]

[13]

[14]

[15]

[16]

title: Alfredo Diez Nieto

question: What does the text say about Alfredo Diez Nieto being a professor?

answer: Alfredo Diez Nieto was a Cuban professor. He has taught at the Instituto Musical Kholy, the Amadeo Roldán Conservatory, the National Art Schools, and the Instituto Superior de Arte in Havana. Lessons he taught were harmony, orchestration, piano, counterpoint and fugue, music history, and composition.

question: What does the text say about the academic background of Alfredo Diez Nieto?

answer: Alfredo Diez Nieto studies sight-singing, piano, music history, counterpoint, fugue, composition, orchestration and pedagogy at Conservatorio Iranzo in Havana. He also studied piano, composition, and orchestral conducting at Juilliard School of Music in New York.

question: What does the text say about the recognitions that Alfredo Diez Nieto received?

answer: Alfredo Diez Nieto received the National Music Award in 2004 and the National Award of Artistic Teaching in 2005.

question: What does the story say about the languages spoken by Alfredo Diez Nieto?


text:
Just down the road I could see the church I had been visiting every so often for the past two weeks. I'm not a religious person, I never have been and I never prayed there or asked for forgiveness but at that time in my life I needed some sort of comfort and the church was a haven. To have someone lend an ear to my problems was all I needed. That someone I was looking for was Father Jeffries.

The first time I went was early evening when it was fairly quiet, I saw Father Jeffries sitting on the pews close to the altar facing forward towards the large crucifix mounted on the far wall, below  dazzling stained glass windows. I sat behind him, “Hello, Father. I just want to start off by saying I'm not religious, I don't mean to intrude or waste your time but I didn't know where else to go. Anyway I just need someone to talk to and I was hoping, if you're okay with it, if you could listen. I have some things to get off my chest.”

I just began talking, talked through everything that was troubling me and my talking turned into ranting until it was all out. Jeffries not once spoke, but listened offering a kind of silent condolence. That's what it felt like anyway, and I didn't care if he wasn't listening but it felt better talking to someone. Sometimes that's all you need.

Since then I had been back several times. I approached the front doors to the church, one left slightly ajar as always and entered with the door giving off a slight creek as I stepped inside. In the foyer area I glanced at the notice board I saw when I first visited, along with the community events posted there a welcome sign hung from a pin with a picture of a jolly white haired man. Underneath it said 'Father Jeffries' along with mass times.

I looked through the foyer down the isle with pews right and left to see him sat in his usual place, left hand side, third row from the front. I always visited in the early evening, but because I came here so sporadically I assumed Jeffries waited every night there just in case I showed up.

Walking down the isle I noticed a few regulars sitting around, mostly old couples. Maybe they got there early for evening mass. My footsteps echoed a little around the bare stone interior. The  peaceful silence and cool air in the church comforted me. I sat down. “Hello father” I paused to think where I would start, the whole time he remained silent with his head turned slightly to the right ready to listen.

“I guess I'll start where I left off last time. My girlfriend, she still won't talk much with me. The conversation is still bland even though I've made efforts to be as enthusiastic as possible. Maybe she's depressed, she doesn't even go to church any more and she's always been the religious one. I think I'll tell her to check with our doctor but whether she's open to the idea...”

The low evening sun shone through the windows in shafts of perfectly still light. “I still can't find a job. We're in debt and Becky is hardly bringing enough money in to pay for the rent and food as it is but there's nowhere that will accept me. I feel guilty. That I can't provide or even help us both. That she's doing all the work. I haven't had a fucking job in 6 months.” I looked up from my lap realizing what I had just said, “Sorry Father, I didn't mean to swear.”

I continued talking for another 20 minutes with the occasional silence to recollect my thoughts, thanked Father Jeffries for listening again and left. My flat wasn't too far from the church so I usually walked to and from there. A light rain began to fall which soon turned heavier and by the time I got back home I was drenched through. I walked through the hallway into the living room/kitchen. Becky was sat on the couch watching TV.

“Hi, back from work already? I've just been drenched looks like you got in just in time.” We exchanged some light conversation but it was as if it didn't matter to her. I went and got changed, cooked us both some spaghetti with some cheap pasta sauce and called it a night. Becky hardly ate anything again that night and I began to become more worried. Change in eating habits, lack of motivation to talk to anyone, general social withdrawal. It sounded to me like she was suffering from depression and I made note to mention it to her tomorrow.

Another 3 days passed and I felt it was time to visit Father Jeffries again. As usual he was sat on the left third row from the front. I greeted him and started, I must have sounded desperate this time because it had been a rough week so far.

“She brushed off any mention of depression. It's like she doesn't want to help herself but it's affecting me too. I feel lonely. She never makes conversation, I always have to initiate it. I guess we've had a communication breakdown. It's like, I'm a ghost and she doesn't know I'm there half the time. Like some forgotten memory.”

Silence.

For the first time I felt insecure, almost vulnerable in the church. I honestly expected Jeffries to say something, it seemed like a good time for him to intervene and comfort me with words for once but he just remained listening. I decided to cut it short this time, mentioned how the job search was going and left.

Walking back down the isle I noticed a few of the regulars there again. I looked up and smiled but they didn't smile back. In fact they didn't seem to acknowledge me. That day was the first time I felt uneasy in that church, and it wouldn't be until a week later I would go again.

Slow grinding days. Days that felt like nothing had happened. Days go by. How long had it been since my last visit to the church? A week? Two weeks? Three? Looking at the calendar in the kitchen revealed it had been only 5 days. Time felt like it had slowed down and my life was rolling along as slow as possible. For the first time I thought maybe I'm the one who's depressed? Maybe both of us are?

I turned my attention back to cutting the spring onions for my stir fry. Surprised I hadn't cut myself. *Perhaps I should*. I stopped and frowned. Chuckled to myself, the first time in a long time. What a ridiculous thought, why would I do that? *To see if I'm still real*, my inner monologue told me. I hate it when my mind wanders like that, those thoughts that creep into your mind the ones you would never...

“Fuck!”

I had cut my finger while lost in thought. Blood dripped onto the cutting board. I ran the wound under some water and wrapped some paper towel around it. Well at least that answered my musings, I'm real all right. Looking into the living room Becky hadn't even come to see if I was okay.

Another 2 days that felt like 4 passed. I was up early enough that morning to see Becky before she went to work. No interaction from her. I felt like pulling my hair out. I couldn't stand the loneliness. I lived with my girlfriend yet I was lonely. It didn't make any sense. I went for a walk to the park, all the while feeling dejected, passers by returned no smiles or greetings. That evening I went to church.

“Father. It's getting on top of me now. It's like she's ignoring me full stop, I didn't get a word out of her this morning. I'm beginning to think it's something about me now, my problem. I mean, I feel like no one acknowledges me not just Becky.”

I looked around at the other pews. The regulars were always out of earshot. “It feels like I don't exist. I know that sounds ridiculous but I haven't heard from my parents or my friends in months. It feels like I get no human interaction any more. I can't stand the loneliness. Father, what should I do?”

The first time I had ever asked him a question. I anticipated his reply but it never came. “Father I need some advice this time, please.”

No reply.

Not even any movement. It was like he was ignoring me, had he been all this time? Was he asleep? “Father I'm asking for your help” I put my hand on his shoulder and his head fell to the side and back.

I screamed.

His eyeless sockets stared at me like an abyss, crooked open mouth exposed yellowed teeth. His skin was wrinkled and shrivelled and dark as leather stretched over his skull. I looked around to the congregation my heart beating fast. Everyone was rotted to their seats, their faces grimaced and decomposed.

I sprinted down the isle and out the front doors. The road was barren, rubbish blowing in the wind, black scorched brick on the buildings, windows shattered and glass strewn on the road. It was deathly quiet and the cars were filthy with grime.

I ran. I ran all the way back home. I reached my building. It was run-down and decrepit. I climbed the stairs to our floor and upon reaching my flat unlocked the door and burst through. It was dusty, the wallpaper peeled. I stumbled into the living room. Becky sat on the couch staring towards the black screen of the TV. Plates of rotten and moulded food scattered around her. Her head hung back, mouth open, eye sockets empty and black, skin peeling and dead.

I dropped to my knees.

I remembered it.

I couldn't stand the loneliness.

title: Father Jeffries

question: Summarize some of the problems the narrator was relating to the priest.

answer: The narrator talked about everything that was troubling him. He talked about his girlfriend, how she isn't talking to him as much as she used to. He figures she is depressed and might suggest she books an appointment with a doctor. He complains about being in debt and feeling guilty about not having a job in six months.

question: Why did the narrator not realize that the person he was speaking to wasn't the priest?


text:
“Left hand or right?” From the sound of the voice, it was an enforcer. Every other week, he probably found himself in a situation like this, holding a hammer, or an icepick, or a shovel, prepared to scare, maim, or kill for the highest bidder. Today was most likely no different.

“You sick bastard. You’re crazy! I already told you, I can get Richie his money. Call him up, tell him, for the love of God, just stop!” The man’s voice was ripe with panic. He was in over his head. Every gambler hits rock bottom someday. And as the weight of a five pound hammer crunched the fine bones inside his hand, Marco had hit rock bottom. I had seen the descent.

“He said it doesn’t matter. He said to make an example out of you, one that every no-good deadbeat will understand. You know what we do to people who cheat, Marco?” It was a rhetorical question, one with an implied answer that involved a hole in the desert. But Marco was the type to keep his mouth running.

“I ain’t no cheat, man! Lady Luck shined on me, and then she cut out my heart. I know you’re gonna kill me regardless of circumstance, so I don’t have much reason to lie. I won that hand fair and square.” Marco was indeed today’s luckiest loser. The series of events that had brought him to this point were strange indeed. The enforcer just made a noise that resembled human laughter.

“That’s a good joke. You drew a full house, a straight flush, and then a royal flush, all in the same game. Now, I am not a mathematician, as you can see. My business is hurting people. But even a guy like myself can tell how unlikely that is. How stupid did you think we were, Marco?” Mick judged his quarry to be guilty, but he wasn’t there to give him a fair trial. The truth was unknown. Maybe, against astronomical odds, he had legitimately won the game. But if so, his luck had run out. His fortune had turned to misfortune very quickly.

See, that’s where I come in, hiding in an armoire. I’m the poor sap Marco’s wife hired to keep an eye on him. I had tailed him, kept watch on his activities, saw him squander a fortune. I felt bad for the wife, but she wasn’t paying me to stop him. No, she paid me solely to provide surveillance and photography of his transgressions and many sins. I got the impression she wanted a divorce. But if I didn’t do anything soon, she would be a widow.

 At the time, I thought I was the best in the business. My ear to the ground of the criminal underworld, an ex-cop with a mostly honorable discharge, up until that day, I felt untouchable. What was some angry unfaithful husband going to do against a private eye with a gun and a badge he didn’t know was expired? Nine times out of ten, they’d always back down. But this was no cuckolded spouse.

There were six bullets in my gun. I wondered if I should just let Marco die, leave him to his unhappy fate and inform his wife she’s a widow. Instinctually, I knew the whole job had gone rotten, that the money wasn’t worth the risk any more. But something in me told me I couldn’t abandon a man to such an awful death. I unholstered my revolver, and burst out of the armoire. I leveled it at the man’s back.

“I’ve got a .357 pointed right about where your spine ought to be, pal, and I like making cripples. Means I don’t have to kill you. Let’s talk.” I spoke, and the enforcer tensed up at the unexpected company. He dropped his box-cutter, and began to turn. “Keep your back to me, friend. I’m not going to risk you making any sudden moves. You got a name?”

“I am Mr. Smith. This man owes a debt to Richard Smiler. You will come to regret becoming involved his business.” His voice was almost robotic. Behind him, Marco moaned. He was cut up in a dozen places, his hands deep purple, and useless. His one remaining eye stared at me.

“You know, I used to be a cop once. I used to put away people like you. I used to collect evidence on Smiler. We could never get enough for a warrant though. You know what I learned after they discharged me from the force? Warrants, trial by jury, Miranda rights, they don’t mean a damned thing. All that matters is that the wolves are cut down so the sheep may live.” A man with a gun digging into his back tends to listen to what they’re told.

“This isn’t right. You can’t just shoot me in the back. That’s not honorable.” The enforcer spoke, and cold cynical laughter rang out. This time, it was mine.
	“You’re really going to go for that argument? It isn’t honorable? You torture people for money.” I wondered if it was right to kill this man. I certainly wanted to. I cocked the revolver. With one trigger pull, it would be wheelchairs and colostomy bags for the rest of his life if I wanted to make it so.

“Who are you? This guy, he’s a deadbeat. You leave now, I forget your face, and this all goes away.” I never saw a hit-man plead for his life. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the unique nature of the situation.

“One thing at a time… First off, my name’s Granby. I’m a private detective. Second, I knew Marco was a professional loser. His wife, nice lady by the name of Neria hired me to keep an eye on him. And as to you forgetting my face, believe me, you will. Have you caught on to why I’m telling you all of this? When this pistol goes off, it’ll punch through your skull. After that, it pretty much just turns everything inside your head into scrambled eggs. You won’t remember my face, you won’t remember anything at..-” I informed the enforcer of what was to come, until he rudely interjected.

“A private eye? Just a private eye? Are you some sort of idiot? Let’s say you kill me. Smiler sends two men after Marco, and his pretty wife. I’m sure at some point, one of them will squeal, and mention your name. You’re a dead man.” The enforcer was right. Killing him would be a death sentence. But I was tired of the grind. Of the endless stakeouts in parked cars, watching husbands violate their wedding vows in low rent motels. I felt the bloodlust inside, and for a moment, I wondered if I had lost the plot. But the feelings of self-doubt passed, and I steeled myself.

“It’s as good a cause as any to die over. We’re both dead men. But the difference is what we’re giving our lives for. You’re going to die here, for the cause of cruelty and greed. Myself, well, I know how Smiler runs his operation. The emaciated bastard rules everything from here to the coast. I knew a girl, escaped from one of his so called massage parlors. I still feel sick every time I think about what they did to her. After she left protective custody, we found her a week later in a shallow grave.” I told him my rational. Yet, he laughed when I spoke of the girl. The trigger pull weight of my revolver popped into my head. It was three and a half pounds.

“I knew that girl. It is indeed a small world, Granby. Smiler was very specific about how the job was to be done. She lasted three days before she died, you know.”
	“You’re not going to last three minutes.” I shot him dead center in his lower back. I’m not a doctor, but I was fairly sure I hit the spine. His legs sprawled out haphazardly. He gasped, a strange desperate whooping.

“I’ll kill you, you stupid bastard! My legs! I can’t feel my goddamned legs!” His cries of pain confirmed my suspicions. I had gotten him pretty good. Still, I thought I could do better.

“Left lung or right, Smith?” I laughed again, that same cold variation.

“You go to hell.” Defiant to the end, but it wasn’t going to save him. I chose for him, and gave him a two for one special. He was dead. The clock indicated it had been two minutes and thirty seconds. Far too quick for his type, but I had business to attend to. I untied Marco, and looked him over. He was beat to hell, covered in blood and missing an eye, but he was alive.

“You said your name is Granby? That you’re a private detective? Why the hell were you following me?!” The nerve of some people, you save them from death at the hands of a professional psychopath, and it’s nothing but questions, questions, questions. It was a hell of a show of gratitude.

“I just saved your life. Let’s get out to my car before I start answering any questions. When you shoot someone, you don’t typically stick around for their friends to show up.” It was time to make a hasty exit. The gunshots would surely attract attention, and being identified was the last thing in the world I wanted to happen. So we left the room, a blood soaked wreck of a place that had once served as lodging. I led Marco to my car, and he got in.

“Alright, Granby. We’re in the car. Now, since you were kind enough to save my life, would you please tell me what in the hell is going on?” His voice was grating and hot tempered, but I couldn’t blame him for being in a rotten mood after what he’d been through.

title: Granby's Luck

question: What does the story say about Granby and Mr. Smith?

answer: Granby is a private detective and a former cop, currently hired by Marco's wife to keep an eye on him. Having won at gambling with extreme luck or cheating, Marco is being tortured by Mr. Smith, an enforcer. The enforcer works for a crime lord known as Smiler. Mr. Smith is stopped by Granby, and after talking for a bit Granby discovers that a girl who escaped from one of Smiler's "massage parlors" was murdered by Mr. Smith in a gruesome way, having been tortured for three days. Granby shoots Mr. Smith in the spine and then kills him a couple of minutes later.

question: What does the text say about Marco?

answer: Marco is a gambler who won at a table with a full house, a straight flush, and then a royal flush in the same game. This made him a target. Mr. Smith, an enforcer, is torturing him. Marco insists that he didn't cheat, pleads for his life, but it is to no avail. However, Marco's wife hired a private detective, Granby, who intervenes to stop Mr. Smith. After killing Smith and saving Marco's life, Marco asks why Granby is following him, but Granby tells him to stop with the questions until they reach his car and leave the scene.

question: What does the story say about Scotland Yard?