text:
April 6, 2052, 1 pm

Agent Martin makes his way back to work after lunch break. His office, on the top floor of the Data Security Center—DSC—is indistinguishable in design and contents from the other offices on the vast floor. All are small soundproof rooms, windowless, shut off by black sliding glass doors. Each office is a command center.

Martin takes his seat, yawns, and puts on his headset. He enjoys his job; it often reminds him of playing video games as a youth. He turns to the monitor on his right, strikes a few keys on the keyboard, and up pops a panel showing birds-eye footage of a suburban neighbourhood. A large textbox underneath reads “Approaching Destination: 200 meters”. The number steadily decreasing. This damn wind hasn't let up the slightest, he thinks, shaking his head. It had been extremely windy the entire day. Prior to leaving for lunch, he had delployed a set of four drones—as was the standard deployment—packed in a larger camoflauged container-unit—camo-con—which was the source of the footage now on screen.

The targets name was Wesley Smith. His activities had been flagged with  “Acute Suspicion”  by the system earlier that morning. All such cases required the attention of and if necessary, investigation—or “analysis” as it called—by an agent. Martin considered it bad luck when such cases were assigned to him. He had groaned when the notification had popped up. The day was fairly quiet and he'd been having great fun micro-managing a drone in a local park. The notification had presented him with a typically boring task. Wesley was sixteen years old. Another stupid sixteen year old that's fascinated with how drugs or bombs can be made, he'd thought then. However, to his delight, he found that the flag had nothing to do with the users querying history, but rather it's lacktherof. Wesley, it seemed, had found himself some very good encryption software—that the system must be unfamiliar with—as over the past nine hours, his data footprint had been reduced tremendously, triggering the flag. Martin had let out a whistle as he thought about all the different possibilites. There was a small chance that this kid possesed data that could lead to him to the source. These were the types of cases Martin was best at. He would surely get a promotion if he were to uncover the creators behind some black market encryption package. He had then followed the standard procedure, flagged the case as “Under Analysis” and had deployed the drone set. The wind however, had delayed what should have been a half-hour trip to over an hour.

Now, he watches as the container unit stops at ten meteres from what he assumes is the target's home. Gusts of wind gently rock the camera side to side. The house is an average looking two-storey house, an exception being the large apple tree in the front yard. Hanging from the tree, a tire-swing slowly sways back and forth. It's the swing that flashes in Martin mind; as a kid, he had a friend who lived in a home on that very street. Passing by here, he would often see children pushing each other on that swing. His mind wanders, and he finds himself wondering whether Wesley—No, he must'nt get distracted. The system begins running a series of tests to confirm that this is the correct house, then ejects the four drones from the container, and prompts Martin to guide the entry.

This was probably the most enjoyable part of his job. He begins micromanaging the blade—the smallest, quickest and most agile of the set—and defines a distance for the others to trail behind. The blade was one inch long, half an inch wide, and four millimeters in height. It was a dull shade of grey and perfectly smooth. A barebone unit, it contained just a nano mic-cam component, a communications component, a power supply, and over a dozen micro-motors; it was fairly stealthy, ideal for recon. It's light weight also meant however, that it was a challenge to control in the wind, and Martin througly enjoyed this challenge.

After zipping around some for fun, he spots an open window at the back side of the house. He thought it a bit odd for a window to be left open when it was this windy, but was able to determine that the room is unoccupied. As the small drone caravan silently advances into the dark room, the monitor to Martins left begins blinking. The hound—a relatively clumsly unit that Martin almost hadn't included—had detected illicit substances in it's proximity. A line of bolded text on the monitor reads: SUBSTANCE: [SCHEDULE I - CANNABIS], the last word—CANNABIS—appearing in green font. The change in font color was Martin's little hack to his own station, thus no one else would ever see it. He chucked to himself whenver it came up.

He suddenly dreads including the Hound in the set, and hopes it's a false positive. Standard procedure had to be followed now.  He issues the command for the drones to begin inspecting the room. Martin ran his own alrorithm—a feat that as far as he knows, only he has acomplished—for room inspection and was proud of it. The largest unit—the Tech—contains the processor shared by the four and is responsible for giving instructions to the other three. In fact, even now, the signals sent to the Blade by Martin are first processed by the Tech, and then only passed on if it considers them safe. It is a highly complex unit whose nano-mechanics Martin had always been in awe of, but was not authorized to program. Just to override it's room-inspection algorithm had taken him weeks and numerous demonstrations. But he had done it, and now the three drones would sniff, photograph, and record the sound in every visible and acessible space in the room, in at most three minutes. As the blade, he slides underneath the centimeter tall gap underneath the door, sees that it leads to an empty hallway, and remains there as a lookout.

When the inspection completes, Martin sits silenlty looking over the new data while carefully listening for any sound through the headphones. The Bat, a unit with ultrasonic capability, working with the Hound had determined that a desk—the laptop sitting on which Martin disappointedly noted was powered off—contains in it's drawer, between three to four grams of marijuana.

For the second time that day, Martin groaned. There was nothing more he could do here. Had he not discovered the weed, he could have gone probing further to try and hack a device on the network. But the presence of the drug had already been logged by the system. The case was no longer in his domain. Any further risk taken by him would be overridden or worse, logged and reported, by the Tech. He would not be doing any hacking today.

As he begins to type out the mandatory report to send back to PRISM, he wonders who the case will be assigned to now—if it hadn't already—and what type of power and authorization that person has. Maybe, he thinks, it's someone inside this building somewhere.

Regardless of what the system would do with the information he had just added to it, he was fully certain that young Wesley's days of being a free man were numbered.

title: 2052

question: Summarize what the case is about.

answer: A suspect flagged as 'Acute Suspicion' was being monitored. As the drones approach the target's home, Martin notices an open window. The drone enters through the window and scans the room for anything suspicious and finds Cannabis. Martin's Bat unit, which has ultrasonic capabilities figures that a drawer in the room contains about three to four grams of marijuana.

question: What was Wesley's reaction to the police finding cannabis in his home?

question: What does Martin like about his job?

answer: Martin likes the fact that his job reminds him of playing video games as a youth. He has to strike a few keys on his keyboard and controls drones.


split: test

text:
A worn and somewhat muscular hand thrust from beneath the surface of a pale blue  mountain fed lake. Dripping with slimy seaweed and lake water the hand paddled furiously. Suddenly, the famous King Arthur shot out of the water, finding himself gasping for air. Arthur’s other hand emerged from the icy depths, paddling against its watery grave. King Arthur sighed a sigh of relief. He was finally home. Where were his people? Had it really been that long?

He spun around, trying to locate the shore. He finally homed in on some birds flying in wide circles high in the sky. Arthur paddled his legs and arms in their general direction, hoping for any sign of relief from this strenuous fight for life.

The swim was hard, but The King had nearly reached the border in which marked the end of this journey, and the beginning of the next. The shore. King Arthur waded through the last bit of water, too tired to swim. “Twilight?” The king spoke with a harsh British accent. It wasn’t really, the polluted air had made it seem darker than it really was.

The King found himself on a silky sand beach, the course rock he once knew had eroded into the perfect sand castle building material. “I have been away many years,” Arthur said in a hushed tone of grief and sorrow. “Whither will I go now?”

Arthur jumped with remembrance, almost forgetting a very important role in his life. He had first seen Excalibur when he was eleven, in a nook of a tree, sitting ever so mocking, telling him to take it and run. He didn’t. But Excalibur stopped at nothing. It came again. Arthur remembered the day vividly. A month day after his twelfth birthday. The same sword, this time screaming at him to take it. He did that time. His only sword and companion had fought many battles since then. Much bloodshed in the name of his people.

The King keeled down on one knee, he raised his hand, and with an inaudible command the sky was ripped apart, revealing a blinding light. Arthur was thrown down, unable to overcome the intense force that Excalibur brought. Then, as soon as it had started, it had ended. The only trace of it ever happening was the sword held in King Arthur's worn right hand.

Arthur walked forward, dripping with sweat, clutching Excalibur with all his might. Although there was nothing to be afraid of, not now. He saw no one and he wondered if his people, all Arthur had worked for, had dyed off. Conquered by another nation. The great and powerful king shuddered at the thought.

King Arthur came to a black strip of land with a yellow stripe down the middle, although he had no idea how they made it, he knew exactly what it was. A road. This was reassuring, to know that his people had progressed in technology. He wasn’t only talking about the road, but the machines that must have used it. Merlin had warned him of that much.

A small drug store, across the road, was the only thing Arthur saw. He was intimidated by the miniature structure. But he tried to believe his people would remember their king of old. Arthur walked in, a small bell sounded. The room was dimly lit, with a man in a black beanie and a gun pointed to the cashier. Arthur saw the look in the thieves eye’s, the most intense gaze of hatred. “Halt! In the name of King Arthur!” The man whirled around in fear and astonishment. He aimed the gun to Arthur's head and squeezed the trigger.

**If I receive enough feedback I would love to continue the adventures of King Arthur! Thanks in advance!**

title: [SP] King Arthur's Return

question: Why was King Arthur beneath a lake?

answer: This information can't be found.

question: Where is King Arthur's home?

answer: This information can't be found.

question: Who/What is Excalibur?

answer: Excalibur is King Arthur's sword.

question: Has King Arthur come back to the 21st century?

answer: Yes.

question: Write a ~6 sentence summary.

answer:
King Arthur shoots out of the water and sighs a sigh of relief. He was finally home. He swims towards the shore and suddenly remembers his sword, Excalibur. The king kneels on one knee and raises his hand, the sky rips apart and the sword finds its way into the king's hand.

As Arthur walks into a small drug store in the city, he notices a pointing a gun at the cashier. The king tries to stop the man but he aims his gun to Arthur's head and pulls the trigger.


text:
Somewhere underneath an unremarkable section of industrial railroad tracks, is a stone tunnel with an enduring mystery. Who built it, when and why all seem to be accomplishments that was never passed down to the modern world, and yet, this intriguing piece of Vermont curio oddly exists untouched in the stretches of the state’s largest metropolitan area – its presence not noticed by the majority unless you’re one of the select few that know about it.

If you manage to find it, you can hear the hum of traffic nearby, the various noises that scream from a nearby generating plant and the voices of passing on-goers that carry out though the woods. And yet, here the tunnel sits in an enclaved world protected by treacherous railroad banks covered in thorns and foliage and the remnants of several homeless camps scattered around basins of coal black ooze – an ominous warning for those who decide to leave their world and enter this one.

And once you approach the tunnel entrance, a foul blackness that cannot be penetrated descends deep into the bowels of the hillside.

Stories abound about this strange tunnel. Speaking to a friend of mine, he was able to recall plenty of bizarre urban legends and strange lore about it. There was said to be a forbidding barred gate which lies somewhere inside, and macabre tales of dead bodies being discovered deep in the far recesses. I knew I had to see such a place!

We conversed further, as I became eager to get to the bottom of this. The most interesting detail about this tunnel is what makes it so enigmatic. No one seems to be quite sure about why it exists, or when it was constructed.

But there are plenty of theories as to why it was built. Some speculate that it was once a cow tunnel, a way of transporting livestock from one pasture to another which were divided by the railroads. And if you take modern day agro-industrial farming methods into account, the cows of yesteryear were smaller – making the tunnel’s size a realistic possibility. But if this was the case, then why does it dead end into a dripping stone wall some 60 feet from the entrance? Other theories are that when development came to the area, the property owners across the tracks discovered the entrance and sealed it up. But there is no proof of this, so we’re back to speculating. Was the tunnel built one way, or did it have another entrance?

Some speculate that the tunnel was built to house railroad supplies, such as dynamite and rail ties during construction in the mid 1800s – however, this too is only a theory. For a simplistic project, this seemed like a strangely labor intensive storage shed.  Too add further confusion, we still aren’t really sure if the tunnel predates the railroad or not, which leads me to the most intriguing possibility.

There are some that romanticize about the tunnel being so archaic that it predates Columbian settlement here in the United States. The stones are old, hand hewn and placed to form the walls and ceiling in baffling rhythmic precision in their uneven size and form- so it is a possibility. After all, it is now an accepted theory that Celtic copper miners once came to Vermont before the Europeans did some 3000 years ago, to harvest our vast copper resources when Europe was in the midst of a copper shortage. Upon doing so, they left their legacy here by building several mysterious stone structures and tunnels that lay scattered across the state, some even showcasing ancient inscriptions evocative of that time period. Today, these strange mounds are a topic of hot debate amongst archaeologists. However, Vermont’s ancient stone structures were all constructed differently than the tunnel in question, and it doesn’t quite fit the picture here. Mortar was also used in the construction, meaning that the tunnel is relatively newer than what the first throngs of European explorers would have ran into.

With no specialist making a visit to the tunnel to officially verify the age of its construction, this theory can only be that. And we’re right back to where we started. But one thing is for certain, if you can find it, you can see it for yourself. And that’s what I planned on doing.

Visiting The Tunnel

It was a warm September day when myself and a friend went searching for this elusive tunnel. But the question was, how would we find it? The foliage around the tracks was so thick and unforgiving, that it would be impossible to distinguish a simple stone tunnel underneath so much that competed for our attention.

Eventually after we had been walking the tracks for a good while, we decided to just jump off into the woods, literally, and see if we could get a better view of the steep banks that slumped below the railroad bed. If there was a tunnel here, we’d have to be on ground level to see it. But this literal jump proved to be an adventure we didn’t take into account. Weeds, thick trees with hanging vines and a “ground” made from soggy marshlands and layers of rotting trees was the landscape we were now fighting against, and walking around in it was treacherous and tiresome.

People Of The Sticks

Throughout this desolate and unforgiving landscape, we began to notice a web of sinuous trails that were well worn, and disappeared behind the thick veil of foliage. Making a conscious risky decision, we picked one and followed it. Little did we expect to find what looked like imaginative landscaping attempts. In the middle of nowhere.

[DSC_0738_pe]

[My friend thought the eyes were 2 miniature security cameras. Though we were far away from civilization at this point, we both involuntarily tensed up at the thought.]

My friend thought the eyes were 2 miniature security cameras. Though we were far away from civilization at this point, we both involuntarily tensed up at the thought.

[Following the path brought us right to the front door of the exact thing I expected and yet didn’t want to see – a homeless camp. Tents, sleeping bags and shopping carts were stashed underneath thick foliage that clinged to my jacket.]

Following the path brought us right to the front door of the exact thing I expected and yet didn’t want to see – a homeless camp. Tents, sleeping bags and shopping carts were stashed underneath thick foliage that clinged to my jacket.

[Further down the path, we stumbled into more development. This however seemed to be a clandestine farming operation, the farmers were nowhere to be seen thankfully.]

Further down the path, we stumbled into more development. This however seemed to be a clandestine farming operation, the farmers were nowhere to be seen thankfully.

Finally, after an extensive amount of time searching, we had found the fabled tunnel.

[DSC_0755_pe]

There looked like there once was a wooden door that covered the entrance, but had long been ripped off.

With the overwhelming evidence of homeless camps littering the immediate area, we approached cautiously. Who knew if anyone was sleeping (or perhaps, waiting) inside the dark depths of the tunnel, waiting to strike. Taking out a flashlight, we shined the LED light straight down the center of the shaft, illuminating the gloomy interior, and called out “hello?” a few times. The tunnel was empty, and in we went.

Inside the tunnel, we had to crouch down and ignore the uncomfortable feeling of dripping water coming from the stone roof. Immediately, we were met with the discarded remains of a homeless camp. Boots, a mattress, what appeared to be a few old wooden crates and a few knives that sat in pools of a foul orange slime that seemed to coat the entire tunnel floor. We noticed 2 odd features of the tunnel, one being 2 man made slits in the stone walls that stretched back to about my elbows – just wide enough to store small objects in. In the second, farthest section of the tunnel, the ceiling was supported by what looked like stolen railroad ties, their red rust stood out brilliantly in the flashlight beams.

Traversing this tunnel was no easy feat. The floor was slick and slippery. Not long after entering, our boots were covered with thick orange slime that offered us no traction. The further we ventured back, the more rotted the wood and debris became, almost disintegrating underneath our feat as the tunnel clearance became smaller and smaller. As we stood inside, trying to figure the great mystery about the place, it was impossible. The shadows of the past span so fast that everything the tunnel gave to me was blurred.

[DSC_0761_pe] [DSC_0763_pe]

[DSC_0765_pe] [DSC_0768_pe] [DSC_0772_pe] [DSC_0773_pe]

[Railroad ties that spanned the ceiling were used in some of the tunnel’s construction]

Railroad ties that spanned the ceiling were used in some of the tunnel’s construction

[interesting markings on the tunnel ceiling]

interesting markings on the tunnel ceiling

As I was inside, I recalled my friend telling me further about his adventure in this tunnel Years ago. On his expedition inside, he came across a peculiar find. He had ventured inside, and not long after, he noticed his flashlight beam illuminate a thick grey blanket that was hanging across the interior, which was most likely deliberately placed, creating the illusion that the tunnel was actually much shorter than it actually was. Carefully talking down the faux wall, it opened up another several feet of tunnel that rambled off into the dark, before finally ending again at a real stone wall. He guessed that a homeless person who wanted to keep curious visitors away from his home in the end of the tunnel, created the wall for a bit of anonymity and security.

[]

This picture taken by Joe Citro shows the gray blanket draped across the interior he encountered.

[]

[]

I was warned of the possibility of finding knives or other sinister artifacts inside. It seems Joe Citro found just that. (photo: Joe Citro)

The reality of the mysterious order of people who frequent and possibly live the dank tunnel was a sobering reality, and only added to the deepening mystery. Another friend told me stories of him finding actual knives next to a makeshift bed – and told me to be cautious while exploring. So until some information takes form, or a developer decides to seal it up – the tunnel will continue to baffle curious visitors and harbor the fallen.

DISCLAIMER: You’ll notice I didn’t give away the location of the tunnel. That was intentional, in order to protect special and endangered locations like this one. So please, don’t ask.

—————————————————————————————————————————————–

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question: What does the text say about why the tunnel was built?

answer: No one is sure why it was constructed but there have been many theories over the years.

question: What does the tunnel say about where the tunnel is located?

question: What does the text say about what the narrator's friend saw inside the tunnel?

answer: He noticed a thick grey blanket deliberately placed within the tunnel to create the illusion that the tunnel was shorter than it was.


text:
    There is a girl who leads a quiet wall-flower life in her high school. She never knew her father, and her mother is off in Antarctica absorbed in a career as an anthropologist.

    A series of freakish events in the school have her on the verge of being expelled. Out of the blue, the boy she might be in love with invites her into his family to stay until her mom returns.

There she finds warm and loving parents even if they are a bit strange -- professor father with profound arcane knowledge and a psychic mother who reads minds and casts spells. They believe that the vestiges of some inherited power is starting to emerge from her. They caution her that high school is a hormonal time. If she wishes to remain at the height of her power, she must retain her chastity.

    Meanwhile, a mad artist is spontaneously producing paintings of the girl that have become a focus of worship for a gang of crazed meth-dealing bikers. They believe she is the descendant of Inanna, an ancient Sumerian goddess from the lost planet Nibiru.

    The gang leader is a former professor with a murderous thirst for vengeance against those who drove him out of the profession. He believes in the girl’s magical descent and her link to a planet with a 3,600 year orbit that will bring it smashing through the earth’s solar system.

He wants her and intends to possess her, no matter who he has to kill.
_____________________

    Quinn Shaw parked his Harley with fourteen others in front of the motorcycle club out in the ratty rural area of a neighboring county. Junk cars on blocks. Hogs rooting in garbage piles. Feral chickens up in the trees. Metal Butler building with a front porch where Squirt, just out of the state prison for armed robbery, was grilling bratwurst.
In his navy blazer, faded designer jeans and Gucci loafers, Quinn was not like the rest of the club.
    Quinn had walked in one day with a death wish. He had been denied tenure at the university, and his wife had left him. “Your life is a quilt of contradictions,” she had snarled.

“I suppose that’s an honest appraisal,” he had replied. “I was always a deeply divided personality.”

“Fuck you,” she said. Not with great originality.

A third of his adult life trashed. Why not go out with a bang?
He had expected to be crucified or dragged behind a motorcycle. But oddly, they had all been quite amiable. Sensed he was a lost renegade looking for family. They didn’t even laugh when he said he was a professor of ancient Middle Eastern history.

“Hey,” said one. “You like books? I read one once. Forty Yard Dash to the Johnny House by Will E. Makeit and Betty Don’t.”

    They all howled with laugher at the sixth grade joke. Quinn gave them a saturnine smile, knowing that they were virtually retarded. Like a pack of pitbulls all were just teeth, appetite and pea-brains.
They thought he had come to score dope and were quite up front about the fact they dealt methamphetamine, muled it over four states.
    Over time he gained their complete trust, showed them how to keep account books, transformed them into a purely wholesale business, holding the retailers at a distance out there dealing at the truck stops, risking it all with the cops.
    When Quinn arrived, leaning against a post was Jude somebody, the emaciated geek who cooked the meth for them. Clutching a beer. Shivering and shaking. The fumes had melted his brain.
One more educated drop-out in the town. A children’s librarian of all things, fired because he did something nasty to a young boy in the restroom. He babbled lines from Treasure Island. “Bring aft the rum, Darby McGraw.”
    He might have been Long John Silver’s parrot.

    Inside, four of the bikers were shooting pool. Another eight or so sat on high stools at the bar or around tables. One slept in a corner of the floor. For them, this was domesticity. Their home away from the hours of open road where the wolves run free. To them with its setting among sighing pines, it was somehow darkly magnificent.
Hog Man saluted with his pool cue. Cut-off sleeves on his denim jacket, biker colors on the back. Skull and crossed cam-shafts. He was like an aging Tyrannosaurus, slow but brute deadly.
    The first thing Quinn had gotten them to do was change their club name from Satan’s Scum to Lucifer’s Legion. It almost made them sound literate.

    Rebels to a man, yet there was a yearning in them for obedience to some supreme authority. Now he was their leader. Rather like Captain Hook – the Old Etonian who went bad in Peter Pan.
Dealing meth didn’t bother him. People destroyed themselves with it. But people also destroyed themselves with booze and cigarettes and white sugar. Hollywood always showed gangsters as kind of perverse capitalists supplying desired goods and services.

    Skeeter, the skinny one with the full body tattoo, popped the top on a Blue Ribbon, and Quinn sucked it down two inches. Skeeter filled the vacant space with Wild Turkey. A cocktail Quinn had invented.

    Sometimes Quinn would stretch and yawn and imagine he’d been asleep for eight years. Three years for his doctorate at Brown. A near record. Not good enough for them to ask him to stay on the faculty. No, you have to come down to the big state university level. And spend five years grinding out learned articles here to convince the swine he was worthy to be among them.

    Death and the denial of tenure. Funny how similar the two seemed. Condemned to some boondocks college where they’d put you through the same mill. Forced down still lower to a technical college.

“I was brave and true to my craft, and they pissed on me,” he frequently said.

Such simpletons these bikers. It was so easy to dominate them. Get their smuggling on a business footing so the money was actually stacking up. It used to run through their fingers, leading to nasty arguments and knifings. Not good for maintaining the personnel roster.
Walking back to the porch, he laid an iron glove on the fire right over the white coals. It was from a suit of 14th century armor. He had stolen it from a museum at Brown when drunk after his dissertation got passed and he thought the academic world was his for the plucking.
The gang exchanged vaguely uneasy glances. This was what made him the natural leader of a pack of killers. They knew he would heat the glove to cherry red and make a major point.

    Hog Man looked at him anxiously, wanting to be in on the secret. Pouched pig eyes, big round bristly jowls with a fastidious mouth in the middle. He would kill instantly and without question. And there was killing to be done.

    Quinn had had his rogue reputation in academia. Didn’t like intellectual fads or ass-kissing the senior faculty. His very existence a red rag before the pompous old fart bulls. Drip, drip, drip they dinked acid on his work. Re-write this. Re-do that. Come at it from another angle.

    What a dry, antiseptic world, he thought. The total absence of beauty, of laughter and joy. Gerbils rattling on their wheels.
Article after article he churned out. Published in class-A refereed journals. The crème-de-la-crème. And then he did one negligent thing.
He needed fifteen-hundred dollars. That was all. His wife racked up a little credit card debt. That ridiculous time-share she nagged at him to buy on Hilton Head Island.
    Fifteen-hundred dollars. That’s what they paid in the UFO magazine. So he wrote about the Planet Nibiru. How it orbited past the earth every 3,600 years. The Sumerians had named it. Carved it into diagrams of the solar system. The Annunaki came down from Nibiru in space ships. Culture bringers. Teaching an ignorant people architecture and astronomy.

    And they found the daughters’ of men fair and bred with them. They worked their way into the Bible as the Nifilim, “those who have fallen from heaven.”
    He wrote it in academic jargon. Footnotes. Obtuse language. The editor went ape-shit over it. Included his academic credentials. It got on the internet minus the name of the UFO journal. And damn if the New York Times didn’t pick up on it and treat it seriously. And every other newspaper in America trailed right along behind them.
    And that was what they used against him. Talks of Quinn’s utter unprofessionalism. Bringing disrepute on the institution. As if he had single-handedly kept them from “reaching the next level.” He could still hear them spluttering.

    Quinn watched the iron glove heat on the coals and heard the pick-up truck roll up. Rust all over it. Busted muffler. Oddball bumper stickers. “Keep It Weird.” “I Brake For Boiled Peanuts.”

    A man with wild hair like a mad scientist climbed out.

    Jake Milroy, the crazed artist in his uniform of brogans and paint-splattered coveralls. Lantern jawed. Bulbous nose and ears sprouting hair.
    A studio art professor at the university, Jake was a man of remarkable gifts. Naturally he was hated by the talentless drones of his department with their daubs flung at canvases. The man was into hallucinogens and when in a trance, he painted scenes not of this world. The bar was decorated with his paintings of the cosmos. Infinite space and night with zillions of glittering stars.

    The filthy room seemed to accept the presence of high art. Hanging them was part of Quinn’s program of cultural uplift for his hoodlums. Bringing a vein of fantasy, a power of enchantment.
And a lurking fear of what was to come.

“Welcome to our barbarous locale,” laughed Quinn.

“Airy vistas and green pleasaunces,” Jake said in a fake British accent.

“You mean a pustule that will soon be lanced.”

“Should be smashed with a hammer.”

Quinn asked the important question. “Is it complete?”

“You bet your sweet ass. The final revelation.”
    Jake had sought Quinn out one night in a saloon while a summer storm raged outside. Pulled up a stool beside him at the bar.

“Every sham shows there is a reality,” he had said cryptically.

    Quinn was in the early flush of his meth money. His cut of loot for one month was greater than a professor’s annual salary. He had had no problem buying drinks for an already drunk Milroy as the rain pounded the windows and gusted through the open door.
They talked of their hatred of toadying careerist professors. Killjoys and spoilsports. Eunuch men and the screeching harpies who had gelded them.
    Drinks followed drinks. Jake’s voice became slurred to the point of incoherence. Until he quite clearly said:

“We sensitives know what’s about to come down. Even if science is coldly ignoring it.”

“And what’s that?”

“Nibiru.”

Then lay his head on the bar and passed out.
They had been friends ever since.

    Jake fought with his creditors, lived off whisky and fried chicken skins, named his daughter Cressida Moon Child Milroy. She was something of a piece of teenage tail, all molten eyes and that emerging teenage sense of woman’s elemental power. But of no interest to Quinn. She stared at crystals, did Zen meditation and hatha yoga, talked to disembodied spirits.

    Besides, Quinn knew his intended bride was nearby. A woman of cosmic consequence. Jake said he had known her personally since she was a little kid.

    Jake hauled a big tarp-covered painting inside. The gang of bikers actually drew back from the fixity of his crazed stare. They knew him and didn’t know him. A friend of Quinn’s. The one with the paintings of stellar explosions and black holes. A mushroom eater and glue sniffer. Out of his mind talking in tongues.
    Jake chalked a big circle on the floor, a perfect circle, yet done free-hand. A mystic circle to guard against the riff-raff. In the middle he set up an easel. Placed a frame upon it and unwrapped the canvas.
Such a painting. A work of human genius. The adolescent girl stood in perfect elegance. You could see the silkiness of her flesh. The long slender neck. Mouth like a pink bow. A royal blue background deepened the richness of the flesh tones, giving it a perfect three-dimensional look.

    Eight-pointed star behind her russet head, the symbol of the Sumerian goddess Inanna. The morning and evening star. Ishtar to the Assyrians.

    One hand lifted a breast. The offering of milk. The other fist was closed about a knot of reeds. Circular. Almost like a quoit. It symbolized the doorpost to the storehouse of life. Fertility and fruitfulness.
    She was a prophesying priestess. A volcano about to erupt.
And at the cleft of her thighs, woman’s cosmic sexual power. The delta shape of hair. The entry to the cave of fertility.

    Occult symbols were carved into the golden frame. The signs of the Zodiac. Framing woman in all her lunar phases.

Was there a faint glint of amusement in the girl’s eyes? Like she knew her superiority?

A long shivering thrill went through Quinn as though he were having an orgasm. Filled with an overwhelming wanting. How her slim body would tremble to his touch. She was his queen and his destiny, and he would worship at the shrine of her body.

The bike gang stood in a kind of catatonia, eyes haunted, unable to move or make a gesture. A rapt, reverent silence.

Jude the meth cook, lips flecked with foam, began barking like a dog. The others joined in, overtaken, sliding into howls as at the moon.
Perspiration beaded Hog Man’s upper lip. “They’s comin’ back, ain’t they? Jes like you said.”

“They’re coming back alright,” said Quinn.

“And she’s their queen, ain’t she?”

“Yes. And I will breed with her. Only I am worthy.”

Quinn took off his blazer and hung it on the back of a chair. Rolled up his sleeve. And slid his hand into the red hot steel glove. Held it trembling aloft. Feeling no pain.

The men gasped in awe as ever. Stunned by the gulf that separated them, by his mystical powers over burning pain and mutilation.
Quinn placed his trust in this gang of cut-throats because they feared him. They were his wolf pack, his motorized Mongol Horde.
Milroy flinched as Quinn shoved the glove towards his face.
“How the fuck do you do that?” he gasped.

“Tell me her name. It is time I knew.”

“Samantha … Samantha Fitzhugh.”

Quinn rolled the name on his tongue. She would taste of the sweetness of wild honey.
And Quinn would kill anyone who got in his way.

title: Nibiru's Child: Who Killed Cressie Moon Child?

question: Why was the university in an uproar over Quinn's article in the UFO journal?

answer: Because of the publicity the article got. The university believes the article was unscientific, a sham, and a stain on the reputation of the school. They decided to fire Quinn as soon as the article gained publicity for its strange contents.


text:
I'm looking for some feedback on my story or constructive criticism. Anything about taking out or adding things or whatever thoughts come your way would be helpful!

&#x200B;

I Have A Friend

&#x200B;

So, I have this friend. For some reason I feel sad before I even start to talk about her. She went to a Christian school growing up and made sure everyone knew it was her grandparents that sent her here, not her parents. She mentioned that she grew up with the Christian religion bashed into her by her grandparents and I’m pretty sure at this point she looked sick of it. Her Mom wasn’t as religious, so at least she got away from it occasionally. This girl just didn’t fit in with anyone at her little Christian Academy. This friend and I always thought Christians could sense someone who didn’t belong.

You could tell she didn’t know who she was by the way she flip-flopped between the shy, quiet kids and the loud popular kids. I don’t think she ever stuck with one group. It was a small school with even smaller classes, so it was hard not to notice everything about everyone. The teachers didn’t seem to care about her one way or another and the other kids were always a little bit more interested in someone else. She always seemed to be the second or third choice.

My friend did at one point find another friend named Audrey who she absolutely clicked with and we all became best friends, girl power and all that blah blah blah. Audrey brought out our crazy sides, gave us a reason to get up every day and was just someone to share things with. Neither of us had ever had a friend like her. We were jealous of Audrey a little bit but not enough to hate her, just enough to admire her. Our new best friend Audrey played the guitar, had a great family that loved their kids and all their kids’ friends as well. We were accepted in her house.

Audrey was a year older than us and went to high school first. We stayed best friends, but Audrey was finding new friends of her own. We got jealous but knew we were still her best friend. We were still in youth group together and making a lot of new friends. All was going well until we had to go to a different high school than Audrey. We drifted apart. All of us did after that.

I saw my friend go from this radiant, funny girl who had a sense of belonging back to her old self. I feel like she looked like she did when I first started to recognize her in middle school. Just a shell with nowhere to turn and not a clue where to start. So, this friend of mine seemed to be worse than when she started, in an even bigger pool of people but not knowing any of them.

All these new people my friend met were very different and clearly light years ahead of her. It was sadly clear that what my friend did to fit in was a drastic move on her part. We fell even further apart. It tore me apart to watch her start doing whatever everyone else did and say just to lose all hope of having her own personality. I saw this personality form in her when we were with Audrey but now its like the personality she developed drained away completely. She became a master of adapting to all the new situations that got thrown her way.

I barely knew her now. It was sad to see her everyday and not be able to do anything about it. Sometimes I would shout at her to get her attention but usually she’d brush me off and shove me away. I saw her throw her whole self into anyone who showed her some sort of attention or what she thought was love. This made it even harder when those people would continuously let her down, but she would move on and do it again.

It was like she was a detective interrogating all these different people for the answers, but they just weren’t giving her any. She was searching and searching with no results. I don’t think she knew she was looking for something, but I could clearly see it and looking back its clear that she was desperate. Neither of us really knew what she wanted or needed but I just wanted her to let me help. I could only be so persistent when she just continued to push me away.

I could go on and on about how this friend of mine continued to search for answers throughout high school, but it would be a never-ending story and to tell the truth it very well could still be happening today. I saw something happen to her though.

I was watching when it happened. She was with a boy she had met not long ago, and it was obvious she was infatuated with him; would do anything he said no matter what. He told her about something he had been doing behind her back and she looked pissed. But I know her better than anyone and I could tell she wasn’t mad about what he had been doing but that he had been doing it without her. Yet again she threw herself into everything whole-heartedly and if this was a part of this boy she thought she loved then she wanted in.

I can’t believe it happened. Well, I can’t believe that either of these things really went down. Before it all happened and before he gave her that shot in the arm that would take her away from me for a very long time she looked in the mirror. For the first time in years I looked back at her through that same mirror, she really saw me, and I really saw her. That connection happened, and we knew what we were doing. We knew what path we were taking. She seemed to be saying good bye for now but not forever. There was an awareness that she was making the decision to leave me behind. I don’t think she knew before she was leaving me, but now she was actively doing it.

I got to see myself clearly that day and through the rough years I occasionally got to look through the mirror when she let me, and we even had a few screaming matches. In the present I now know I made that choice for a reason and I knew it would be a very long time until I’d see myself again. But It did happen. Although my relationship with my friend is different now than when we were young, at least I get to see her every day.

title: [MF] Short Story on addiction(help!)

question: Who is the narrator's friend who is having problems?

answer: The "friend" is herself.

question: Who became the narrator's only best friend?

answer: Audrey

question: What's wrong with the narrator?

answer: She's shy and doesn't fit in anywhere. She throws herself at other people who she thinks likes her. She has no identity.

question: What did the narrator do towards the end with her boyfriend?

answer: They did drugs.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator is a girl who couldn't fit in anywhere, flip-flopping with drastically different groups of people. She throws herself at others who she thinks likes her and has no identity. She does drugs with a boyfriend, but looks in the mirror first and sees the other half of herself, the one that is completely her opposite.


text:
Any words in italics are supposed to be my internal monologue at the time.  Thanks for reading

*I’m drunk, I’m out of shape, I worked out today and my muscles are still sore, I don’t even know those guys.*  A couple hundred really good reasons not to get involved crashed through my mind when I saw the fight break out down the street.  Two seconds into my sprint I had to admit all of those reasons sounded pretty damn logical, convincing even, but 5 guys had just jumped 2 young men and some part of me will always have an irrational hatred for assholes who don’t see the need to fight fair.  It didn’t look like any of them were older than 20 and I am reminded for the 100th time that night I am not nearly as young as I want to be.  The panic in my wife’s voice as she shouts “don’t” tells me that I’ll have another fight to deal with when I get home; I change that “when” to an “if” as I remember that I haven’t been in a proper fight in almost a decade. 30 yards in about 4 seconds, *not bad old man*, I still promise to put a little more time in on the jump rope collecting dust in the basement.
	By the time I get there both of the friends are on the ground catching a couple of rounds of punishment, 2 on 1 victim and 3 on the other.  I’m praying that both the unlucky bastards know how to cover up properly.  I’m praying at least one of the attackers has a flash of conscience and backs off.  I’m praying one of the awestruck bystanders with their smart phones out had enough sense to call the cops before they tweeted about watching a curb stomping.  I’m praying that Blue Cross covers injuries incurred during a White Knight fiasco.  I’m praying, but I put down religion a long time ago and I don’t want to choke on my own hypocrisy…or spit…seriously I need to up my cardio.
	I grab one of the attackers from behind and rip him off the victim.  He’s big, real big; I thank god I was diligent in my leg workouts for the past month and put all my weight and a full hip rotation into slinging the jackass into the nearest wall.  The sound of his back hitting the glass makes me wonder who’s responsible for property damage in this situation.  I don’t dwell on it long, I just scream some dark rambling thought about him needing to get lost, it sounds great and dramatic in my head and the guy was smart enough to take off running.  The second guy barely noticed his friend’s absence and is still teeing off on the grounded kid.  He pulls a hand back to hammer another blow home and I hook his arm to stop the strike.  I use my other arm to put him into the sloppiest chokehold ever attempted *how the hell does this always work in the movies, is there like a height requirement to choke somebody out?* I want to tell the kid to get off the ground and get to safety but my wife is already helping him up.  Inside I smile and wonder if that poor schlub knew he was going to end this night being rescued by a 5’2’’ southern spitfire putting on her best Valkyrie impression.  I stop hoping the thug I’m restraining will pass out from boredom and opt to simply kick the back of his leg as I pull him backwards by the collar of his shirt.  The ground meets him with all the love concrete can muster but he bounces up quickly enough to start running after his wayward friend.
	I turn just in time to see a punch coming my way, *seems like lucky number three has decided to end your tiresome meddling*; 26 and I still think like a Scooby Doo extra.   My hands are way out of position to block but the punch is slow, a sloppy left handed jab that tells me the guy is either real drunk or a rank amateur at dishing out pain.  I drop my weight down and get as low as my jeans allow me to and instantly regret every squat and lunge I’ve done in my life.  A little bit of head movement and the meatbag’s fist misses me by just enough to remind me I’m human; human and a lot more fragile than I want to believe.  But his momentum has put me in perfect range to satisfy a craving almost ten years in the making and for one shinning second the years of rust and day-to-day boredom are burned away by the pure fire of righteousness and madness coming together in perfect anarchy.  I’m not a superhero, not even particularly strong, but I have a punching bag at my house and just enough job related stress to make the frame rattle 3 or 4 times a week.  I plant my feet so hard I make a blister and tear it at the same time, so hard my vanity tells me the sidewalk probably cracked, and I dig in with a body shot straight from hell.  Somewhere between a hook and an uppercut I connect with a lower rib and take his and my breath away.  I push him towards his still fleeing friends and he takes the hint.
	*Everything hurts*…keep standing….*visions a little blurry*…keep breathing…*you’re still outnumbered*……pussy.  Still 2 guys left and they’re raining down sloppy kicks on this poor son of a bitch like it’s a middle school soccer game and the ball just happens to be calling for help.  How long has it been?  A minute?  An hour?  Time loses meaning as the world tilts at an awkward angle forcing me to take a lurching step to keep from falling into the sky.  *You’ve done enough, this is insane!  Somebody else can take it from here damn it the cops should be here any second.  You’re not a hero*.  But I always told myself that if I could be a hero I’d try to be like Luke Cage.  I’d help the little guy and always stand up to fight for the underdog.  I’d take a beating so those weaker than me would be safe from harm.  And I seriously have an irrational hatred for people who don’t fight fair.
	The last two nasty fucks throwing kicks have a wall about 3 feet behind them and I smile.  My friend is a personal trainer and she’s showed me an exercise she recently started having some of her clients do.  She starts people out by just doing a handstand against a wall and holding it for as long as they can, but as they get better she has them try to do a couple of inverted push up type things.  Of course I try it unsupervised like a man is supposed to and it’s hell on the shoulders, but I fill out a suit better than I have in years.  She tells me that one of her clients has gotten to the point where he can do a full set of 10 pretty easily.  I can do about half of one before every injury from high school football reminds me that I wouldn’t make it in the NFL, or CFL, or arena league, or high school football.  I plant a hand on each attacker’s chest and push; fancy battle tactic I got going on here.  Both goons travel about 5 feet to the wall previously 3 feet behind them and the impact makes me cringe and smile at the same time.
	I feel my needle drop to E and I know that I just burned up everything I had and then some.  The kid on the ground bolts to his feet and makes it half a block in a heartbeat.  Good survival instincts on that one, but he could have at least stuck around to watch me get my shit kicked in on his behalf.  My arms are useless and I might as well be wearing concrete shoes for all the good my legs are doing me.  For the first time I actually look at the people I’m fighting and I just want to scream at the two of them how young they are.  They have their whole lives ahead of them and they could be throwing that all away on some stupid fight in the middle of the sidewalk.  18, I wonder if any of them are 18 and would be tried as adults if something terrible had happened.  *Children, they’re just fucking children*.  One of the punks asks if I want a piece too.  My heroic reply is a wet cough that sounds like too many Gin and tonics.  I tell myself that it was a good run.  I tell myself that I did the right thing.  I tell myself that, worst case scenario at least I’m wearing clean underwear.  No man should die with dirty underwear on; I think my grandfather told me that.  But I see fear creep into the two attackers eyes, and with all the grace of a gazelle high on shrooms they bolt as a squad car shows up to the scene blue and red lights flashing.  I lean my back against the wall and listen to my heart play a nice salsa beat.  My wife and the cop ask me if I’m ok at roughly the same time and I answer both with a half dazed nod.  The world comes back into focus just long enough for me to hear that both the victims only sustained minor injuries, some bruises that’ll hurt like a bitch come morning and one bloody lip between the two of them.  I smile and the cop’s face makes it pretty clear he thinks I look like a madman but I couldn’t care less.  I haven’t felt this good in ages.  Neither kid wanted to press charges and distantly I wonder what those two did to deserve an ass kicking, but the thought doesn’t last long.  This isn’t a comic book, I don’t wear a cape, I don’t have to investigate and get to the bottom of the story.  I’m just a guy who feels a little bit better about his workout routine.  Both kids thank me for the help, I tell them to be safe in my best adult voice knowing damn well that I wouldn’t listen to me at their age.  I nod with what I hope is a grim look on my face, turn around and go home.

title: Left the Cape at Home

question: Explain why the narrator got involved in the fight.

answer: The narrator has an irrational hatred for people who do not fight fair. After a night of drinking, he sees 5 guys jumping 2 young men which sparks a rage within that makes him sprint towards the guys he didn't even know. By the time he reaches them, 2 guys are attacking 1 victim and 3 other guys are attacking the other. The narrator was always the guy who helped the little guy and stood up for the underdog. He would be willing to take a beating to keep the weaker safe from harm.


text:
[Prosperity Bank is located across the street from the Burleson County Courthouse in Caldwell.]

[Office of _Burleson County Tribune_ (founded 1884) in Caldwell]

BURLESON COUNTY ( ) is a county located in the U.S. state of Texas. As of the 2010 census, the population was 17,187.[1] Its county seat is Caldwell.[2] The county is named for Edward Burleson, a general and statesman of the Texas Revolution.

Burleson County is part of the College Station-Bryan Metropolitan Statistical Area.

Geography

According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the county has a total area of , of which is land and (2.6%) is water.[3]

Major highways

-   [] State Highway 21
-   [] State Highway 36

Adjacent counties

-   Robertson County (north)
-   Brazos County (northeast)
-   Washington County (southeast)
-   Lee County (southwest)
-   Milam County (northwest)

Demographics

As of the 2000 census,[4] there were 16,470 people, 6,363 households, and 4,574 families residing in the county. The population density was 25 people per square mile (10/km²). There were 8,197 housing units at an average density of 12 per square mile (5/km²). The racial makeup of the county was 74.07% white, 15.06% black or African American, 0.50% Native American, 0.17% Asian, 0.02% Pacific Islander, 8.25% from other races, and 1.92% from two or more races. 14.64% of the population were Hispanic or Latino of any race. 18.8% were of German, 11.3% American, 10.7% Czech and 6.2% Irish ancestry according to Census 2000.

There were 6,363 households, out of which 31.90% had children under the age of 18 living with them, 56.40% were married couples living together, 11.40% had a female householder with no husband present, and 28.10% were non-families. 24.90% of all households were made up of individuals, and 12.40% had someone living alone who was 65 years of age or older. The average household size was 2.57 and the average family size was 3.08.

In the county, the population was spread out, with 26.90% under the age of 18, 8.00% from 18 to 24, 25.80% from 25 to 44, 23.20% from 45 to 64, and 16.10% who were 65 years of age or older. The median age was 38 years. For every 100 females, there were 94.70 males. For every 100 females age 18 and over, there were 91.50 males.

The median income for a household in the county was $33,026, and the median income for a family was $39,385. Males had a median income of $28,795 versus $20,146 for females. The per capita income for the county was $16,616. About 13.20% of families and 17.20% of the population were below the poverty line, including 22.90% of those under age 18 and 14.30% of those age 65 or over.

Communities

Cities

-   Caldwell (county seat)
-   Snook
-   Somerville

Unincorporated communities

-   Birch
-   Black Jack
-   Chriesman
-   Clay
-   Cooks Point
-   Davidson
-   Deanville
-   Frenstat
-   Goodwill
-   Gus
-   Harmony
-   Hix
-   Hogg
-   Lyons
-   Merle
-   New Tabor
-   Rita
-   Scofield
-   Tunis
-   Wilcox

Bygone communities

-   Pittsbridge _(aka_ Evans Ferry and Pitt's Ferry)[5]

Politics

  Year                               Republican                                  Democratic                                  Third parties
  ---------------------------------- ------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------- ----------------------------
  style=“text-align:center;” |2016   style=“text-align:center;” |76.4% _5,316_   style=“text-align:center;” |21.4% _1,491_   2.2% _153_
  style=“text-align:center;” |2012   style=“text-align:center;” |72.4% _4,671_   style=“text-align:center;” |26.4% _1,705_   1.2% _80_
  style=“text-align:center;” |2008   style=“text-align:center;” |68.2% _4,547_   style=“text-align:center;” |30.8% _2,053_   1.0% _65_
  style=“text-align:center;” |2004   style=“text-align:center;” |65.5% _4,405_   style=“text-align:center;” |33.9% _2,276_   0.6% _40_
  style=“text-align:center;” |2000   style=“text-align:center;” |60.4% _3,542_   style=“text-align:center;” |38.1% _2,235_   1.5% _89_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1996   style=“text-align:center;” |43.9% _2,174_   style=“text-align:center;” |48.8% _2,419_   7.3% _360_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1992   style=“text-align:center;” |35.3% _2,013_   style=“text-align:center;” |44.0% _2,511_   20.8% _1,187_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1988   style=“text-align:center;” |42.0% _2,242_   style=“text-align:center;” |57.8% _3,085_   0.2% _12_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1984   style=“text-align:center;” |54.3% _3,076_   style=“text-align:center;” |45.5% _2,578_   0.2% _12_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1980   style=“text-align:center;” |42.2% _1,943_   style=“text-align:center;” |56.7% _2,615_   1.1% _51_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1976   style=“text-align:center;” |28.0% _1,142_   style=“text-align:center;” |71.7% _2,924_   0.4% _15_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1972   style=“text-align:center;” |56.4% _1,762_   style=“text-align:center;” |43.6% _1,361_   0.1% _2_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1968   style=“text-align:center;” |27.3% _891_     style=“text-align:center;” |51.4% _1,678_   21.3% _694_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1964   style=“text-align:center;” |19.6% _617_     style=“text-align:center;” |80.3% _2,527_   0.1% _3_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1960   style=“text-align:center;” |21.4% _672_     style=“text-align:center;” |78.5% _2,466_   0.2% _5_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1956   style=“text-align:center;” |40.2% _1,173_   style=“text-align:center;” |59.2% _1,726_   0.6% _16_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1952   style=“text-align:center;” |30.9% _1,052_   style=“text-align:center;” |68.8% _2,347_   0.3% _11_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1948   style=“text-align:center;” |9.9% _240_      style=“text-align:center;” |84.3% _2,051_   5.9% _143_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1944   style=“text-align:center;” |6.6% _158_      style=“text-align:center;” |82.8% _1,992_   10.7% _257_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1940   style=“text-align:center;” |13.7% _319_     style=“text-align:center;” |86.1% _1,999_   0.1% _3_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1936   style=“text-align:center;” |8.4% _135_      style=“text-align:center;” |91.6% _1,466_   style="text-align:center;|
  style=“text-align:center;” |1932   style=“text-align:center;” |4.7% _119_      style=“text-align:center;” |95.2% _2,423_   0.1% _3_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1928   style=“text-align:center;” |17.9% _339_     style=“text-align:center;” |82.1% _1,558_   style="text-align:center;|
  style=“text-align:center;” |1924   style=“text-align:center;” |8.2% _224_      style=“text-align:center;” |91.0% _2,496_   0.9% _24_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1920   style=“text-align:center;” |7.1% _141_      style=“text-align:center;” |49.4% _981_     43.6% _866_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1916   style=“text-align:center;” |17.5% _262_     style=“text-align:center;” |80.8% _1,208_   1.7% _25_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1912   style=“text-align:center;” |21.1% _228_     style=“text-align:center;” |71.3% _771_     7.6% _82_

  : PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS RESULTS[6]

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

title: Burleson County, Texas

question: What does the text say about the Texas Rangers?

question: What does the text say about Burleson County, Texas?

answer: Burleson County is located in the U.S. state of Texas. As of the 2010 census, the population was 17,187. The county is named for Edward Burleson, a general and statesman of the Texas Revolution. Burleson County is part of the College Station-Bryan Metropolitan Statistical Area and its county seat is Caldwell. The county's total land area is 2.6% water. State Highways 21 and 36 pass through Burleson County. Other than Caldwell, there are two other cities in the county: Snook and Somerville.

question: What does the text say about the demographics in Burleson County?

answer: As of the 2000 census, there were 16,470 people, 6,363 households, and 4,574 families residing in the county, giving it a population density of 25 people per square mile. The racial makeup of the county was 74.07% White, 15.06% Black or African American, 0.50% Native American, 0.17% Asian, 0.02% Pacific Islander, 8.25% from other races, and 1.92% from two or more races. 14.64% of the population were Hispanic or Latino of any race. The White population consisted of 18.8% German, 11.3% American, 10.7% Czech, and 6.2% Irish ancestry. The population was spread out, with 26.90% under the age of 18, 8.00% from 18 to 24, 25.80% from 25 to 44, 23.20% from 45 to 64, and 16.10% who were 65 years of age or older. The median age was 38 years. The median income for a household in the county was $33,026, and the median income for a family was $39,385. The per capita income for the county was $16,616. About 13.20% of families and 17.20% of the population were below the poverty line, including 22.90% of those under age 18 and 14.30% of those age 65 or over.


text:
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On Monday, Jared Kushner's family business, Kushner Cos., was fined $210,000 by New York City for falsifying construction building permits. The violations occurred while the presidential adviser was CEO of the company. ANDREW HARNIK/AP HIDE CAPTION

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 Andrew Harnik/AP

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On Monday, Jared Kushner's family business, Kushner Cos., was fined $210,000 by New York City for falsifying construction building permits. The violations occurred while the presidential adviser was CEO of the company.

 Andrew Harnik/AP

Kushner Cos. has been hit with $210,000 in fines by New York City regulators for filing false real estate paperwork over several years.

President Trump's son-in-law — and current adviser — Jared Kushner was still at the helm of the real estate company as CEO when, the New York City Department of Buildings says, the company routinely falsified construction applications at 17 sites.

The city's Building Department found the company frequently under-reported — and in some cases didn't report any — rent-regulated tenants living in its buildings, despite renting to hundreds of them.

Developers are required to report the number of rent-controlled tenants they inherit when they buy properties and renovate them. The requirement is a safeguard to protect tenants from steep rental increases or from being driven out to make way for higher-paying tenants.

On Monday, the city fined the Kushner family business for 42 violations at 12 addresses between January 2013 and September 2016.

"Protecting tenants is a key part of our mission to make construction safe for all New Yorkers, and we are determined to hold landlords accountable for the accuracy of their applications – no matter who they are," the department said in a statement emailed to NPR.

But Christine Taylor, a spokeswoman for Kushner Cos., contradicted what the city's Building Department told NPR.

"No fines were assessed against the company today," Taylor said in an email to NPR.

She acknowledged that "there were some violations issued for paperwork errors" but said "the company relied on third party consultants for the preparation of these forms and if in error they have been corrected or will be."

Despite denying the fines, she says that Kushner Cos. plans to present "the facts before an administrative law judge and until then no amount is due, if any."

Also under scrutiny is an investment group led by Trump's former attorney, Michael Cohen. The New York Times reported that Cohen's business allegedly submitted false construction permits for three Manhattan properties. In each instance, according to a report by the Housing Rights Initiative, the Cohen group reported buildings "were vacant or without rent-regulated tenants, when they were occupied and many of the tenants had rental protections."

Concerning one building in the Lower East Side, the _Times_ reported:

  "At 172 Rivington Street, for example, the Cohen group indicated that there were no rent-regulated tenants in the 20-unit building, after the company purchased it in October 2011 for $2.1 million. But records indicated that there were 19 protected tenants there, but only 11 remained after the Cohen group sold the building three years later for $10 million."

In July, a group of current and former rent-stabilized tenants in one of the Kushner Cos.' Williamsburg, Brooklyn, developments, filed a lawsuitclaiming they were deliberately exposed to toxic smoke and other unsafe conditions. They argue it was to get them to move out so the apartments could be sold as high-price condos.

Shortly after the lawsuit was filed, NPR reported New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo launched an investigation into the business practices of the Kushner Cos. That investigation is ongoing.

question: What does the text say about New York Governor Andrew Cuomo?

question: Summarize the historical context around this news event.

answer: Various of Trump's associates are being linked to illegal activities. Jared Kushner is the son in law and presidential advisor to President Trump, when he was CEO of Kushner Cos. his company submitted illegal paperwork before renovating at 12 addresses. Trump's former lawyer is also under scrutiny for submitting false construction permits for three Manhattan properties.

question: Summarize the views of the opposing sides.

answer: New York City regulators hit Kushner Cos. with a fine for failing to report the correct number of rent-controlled tenants at 12 of their properties. This requirement safeguards tenants from steep rental increases or from being driven out after the properties are renovated. However, a spokesperson for the company said that it only received some violations for paperwork and that the amount of the fine has not been set and that a third party is responsible for the paperwork.

question: Summarize the role of the New York City Department of Buildings in the news.

answer: The New York City Department of Buildings says that Kushner Cos. routinely falsified real estate paperwork by under-reporting, or not reporting, rent-regulated tenants living in its buildings, despite renting to hundreds of them. The requirement is a safeguard to protect tenants from steep rental increases or from being driven out to make way for higher-paying tenants. Protecting tenants is a key part of the mission of the Department of Buildings.


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DALEL SINGH was the king of Karnpura during the 17th century. He shifted his capital from Sisai in Tandwa, which is now in Chatra district, to Badam, which is now in Hazaribagh District, in 1685.

He built a huge palace for protection from the Mughal Empire. According to his book, _Shiv Sagar_, he shifted his capital from Sisai to Badam for protection from Mughal invasion.[1] He was also a poet and wrote poems in Nagpuri.[2]

King of Palamau Jaikishan Rai and Dalel Singh captured the Tori which was in possession of Nagvanshi king after a battle. Jaikishan Rai attacked Ramgarh as Dalel Singh gave shelter to Ranjit Rai. Dalel Singh died in battle. Then a descendant of Dalel Singh invaded and captured Palamau.[3]

[1]

[2]

[3]

title: Dalel Singh (king)

question: When did Singh move his capital?

answer: 1685

question: When was Singh born?

answer: That information can't be found, but probably sometime in the 17th century

question: What is the name of Singh's book?

answer: Shiv Sagar

question: How did Singh die?

answer: In battle

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: Dalel Singh was the king of Karnpura during the 17th century. He moved his capital from Sisai to Badam in 1685. He wrote a book titled Shiv Sagar and also wrote poems in Nagpuri. He died in battle.


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The only player in FLORIDA GATORS basketball history to win an NCAA Championship and NBA title, forward COREY BREWER signed a three-year, $15 million contract with the MINNESOTA TIMBERWOLVES in the offseason and will return to the team that selected him with the No. 7 overall pick in the 2007 NBA DRAFT.

After a three-year career at Florida that included the first triple-double in school history, two NCAA titles and the 2007 NCAA Final Four Most Outstanding Player award, Brewer began playing as a professional with Minnesota but struggled after a torn ACL forced him to miss the majority of the 2008-09 season.

A trade resulted in Brewer being waived, but a subsequent contract signing brought him all the way to the 2011 NBA Finals with Dallas. He has spent the last three years with Denver following a second trade and raised his value by playing in George Karl’s up-tempo system. One of the most coveted free agents on the open market (after the top-tier players got snatched up this offseason), Brewer chose to reunite with Minnesota. But before that season can begin, he will return to Gainesville, FL, to host the fourth annual Corey Brewer Back-to-Back Basketball Camp benefiting the Corey Brewer Fight Diabetes Fund at Shands Hospital.

ONLYGATORS.COM sat down with Brewer on Sunday to discuss his college legacy, NBA career and his charitable endeavors.

ADAM SILVERSTEIN: _Growing up in Tennessee, what was it about Florida and head coach BILLY DONOVAN that made you decide that playing for the Gators was the right choice for your future as a basketball player?_
COREY BREWER: “First of all, when I came on my official visit and I saw the campus, I was like, man, this is so wonderful. The campus was beautiful. It was just amazing. Everybody was so nice. Coach Donovan and his style of play, playing up-and-down the court, it was perfect for me. Even though I wanted to stay close to home, Tennessee was playing slow at the time and I just did not feel like I fit into Vanderbilt’s system. Florida was definitely the place for me.”

AS: _Did you know any of the other guys in your recruiting class before committing?_
CB:AL [HORFORD] from Nike camps a little bit, and I knew TAUREAN [GREEN]. He was trying to get me to commit hard when we were at camps together over the summer. Taurean committed first and he was like, ‘Come on, we need you, we need you, you need to go ahead and commit.’ I heard that for a week straight and got to know him well. I didn’t know JO[AKIM NOAH] too well though.”

AS: _What did you think about Jo the first time you met him?_
CB: “This guy is just a free spirit, a good guy. When we first met, we were playing in the gym and he came in and started working hard. You could just tell he was a good guy.”

AS: _I’ve asked Taurean before what was the funniest moment he remembered having with Jo. What he told me was something I remember seeing with my own eyes, you four walking into Turlington Plaza and Jo leading the pack with this big silver boom box over his right shoulder. Is that also the funniest thing you remember him doing, or do you have something else to reflect back on?_
CB: “That’s probably one of the funniest things. We were these four little nerdy freshmen with this boom box walking around campus. Nobody knew who we were at first when we got on campus. It was Summer B. Nobody knew us. It wasn’t even basketball season, it was football season. That was really funny, and it’s good to remember those times. Jo would always make us laugh even when we were trying to be serious or look cool.”

AS: _When the Gators started the 2005-06 season, you guys were unranked in the polls and nationally everyone thought Florida was in for a down year. At what point during that season did you and your teammates realize that something special was going on?_
CB: “After we won the Coaches vs. Cancer Classic. Taurean was playing out of his mind, and I think he won MVP of that event. We were in New York, and we were just clicking on all cylinders. I think we won 17-straight. We felt good. We did not know how far it would go, but we knew if we got into the tournament we could make a run…and we made more than a run.”

AS: _You recorded the first triple-double in school history during that season in a game against Jacksonville in December. Does that performance stand out to you when you look back on your UF career?_
CB: “It was just one of the good games I had at Florida. What I really remember is all of the winning and having fun with the guys. When you get into the tournament, I feel like I remember all the tournament games because every game was do or die.”

AS: _After winning that first title, there was a lot of talk about you, Al and Jo all declaring for the draft. Jo would have been the No. 1 overall pick, and both you and Al would have been top-20 selections. They have both talked about your decision to come back to school being the clincher because of what you had to give up in order to pursue a second ring. How tough of a decision was it for you to turn down money that could have been a huge help to your family, and why did you ultimately decide to return?_ [_Editor’s Note:_ Brewer’s father, Ellis “Pee Wee” Brewer, had numerous medical problems including diabetes. He passed away in Feb. 2012 at the age of 68.]
CB: “It was a tough decision. I thought I was doing to declare, but we were having so much fun. Being on the Florida campus was amazing. You feel like it’s home. You don’t want to leave home again, I guess you could say. So I went home to Tennessee that summer and talked to my dad, told him I thought I was going to declare. He said, ‘Don’t do it for me. Do what makes you happy. I’ve lived my life. I’m 60-some years old. You don’t have to go to the NBA for me. Go for yourself.’ I had to think about it. When I went back to campus, I thought about us all coming in together and how we should all leave together. ‘One for all, all for one.’ At the time, Taurean wouldn’t have declared, so I decided to go back to school. It was the right thing to do.”

AS: _I remember you guys talking about making the final decision pretty close to that celebration in the O’Dome. Did you decide in your meeting with Coach Donovan, or did you know beforehand and tried to surprise him?_
AS: “We decided together before the meeting. We knew what we were going to do before we told coach. Coach told us to leave because we were all projected to be lottery picks or at least top-20 picks. Jo would have been the No. 1 pick. So in my mind it was like, if you want to go, we can go. You’re going to be the No. 1 pick. We’re all going to be first-round picks. There was no pressure. But we decided it was too much fun. We knew we could do it again. The only way we would come back is if we’re going to do it again. And we all agreed that we can do it again. We knew we could keep playing like we were playing.”

AS: _I’m sure the feeling of winning that first national title was special, but I remember seeing the smile on your face and the excitement on the stage when all four of you announced you were coming back for your junior seasons during the championship celebration in the Stephen C. O’Connell Center. What did it feel like to get that type of reaction – so much love and applause – from your fans and fellow students?_
CB: “It felt great. The fans went crazy, absolutely nuts. We were just so happy. Everybody was happy. It’s the best feeling when you can make everybody happy. One decision made everybody happy. It worked out for everybody. Campus was crazy for another year. We won another championship, the football team winds up winning a national championship. It was the best year ever.”

AS: _That second championship run was obviously very special, and it culminated with you winning Most Outstanding Player for the 2007 NCAA Final Four. What was it like to first win the title and then realize you were being singled out for how well you played in those last two games?_
CB: “It was crazy. I wasn’t even thinking about the MOP award; I was thinking about we won again, we did it again. I was happy about that, too, but I just wanted to tell my dad how much I loved my dad because that never would have happened if he didn’t tell me what he told me. It was amazing to do it again, and it was because of him, so I had to thank him in that moment and tell him how much I loved him.”

AS: _How is your relationship these days with your former teammates and coaches? Are you still close with the guys and Coach Donovan? Do you speak to them often?_
CB: “I talk to Coach Donovan a little bit, I wouldn’t say a lot, because he’s got his own guys to develop now. We still have a great relationship though. I still have a great relationship with jo, Al and Taurean. We try to talk whenever we can. When we see each other, it’s just like nothing’s ever changed.”

AS: _When I interviewed Al and Taurean in the past, they both said you are by far the toughest person to get ahold of on a regular basis. What’s the deal?_
CB: “Who, me? _Laughing_ I do always change my number, so they may think I’m the toughest to get in touch with. But somebody always finds my number, so it works out.”

AS: _Is the last time all four of you were together at Taurean’s wedding two years ago?_
CB: “Taurean’s wedding? I’m not sure. I was just together with Al. Me, Taurean and Jo were just together last summer in Los Angeles. That may have been the last time all four of us were together. We always try to do something every summer though. We still haven’t thought about this summer yet. We usually try to go to a football game – the first game is usually right before we have to report – so we usually try to go.”

AS: _OK, let’s talk about your NBA career. What was the toughest adjustment you had to make when you started playing during your first few seasons with Minnesota?_
CB: “Playing slow, going into the post every possession and not running, walking the ball up the court. It was so hard. It was tough for me to adjust. I had a rough first two years in the league because it took a while to get used to the pace of the game.”

AS: _When you got hurt and it derailed some of your progress, did you kind of feel that you had lost your place in how the team was being built going forward? You were a big part of it and then shortly after you came back, you weren’t starting as much and obviously eventually you got traded._
CB: “We had a new general manager, so I knew when Kevin McHale was gone, I was going to be out of there. When David Kahn came, he was getting rid of everybody that McHale had put on the team. I was the last one to go. It was down to me and Kevin Love left, and I knew Kevin Love wasn’t going anywhere. I knew I would be out of there eventually, and I got traded.”

AS: _When you got traded as part of the blockbuster Carmelo Anthony deal and wound up with him on New York, that was obviously a strange situation because there was never really the intention of you playing for the Knicks. You eventually went on to win the title with Dallas that season. Can you discuss how that all played out?_
CB: “It was good, actually. I didn’t wind up in New York because it was a situation where I knew I wasn’t going to be playing. I asked Donnie Walsh [the Knicks’ general manager] for a buyout, and he let me get a buyout. I was happy he was

question: Summarize Corey Brewer's career transition from Florida to Dallas.

answer: Brewer played at the Florida campus (Florida Gators) as a college student for three years. He won two NCAA titles and was the 2007 NCAA Final Four Most Outstanding Player award. Brewer declined the draft (to the NBA) to stay with the Gators for a while, a decision that landed the school the first triple-double in its history thanks to Brewer's heroics. From there Brewer was bought by the Minnesota Timberwolves but suffered an injury that caused him to be sold to the Knicks. He bought out his own contract with the Knicks and signed with Dallas, winning a title with them.


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-- A Deadly Yellow Leaf with The Professor --

Because I am an inquisitive man, I once went out to Texas in search of a fractal tree. A fellow professor had told me there existed a maple species, in a certain part of Texas, that dropped yellow leaves which looked exactly like the trees they came from - a leaf's little veins would match its tree's branches - and I had to see for myself. I caught a plane to the Dallas Airport. And I opted for a tour-bus instead of renting a car, for it was the early 90's, and I had a week off with no obligation to be anywhere.

We rode up to the area where the alleged fractal tree was lurking, and when the bus stopped at a deserted park in a forest, about twenty passengers, including myself, got off to wander around. And now - as this is a kind of detective story for inquisitive people - I will not waste time with all the details. Here's what happened: the bus needed gasoline and went on to a rest area with the promise of return in two hours; most of the passengers went with it; but exactly six people remained in the park and I was one of them. Also, it is safe to assume that everything I write here is true. My intention is not to hood-wink you, but to give you a puzzle worth solving.

Now, I was standing with a yellow leaf extended in my hand, as if I were holding a pistol, with one eye closed while I tried to sight the leaf's veins to any of the maples in the park. When one tree did not match (I never found such a phenomenon) I would simply rotate to the next closest tree on the right. I turned and turned for about ten minutes. And I was so engaged that, when a loud crack rang out through the silent air of the park, I almost ignored it - but then a shadow somewhere in front of me slumped to the ground.

And this is the hole in my story: the one second between the actual event, and the instant I realized that a woman had just been shot. Anything that takes one second may have occurred. Someone could have slipped something into their pocket or their purse, but no one could have disappeared. Someone could have dropped a weapon, but no one could have hauled back and thrown a weapon far into the woods. I say this because I am indeed an inquisitive man, and when necessary I can absorb all the information of my senses, so, as the silhouette slumped to the ground in front of me, I became perfectly aware of the four other people - the non-me, non-murdered people - in the park.

"Drop it!" one man shouted, and he pulled a revolver from his pocket and pointed it at my stomach. "I don't know how you did it, and I don't want to know!"

And another man, too, after hesitating for a moment, pulled out a Luger pistol and leveled it at my face.

"He killed her with a yellow leaf!" he shouted. "He killed her with a yellow leaf!"

We were all between ten and twenty yards from each other - you might imagine a hexagon with the dead woman at one point and the rest of us at the other five points - but now the others came close together and I dropped my yellow leaf in front of them. There were: (1) an older, gray-haired woman; (2) a younger, attractive woman; (3) a blond man who had the revolver; and (4) a brown-haired man who had the Luger pistol; (aside from myself and the murdered woman).

Now, as an inquisitive man, I have learned to think on my feet, and I quickly persuaded my fellow travelers that I was obviously not the killer - the yellow leaf was not a weapon, but in fact proved my innocence. They all agreed. And the two men, one hesitating more than the other, even allowed me to confiscate their guns. And I confess that, as each of them realized I was not an assassin, I felt more than relief. I felt professional pride. For watching people come to an understanding is a great delight, and it is why I became a professor even at such a young age. But nonetheless we were still five people, like any others, who were alarmed and anxious that a murderer was among us.

I asked the Texans if they had any other weapons, and when they all said no, I suggested a search of their persons - and I found a tiny revolver in the young, attractive woman's purse. It was a mouse-gun, poorly manufactured by a Soviet company I had never heard of, with the kind of cheap bullets that would get stuck in a watermelon or miss it entirely if fired from more than five yards away. But it was still a gun. And when I realized that she had lied to me I felt an immediate sexual desire for her - I also found a switch-blade in the blond man's pocket, but for him I felt no such attraction.

"Let's search for another dropped pistol," I suggested.

It gave us something to do, and we milled through the park together, keeping our eyes on each other, sliding our feet over the multitudinous yellow leaves. We found nothing. And after half an hour, I determined, conclusively, that the murder weapon must be among the three I was holding, for there were too many trees to give a lurker a shot from distance, and I had given myself enough angles to be sure no one else was hiding any closer.

By human curiosity, we ended up at last at the body of the dead woman, who was lying on her side in the leaves. The small entry hole in her back was centered, surreally, both between her shoulders and hips and between her two sides. And the exit wound, centered again under her breasts, was expanded and grotesque. We stared for too long. And I have since spoken with soldiers and assassins, who told me that, although shooting someone in the back is cowardly, it does have a certain aesthetic effect on the body.

I suggested we look for a bullet or a bullet-casing, because we needed a distraction, and even though we all thought that it would be impossible to find them, we went shuffling around again for another forty minutes. And again we found nothing - but this did not prove that no such bullet or casing was there, for these things are just too small to find in a park covered with yellow leaves. We re-huddled by the road where the bus had stopped, and the older gray-haired woman spoke up.

"Well, if we didn't find a gun and we didn't find a bullet," she said, "then maybe no one murdered that woman."

"Look," said the brown-haired man, who had once held the Luger. "I don't know what's going on here, but there aren't even any bullets in my gun. It's just like a souvenir that I bought off an old Nazi in Mexico, and I only took it out of my pack so no one on the bus would steal it if they went through my things. It never even came with but one bullet - and I took that out and lost it in Mexico City."

I dismantled his Luger in my hands, so they all could see. It was a beautiful old weapon with 1938 stamped on the top and matching numbers everywhere except the magazine - and sure enough there was not a single bullet or casing.

"That's interesting," said the blond man, "because there are also no bullets in the revolver I gave you. My wife doesn't want me to accidentally hurt myself, so I keep the bullets separately. I shot that gun yesterday at a gun range and then I put all my bullets away in my pack, which is on the bus."

I opened this gun too in front of them. It was a Smith and Wesson and was much less well-cared for than the Luger, with a bent centerpin and a bent extractor rod that made opening the wheel a challenge - but every cylinder in the wheel was indeed empty.

"My little revolver doesn't have any bullets either!" cried out the young, attractive woman.

I opened this up and found one empty cylinder, two cylinders with bullet casings, and two cylinders with unfired bullets. And the young woman, whose face had colored with a rush of blood, was staring at me with eyes like hot, sharp emeralds while the autumn wind rustled her hair. She had lied to me twice, now. And the amorous effect it produced in me ended my search for fractal trees - as it was obvious that she was not the murderer, and because I am, after all, an inquisitive and persuasive man, I convinced her afterward to take the bus back south and spend a weekend with me in a border town, where we both had an extremely pleasurable time.

But as for the murder, it was the strange result of a quarrel between two married gang-members who had both been unfaithful to each other during a recent smuggle through Nuevo Laredo. And the murderer simply could not wait. He took the first chance he had, which was not a very good one. It seemed he had originally planned on just running off through the woods. But then he thought he might get another gun and leave no witnesses, except that I had the yellow leaf and I spoke first. I went from being a distraction to the collector of the weapons. And then it was too late, no matter what story he told. Four of us later testified in a court of law, and I had made certain the pistols ended up with the authorities, and when the ballistics team eventually found the bullet the man was easily convicted - so, in a way, it might be said that he was "killed with a yellow leaf", because Texas still implements the death penalty.

&nbsp;

-- Solution --

The attractive young woman's revolver lacks both the accuracy and the power to have been the murder weapon. The Professor rules her out, and the language at the end of the story makes it clear that the murderer was a man. So, there are two suspects: the blond man who had the revolver, and the brown-haired man who had the Luger pistol.

When a bullet is fired from a revolver, the bullet-casing remains in the wheel inside the pistol. It would require extraordinary finesse and a customized weapon to remove a bullet casing from a revolver in one second - it would have been impossible with the blond man's Smith and Wesson, which The Professor notes had a *bent centerpin and a bent extractor rod that made opening the wheel a challenge*.

But, as with other semi-automatic pistols, when a Luger is fired the bullet-casing is ejected as a result of the mechanism. This is the only pistol that could have delivered a single shot and then been empty. This therefore is the murder weapon and the brown-haired man is the murderer. The reader who has reasoned this far has effectively solved the mystery.

However, those readers who are more familiar with pistols may notice a problem. A semi-automatic weapon, like a Luger, should lock open after firing the last round. These readers are correct. But some Lugers from around the WWII era may fail to lock open for two possible reasons: (1) modern US ammo sometimes does not blow the toggle back far enough, or (2) more commonly, a replacement magazine may not fit correctly, failing to engage the hold open after a last round is fired - The Professor notes that the Luger had *matching numbers everywhere except the magazine*.

&nbsp;

-- This story originally had to be solved by the reader, but after feedback I put the solution in, too. Did you enjoy it more with the solution? Or was it better figuring it out yourself? --

title: [MS] A Deadly Yellow Leaf (8-minute story) - can you figure out who the murderer was?

question: What does the text say about weapons?

answer: Weapons are mentioned because a woman in the story got shot. There are three hand guns carried by three people in the story. One is a poorly manufactured revolver from a soviet company, one is a Smith and Wesson revolver, and one is a Luger. The luger was the murder weapon.

question: What does the text say about bullets?

answer: All of the bullets mentioned in the story are for pistols. There are cheap bullets in one revolver. The three people with guns in the story all claim their guns don't have any bullets in them but the woman was lying. A bullet made an entry and exit wound on the woman who was murdered.

question: What does the text say about the Professor's family?