November always dragged around the station, but today was one dead Sunday. Not one car pulled off the interstate all morning. Nothing hit the drive but a thin steady rain, puddling slow rainbows in the oil. Me and Harnie just tilted back our chairs against the cigarette rack, watched the monster movie, and waited for the game to start. The big flying turtle was about set to barbeque downtown Tokyo when the drive bell rang, and up sluiced a car so damn gorgeous it hurt to look at it. A '37 Buick Roadmaster it was, painted a red so rich it was nearly black, that straight eight engine whispering like a lover while teardrops of rain rolled down the chrome grill. Out climbed this tall fellow, dressed like God's grandpa done up for a wedding or a funeral. His skin was brown as a buckwheat cake, with creases deep as drainage ditches. Took a mighty long stretch of sweat and toil, love and birth and dying, to carve a face like that. He flexed his shoulders, then rolled his neck till it cracked. He pulled a pack of Camel straights from inside his vest and flipped one out. "Got a light?" His voice was deep and warm, half gravel, half honey. I tossed him a pack of matches through the open door; he caught it left-handed, then flipped it open, folded over a match, and struck it with his thumb. "This the town with the dead fiddler?" he said after a long drag on the smoke. "You might say so," I said, ignoring the look Harnie gave me. Nobody talked about her; I wondered how this fellow had even heard about her. "Ain't a fiddle, though. It's a cello, like in the symphony." The stranger shrugged. "Close enough." "She ain't d-dead, neither," Harnie said. "M-more sleeping, like." He puffed out a wreath of smoke. Then another. "Let's go wake her up," he said. "You best not try, mister," I said. "She been sleeping for thirty some year." The main character is: Pick the correct answer from the following options: - musician - asleep - not enough information - mechanic
mechanic
"To be real honest, Jeffrey, you're not making much progress," said Greg. "Are you practicing at all?" "Well, yeah. Mom makes me. She sits there watching to make sure I'm getting the right fingering and phrasing." "Hmm. I might need to talk to her about that." Greg hated when kids were forced into musicianship. He had been teaching private music lessons for more than ten years, and had seen it often. Parents made their kids miserable. It rarely worked anyway. "You don't really want to take piano, do you?" "No, Sir." "Well... " "I wish my mom would let me take guitar lessons. That would be cool." "You know you'd get calluses like this." Greg held out left hand and showed Jeffrey his fingertips. "Yeah! My friend, Zach, has calluses. They're hard like plastic." "Well, you know, it hurts for a while--until you build them up." "I don't care. I love the guitar. I've been begging Mom to switch me from piano to guitar." "I'll talk to her." "Great! I already have a guitar and--" "--don't get too excited yet. We'll see what she says." "Thanks, Mr. Tenorly." He jumped up and ran for the front door. Then he stopped, rushed back over to grab his piano books, and raced out the door. Greg's 3:30 lesson had been cancelled, so he now had a thirty minute break. Oftentimes, during a break, he would step outside and wander down the sidewalk, observing the townspeople going in and out of the shops around Coreyville Square. But something was bugging him. His dad's birthday party was only a few days away. He hoped he wouldn't regret letting Cynthia talk him into going. How long did the lesson probably last? Pick the correct answer from the following options: - one hour - not enough information - 3 hours - 10 minutes
one hour
*Question*
I remember back in the late 1970’s when I first started investing in property as a young guy, being taken to a house that felt EXTREMELY cold, strange, and rather chilling. Okay it was an older house that need some renovation work, but there was something about the place that just did not seem right. But despite that, it was available for purchase at what seemed to be a very attractive price … always a good starting point. Anyway, the real estate agent finished taking me around the property answering the questions that I had, and I left with a plan to do some costings before making a decision. But something was niggling me and making me feel a little uncomfortable, so I decided to investigate the property further. A couple of days later I was around at a friends house. He was in the Police force and as it happened he was in the same neighbourhood, I mentioned this particular property that I was looking at buying. He asked me the actual address after which he ‘kindly’ informed me that that that house had been the scene of a murder 6 months previously. It turned out that the property had been rented to a homosexual couple and that after an argument, one had murdered the other in the bath and then proceeded to cut his head off. Apparently the head was subsequently discovered a week later in the trunk of a car that had been abandoned up by a local golf-course. Less than impressed that the real estate agent had been less than forthcoming with me, I made the decision to not to proceed with the purchase. As they say in the property business ‘Location, Location, Location’ is always an important factor in determining the value of a property. However despite that being a good location, it was reputation that deterred me on that occasion. Sometimes there are situations where even the best makeover will not work. The main character thinks the house: Pick the correct answer from the following options: - not enough information - old - ugly - creepy
**Answer**

creepy