Write a question from the passage such that it identifies a character (a person or a thing) in the passage.

Input: Consider Input: The sweet taste of cold and wood smoke hung in the air. Marlin rode low in the saddle, his shoulders curled against the hungry wind. His hat was pulled down tight and his eyes didn't move as he passed the crude shacks at the edge of town.
He tied his horse in front of the saloon, unwinding his long body as if a sudden movement might snap it. He turned down the collar of his greatcoat and checked to make sure his big Army Colt was loose in its holster. The saloon door was a single chunk of white pine, still oozing sap, and he had to put his shoulder to it to force it open.
The long room inside was quiet, and not much warmer than the street. Clusters of people sat nursing coffee and drinks, talking quietly if they talked at all. Marlin spotted a few farmers the railroad had brought in from Europe: rounded hats, nervous eyes, skin as red as blood. At the far end of the room a half-dozen cowboys turned over cards with patient boredom.
Marlin walked up to the bar. "Whiskey," he said, and when the drink came he tossed it straight down and felt it pull his lips into a grimace. He nodded for a refill.
When he turned to face the room they were all watching him. "I'm looking for a man named Kraamer," Marlin said. "Anybody here know of him?"
One of the cowboys turned casually and rang the spittoon with a stream of tobacco juice. Marlin knew the long, thin face from somewhere, the blond hair that fell limply to his shoulders. He smiled at Marlin and showed his brown-stained teeth.
Marlin felt the lines in his own face, the gray in his hair, the chill in his bones. He was too old for this. He set a half dollar on the bar and started for the door.
"Don't get in a huff," the bartender said. Marlin looked back. "Kraamer lives about a mile west of town. Follow the railroad and take the first trail south."

Output: Who rode low in the saddle?

Input: Consider Input: In September, a new and widely advertised school opened its doors in the capital city - the Part-time Evening Elementary School. You could read in its beautifully printed brochure that the school was designed to help all those "children of wealthy parents, who are too busy to learn during the day due to the time spent on the difficult task of maintaining our country's high ranking in the very competitive field of computer games."
In other words: when a parent wanted to have some peace and quiet, he or she would leave the kid at home in front of the computer with a bag of chips. When the kid had enough, which normally happened in the evening, he would go to school for about two hours.
The creator of PEES and its first principal was Krzycho Jedynak, a former junior high PE teacher in Potylica, a computer games fan and the winner of, as we could read in the beautifully printer brochure, "a local Amiga gaming championship". Understanding exactly the needs of his future students, he planned to open classes of the following profiles: platform PSP (one group), platform PC (three groups), platform GB (one) and platform Mac (cancelled due to a lack of interest).
The school received an astonishing number of applications (four for each spot), which meant that many kids spent their days playing computer games and that many parents wanted time for themselves. To be accepted, young candidates had to demonstrate their social and psychological maturity and computer instincts, evaluated according to a patented method developed by Mr. Jedynak. The parents, on the other hand, had to pass an exam in using a joystick and provide a proof of income of at least 7000 zloty per month for a young family member.
During the registration process was so competitive, it ended in violence. A disappointed father of a child who didn't get in, shouted that only VIP brats had been accepted, for which he got hit in the face by editor Furtok, in private - a father of a kid who got in to group B2/platform PC.

Output: Who had the idea of PEES?

Input: Consider Input: The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
Output: Who was the peroxide-blonde women arguing with?