Q: He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio. "Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars. "I don't really know." "You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately. "I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins." "Those sins being...?" "I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?" This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time. "It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us." "You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?" "Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?" "In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely. "Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." Why did the author ask about Philip's music? A. not enough information B. The author was curious why he chose to listen to it. C. The author was used to hearing it when they spent time together D. The author knew he didn't prefer that type of music.
A: D

Q: Yes. 20 years ago. When I was a lot younger. I was victimised by a gang of bent police men, who arrested me and set me up to get charged with something that I did not do which I believe was connected to other criminals who live in my area, who I believe were connected to a gang of DJ's who were involved stealing intellectual and copyright works from me (likely their party organisers and drug dealer buddies). I was sent to court and found guilty based on no evidence by a magistrate court judge who was later struck off for corruption after defrauding an old lady of over a million pounds! I was not put in prison for this minor offense but did receive a minor criminal record. This criminal records the same DJ's and bent ex-police have used to ruin my reputation and career. One of the bent policemen, who incidentally had already been thrown out of the police force for car insurance fraud, even turned up at the uni I went to and spread vicious slander to ruin me there, and in the area that I lived at the time. I was then victimised by the people at the famous college that I went to and all my intellectual and copyright works stolen. Which I note, generated millions for others. Once they made their money and gained credibility on the back of my hard work, innovation and some may say genius, the thieves then did all they could to ruin my reputation in the entertainment industry and in the area that I live. Making my life extremely hard for no more reason than having my work stolen. If I wasn't so tough, and for a few people left who have at least some integrity, I would be dead now, like the rest of their victims. I have lost respect for quite a few people who I used to think were really talented. I now understand where there talent comes from Shame on them. What is probably true about the magistrate after the story ends? A. the magistrate works as a probation officer B. not enough information C. the magistrate earns another degree and is well respected D. the magistrate never works as a judge again
A: D

Q: The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. Who had a gray suit on? A. not enough information B. The narrator C. Dennis D. The secretary
A: C