input: OPTIONS:
- Scut
- The narrator
- Shan
- not enough information Now, answer this question: Is not necessarily worth two of anything, anywhere else. But it can certainly be a heck of a lot of fun. During my days as an inmate in Bridges House at the University of New Brunswick, I shared this space with about 99 other testosterone-addled 'young adults' whose charming tendency to get completely out of hand was barely held in check by the rod of authority of the Don and Resident Fellow. This is not to say that these two worthies weren't good at their jobs; more accurately, their task was more akin to herding cats -- fairly obtuse, barely socialized cats. Given the state of controlled chaos that existed, it wasn't unusual for little conflicts to arise from time to time. Being rather physically small and odd, I came in for a certain amount of abuse from someone called Scut, a large and obnoxious Newfie (hmmm, that's like saying that water is wet). I can't remember what it was he did to me, but it was serious enough that I decided to get my own back. It's been said that revenge is a dish best enjoyed cold. I think revenge is a dish best enjoyed in secret with no chance of counter-revenge to spoil the occasion. And so it was that I laid my plans against Scut. The occasion and place were set. My means of entry was secured. Now I needed material. For me, the only good fish is a live one. Even though I hale from NB, I really don't like free-swimming seafood. Considering the unimaginative cuisine of my youth, it's surprising that I eat anything at all. So with dead, smelly fish in mind, I persuaded my friend Shan to pick one up when he was down at the Saturday Farmer's Market. He returned with a four-pound shad, frozen solid. Shad has even more bones than other fish and you'll never see it featured on any cooking show (except maybe Iron Chef, where the disgusting and unusual seems to be standard). It took me all day to thaw out the fish in the lounge sink?#8364;?an activity which elicited howls of complaint from the guys trying to watch TV. Question: Who returned from the Farmer's Market with a four-pound fish? === The answer to the above question is
A:
output: Shan

The surgeon who had delivered my son by C-section an hour earlier stepping back from the table, and saying, "We're done, people. Good job, everyone!" That hour had been hell for everyone in the room, save only my little boy, sleeping peacefully in the warming crib, and his mother, who was just stirring from the general that had put her under about 55 minutes earlier. I had come within a few minutes, maybe seconds, of raising my boy as a single parent. Her OB/GYN had fought valliently to keep my family together, and won. Everyone who'd been awake knew exactly how close run a thing it had been. Mr. Murphy had been hanging around the whole time, and neither Doc nor mom was catching a whole lot of breaks that evening. But Doc only needed one, and he made full use thereof. One thing for all new dad's whose wives have had previous abdominal surgery. You never want to hear the muttered words, "Creative anatomy on the way out", when somebody has your wife's belly open. Those are about the worst words in the world, because they mean Doc's gotta put stuff to right in there, and he might not have what he'd like in order to get it done. But when he stands back, after the sponge count had to be done twice, and the tool count is right, and the belly is stapled closed, and everyone in the room is still breathing Just let it be known that the roving nurse has extra sponges for dad's nose. Oh yeah, and the neonatal nurses don't expect dad to change that first diaper. Maconium is nasty shit. Litterally. But I was happy to do it while talking to his groggy mom. Question: Why was the writer's wife so tired? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- because she was up all night worrying
- not enough information
- because the doctors and nurses performed so many tests
- because she just had a C-section

Answer: because she just had a C-section

I don't reckon the sun's ever come up quite the same since the day it happened. I've been watching it for years now and to me it still don't look right somehow. Maybe it's just me thinking it, sending myself doolally after what I've done. But I swear every morning it creeps up and it's looking at me, all knowing like. And when you reckon the sun's acting like that over you there isn't a right lot you can do about it, beyond burying yourself away like a mole in the soil. That's what I've been doing more or less in the score or so years that have gone by since. But however tight I shut them curtains to stop that damn sun lighting me up, it still don't stop the inside of my head from pounding out the truth. No way it's ever going to stop harassing me neither, not unless the deaf and dumb lass was to happen right back on my doorstep and give me the chance to tell her that it wasn't never meant to work out this way. The deaf and dumb lass went by the name of Mitzi Barker. Her being deaf and dumb, she was the kind of lass you went up the lane with if you didn't want no-one shouting their gob off about it after. Funny but it's the small things I recall best about her, like the way her hair reeked of bonfires and how that little old checkered dress of hers rode right up her thigh with no help from me. After we'd finished our business we'd head over the trout farm and I'd hunker down and poach us up a couple of rainbows for our tea. That Mitzi Barker, she was thin as an ear of barley and I always figured a good nosh-up was the least I could do for her troubles. Question: the author fried up a rainbow trout === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- after walking around the lake
- not enough information
- after his date with Mitzi barker
- after fishing

Answer:
after his date with Mitzi barker