input: OPTIONS:
- a few hours
- 15 minutes
- a few days
- not enough information Now, answer this question: Everybody knew Shandor Marley's mother liked to spend more time flirting with serial killers than she did taking care of things at home. So when her son went round with an air rifle popping his neighbours like they were allotment pigeons, they figured all the boy really needed was a bit of attention. Shandor finally flipped one day after finding out the inbred farm boys who made his life hell most days were in fact his half-brothers. He returned home to confront his mother only to find her pritt-sticking press cuttings of the Mad Killer into a brand new scrapbook and seemingly not in the least bit concerned by her son's unexpected discovery. Luckily Shandor's shooting spree didn't do too much damage beyond putting one of his so-called new father's eyes out, which could be considered doubly unfortunate given as the so-called new father in question owned the old byre Shandor and his mother called home. After Shandor had spent enough time shut away in borstal with the kind of kids who would've sent his mother all weak at the knees, he went straight home half-expecting the byre to be boarded up with a blu-tacked note saying she was lugging her stupid arse to Texas to spring her latest psycho boyfriend from his cell on death row. Shandor was thinking how much that excuse would sit well with her as he scuffed up the stone track to the byre with a black bin-bag of belongings and a sunburned arm across his forehead to shield himself from the glare. The place looked pretty much the same as he remembered it, only three years worse off. The strip of grass outside the back door was parched yellow and paint peeled around the blown-out windows. He had a hand on the door before he knew for sure it was still lived-in. He flapped thunderbugs off his forearm and creaked open the door. The kitchen stank of stale cigarettes and the dregs of spirit bottles. Question: How long did Shandor's shooting spree likely last? === The answer to the above question is
A:
output: 15 minutes

input: OPTIONS:
- french fries
- not enough information
- poutines
- french fry mess Now, answer this question: Once, while grating potatoes to make potato pancakes, I had a Proustian moment. I can't lay claim to much in the way of literary knowledge, but I do know that Proust's 'Remembrance of Things Past' was prompted by his biting into a pastry and feeling a sense of overwhelming pleasure with no recognizable cause. In my case, I was instantly transported back to the grandmother's kitchen as she and my mother grated potatoes in order to make 'poutine rapee', also known as 'poutines'. People will immediately flash to the Quebecker ethnic food known by the same name. However, in spite of all the Franco-culinary posturing, this is really only French Fries with gravy and, oh yeah, can I have some cheese curds on that? One etymological source indicates that 'poutine' really means 'mess'. If you come from my part of the country, the Quebecker poutine is just another entry in the long list of dishes that will cause you to keel over from a myocardial infarction while shoveling a foot of snow out of the driveway shortly after you've retired; sometimes before. Nope, poutines as I know them are a different creature entirely. They seem to be more of an Acadian thing and none of my friends had even heard of them, much less eaten a single one. Because of the work involved, my mother only made poutines for special times: Christmas, say or Easter. My mother would borrow this grater that was about two feet long and she and my grandmother would set to work. Generally, they started off with an enormous paper sack of potatoes, about 25 pounds or so (We used to buy potatoes by the cartload and store them in a wooden bin in the basement. Because we were cheap labour, the kids would be sent down to retrieve a few for the family meal. It was creepy to descend into the dank cellar, feel our way through the dim obstacle course formed by my grandfather's thousands of tools and bits of wood and locate the bin. After a time in storage, the eyes on potatoes began to sprout pale tendrils and it didn't take much imagination to visualize all kinds... Question: What potato dishes has she made as an adult? === The answer to the above question is
A:
output: not enough information

input: OPTIONS:
- the horses of the desert kings
- not enough information
- Kadin's horse
- the horse of the woman in black Now, answer this question: Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself. Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men. Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman. Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound. Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night. Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them. Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. Question: Whose horse was killed? === The answer to the above question is
A:
output:
Kadin's horse