Question: I ducked, Cerberus pounced, and Mr. Waciejowski screamed like a dying ferret--a soothing and pleasant sound under most other circumstances, but now only distracting. I felt the rush of air against my face as the crowbar skimmed my head. The man wielding it was in a black three-piece suit and built like a Texas linebacker. His mass seemed to bend space-time in the parking lot as he barreled down on me. All I could see was nearly seven feet of Armani silk. I stood upright and brought my knee into his groin and gave him a swift elbow in the small of his back and a fist to the base of his skull. Now, I wasn't the biggest guy in the world, but I certainly wasn't the smallest either. And I was also acutely aware of how much damage I could do to another human being. But this hulking mass in Italian finery didn't even seem phased. The blows I sent this guy should have dropped him like a bag of wet cement, but he just turned and hamstringed me with that damn crowbar. I fell so hard that one of my teeth chipped. The box flew out of my grip and landed just a few feet away. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Pete on the ground, fumbling with his cell phone while Cerberus mauled another suit trying to sneak up behind me. If the fall hadn't knocked the wind out of me, seeing Cerberus tear into this guy certainly would have. The dog was all fangs and fur, making sounds like construction machinery. Thick and heavy. The guy was screaming all kinds of nonsense as he kept his shredded arms in front of his face and neck. Blood and fabric flew about as the animal tossed its head in violent arcs. According to the above context, answer the following question. When Mr. Waciejowski screamed?
OPTIONS:
- After the fight started.
- After the narrator fell
- After the animal tossed its head
- not enough information
Answer: After the fight started.

input with options: Much like the Grand Old Duke of York, who had ten thousand men and marched them up to the top of the hill, and then marched them down again, I can't get enough of York (because he visited repeatedly, that was obvious, right?) Having visited nearly half a dozen times over the years, and somehow not managing to share it on my blog over the years, I would say that although you could visit from London for the day, I wouldn't. Go for a minimum of an overnight stay, or a few days if you can. Witness a misty morning, and a candy coloured sunset, wander out into the Dales or slip in a seaside visit somewhere like Scarborough, and really get to know the ancient city. Alas, I haven't really learned how to take my own advice, but hot on the end of a family visit in Lincolnshire we were lucky enough to spend sometime with one of my favourite expats on Yorkshire (ok, ok, I only know two, but they are definitely in the top two of that limited ranking system). It was of course Amanda, her fabulous husband Sam and we got to meet their gorgeous new addition to the family, a mischevious Dachshund pup who goes by the name of Harold. Instagram was alive with "OOOOOOOH MY GOD YOU GOT TO MEET HAROLLLLLD" Forget being a rockstar in this day and age, puppy dog eyes are all you need to make ladies weep and then squeal into their keyboards. We tumbled off the train, cheeks ruddy from the fresh the North Sea breezes (fresh from visiting the Seal colony with a litany of pups at Donna Nook, and nibbling fish and chips with the family in Cleethorpes) and went wandering. I'm going to make a big claim here if you're travelling through the UK and can only fit in one city visit outside of London, York or perhaps Bath would be excellent choices. Compact enough to really explore, full of ancient buildings and history, and good cake. What more do you even need? According to the above context, answer the following question. What did the author eat on his visit?
OPTIONS:
- cake
- fish and chips
- seal pups
- not enough information
output: fish and chips

Q: Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain. Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked. I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me. "Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys." "So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?" "It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out." "It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose." He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news." A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up. "You've got business. I'll leave you to it." "It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough." He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside. They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. According to the above context, answer the following question. Who told the cops about the man's house?

OPTIONS:
- Pete
- Preacher
- not enough information
- the narrator

A:
not enough information