November always dragged around the station, but today was one dead Sunday. Not one car pulled off the interstate all morning. Nothing hit the drive but a thin steady rain, puddling slow rainbows in the oil. Me and Harnie just tilted back our chairs against the cigarette rack, watched the monster movie, and waited for the game to start. The big flying turtle was about set to barbeque downtown Tokyo when the drive bell rang, and up sluiced a car so damn gorgeous it hurt to look at it. A '37 Buick Roadmaster it was, painted a red so rich it was nearly black, that straight eight engine whispering like a lover while teardrops of rain rolled down the chrome grill. Out climbed this tall fellow, dressed like God's grandpa done up for a wedding or a funeral. His skin was brown as a buckwheat cake, with creases deep as drainage ditches. Took a mighty long stretch of sweat and toil, love and birth and dying, to carve a face like that. He flexed his shoulders, then rolled his neck till it cracked. He pulled a pack of Camel straights from inside his vest and flipped one out. "Got a light?" His voice was deep and warm, half gravel, half honey. I tossed him a pack of matches through the open door; he caught it left-handed, then flipped it open, folded over a match, and struck it with his thumb. "This the town with the dead fiddler?" he said after a long drag on the smoke. "You might say so," I said, ignoring the look Harnie gave me. Nobody talked about her; I wondered how this fellow had even heard about her. "Ain't a fiddle, though. It's a cello, like in the symphony." The stranger shrugged. "Close enough." "She ain't d-dead, neither," Harnie said. "M-more sleeping, like." He puffed out a wreath of smoke. Then another. "Let's go wake her up," he said. "You best not try, mister," I said. "She been sleeping for thirty some year." Question: Who did the man ask for? Options: A. directions B. not enough information C. dead fiddler D. mechanic === The correct answer is
C

I don't know how this rates as "shocking", I guess it might depend on the culture in which you live, but, it is at the least "repulsive" or disgusting. There was a huge corporation in which I had a contract with. I was called in, to help them uncover what they considered "a very serious series of incidents". Their own "in house" attempts were fruitless. It turned out, they had an over-sized engineering department, and that it had been announced that this would be scaled back due to completion of contracts. Someone though, within the engineering department, was sabotaging the continued work, slowing the completion. I was to go undercover, posing as a visiting engineer from a distant plant, and find out who the perpetrator/s were, as they wished to file legal action. So, this is at the corporate headquarters, in the late 1980's. These people were making 6 figure incomes easily. That being said, you kind of expect a bit more of a dignified behavior here than you would with a construction laborer or dishwasher. I completed my job in four days, giving them the evidence and name of the lone individual respsonsible for the sabotage. What exactly was he doing? He carried rubber gloves in his back pocket, and he would periodically use the restroom, and remove his feces from the toilet and smear it all over the walls, covering as much surface as he could. He would also visit restrooms in different departments and do the same. This would cause the unionized individuals, who only had that restroom to use in their area, to walk off their work stations. Seriously, a butt-hurt guy fearing a layoff, so he decided to smear his shit all over the place before it even happened. He readily confessed when confronted by HR, further destroying his work record/career. Question: What did the investigator complete in 4 days? Options: A. not enough information B. a pizza C. a house D. his job === The correct answer is
D

Justin Nelson, Jr., pounded the last of the stakes of his new cattle pen into the dry dirt. Like sentinels, they sprouted in a line from the barn, swerved north of the stream, veered at a right angle for the stump, and followed Justin to where he stood. The cross-beams remained, after which he'd finally be done. He took a white handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his forehead. The task had been lengthened considerably, although Justin refused to admit it, by incessant thinking, an activity which often stopped him with his hammer in mid-air. But now, he would soon be able to think all he wanted from the comfort of his porch as the cattle wandered from shade to shade. After he bought some cattle, he reminded himself. Under the entirely blue vault of sky, Justin felt something pass between himself and the morning sun. His leathered face turned up to see nothing but ubiquitous light, curving toward him in all directions. He arched his aging back, feeling the popping and hating it more than usual, before wiping his neck and replacing the handkerchief. He had that feeling that he'd better drink something and sit down or he'd end up in that damn hospital again. Twice last year, whether he needed it or not, he went in for a check-up, and twice a year, some intern treated him like the village idiot. Truth be told, everyone who knew about him had treated him that way for nearly eleven years, except his niece. With a sigh escaping from the bellows of his withering chest, Justin shuffled back to the porch he had added onto his small two-room home. In the distance, a plume of dust was billowing off the road. Mail truck. Must be time for breakfast. About time I ate something. Question: Why was Justin's face like leather? Options: A. he was sick B. Because of the sun C. not enough information D. because he was dehydrated === The correct answer is
B