The young man (boy, really) played with his fingers in the garish light cast from the lone bulb in the concrete bunker. He scratched at an imaginary itch on his right hand (just below his thumb) to take his mind off the man in the lab coat who sat across from him at the beaten, scarred, wood table. It didn't work. And whoever this man in the lab coat was, he was insistent about paperwork. He had three inches clipped onto a weathered clipboard which he flipped through with precision. "Can I offer you a glass of water?" asked the boy's captor in a calm, sensitive tenor. The boy, Kurt, continued to scratch the imaginary itch, which had leapt magically from his right hand to the left. Eventually the falseness of the itch would be deduced, and the lab coated man would disappear out of the cell and return with... God knows what. He had seen torture hundreds-if not thousands-of times on TV, and he was glumly certain that there would be no commercial breaks for him. "Can I offer you a glass of water?" The question was repeated without urgency, like a forgetful waiter. The itch now leaped with the dexterity of a trained flea onto the boy's leg, and the dutiful fingers followed. He watched as the man in the lab coat, without name tag or company insignia, studied his stack of papers attached to the clipboard. Several yellow forms near the top half inch were labeled 27B. The man frowned and wrote a note on the top page. "Note: Find out who isn't duplicating 27B in Pink." "I'm sorry," he said, "I wasn't listening. Was that a yes or no to the water?" Kurt remained in his chair, almost motionless, except for the itching-and-scratching routine. It had leapt again, this time onto his scalp, and the twitching fingers followed. He wondered how long he could keep this up without drawing blood. Why does Kurt remain silent? A. He is filling in paperwork B. not enough information C. He is itchy D. He believes he will be tortured
D

I don't see a point. That's the biggest problem with my life currently. I honestly, don't see a point. Am I working towards temporary monetary gain? Is my goal supposed to be buying my dream car(s)? Is my goal spiritual? I'm currently Catholic, but I've seen how spiritually those around me have changed. I've even wondered what's the point of heaven, if everything I want is there. I like life because of the ups and the downs. I enjoy learning and discovering new things. The idea of perfection seems like an impossible concept to me. Maybe even an unenjoyable one. Maybe my goal is to have a family. Being catholic naturally we gravitate towards larger families. But as a libertarian I don't see a lot of potential in the United States at it pertains to economic freedoms. I see the government encroaching more and more into our lives. Is this the type of country I want to raise a family in? I certainly don't want to be outside the United States (no offense towards anyone outside of the U.S). Maybe my goal is political. I've always wanted to run for office. Maybe governor one day. Would I be able to avoid the waves of bipartisanship, and actually do what I believe is the best for the people of my state. Or would I collapse under the political pressures and sign up for agreements I know in my heart and mind won't help the people. Only time will tell. I just don't see a point. I actually have many goals, but I struggle to see the overall point of accomplishing any of it. Especially seeing as anything I do will be lost in the ink-blots of history. What political office does the author envision him/her self possibly running for sometime in the future? A. a general one in his/her home state B. one not previously held by a Libertarian C. not enough information D. governor of his/her state
D

*Question*
Pirate gold. Coins, rings, ingots. Necklaces of emeralds and opals and sapphires. Chalices, bracelets, daggers inlaid with diamonds and lapis and ivory. Malone rolled over in the soft hotel bed. Not just gold but the things it would buy. A two-story house of brick and wrought iron. Greek columns in front and coaches parked in the drive. Built high on the center of Galveston Island, away from the deadly storms of the Gulf, away from the noise and stink of the port. White servants and negro slaves. Fair-haired women to sit at the piano in his parlor. Dark-skinned women to open their legs to him in the secrecy of the night... He sat up in a sweat. I will think no evil thoughts, he told himself. Outside, the sun rose over New Orleans. Horse-drawn carts creaked and rattled through the streets, and chickens complained about the light. The smell of the Mississippi, damp and sexual, floated through the open window. Malone got up and put a robe on over his nightshirt, despite the heat. He turned up the gas lamp over the desk, took out pen, ink and paper, and began to write. 'My dearest Becky...' * He smelled the French Market before he saw it, a mixture of decayed fruit, coffee, and leather. He crossed Decatur Street to avoid a side of beef hung over the sidewalk, swarming with flies. Voices shouted in a dozen different languages. All manner of decrepit wooden carts stood on the street, their contents passed from hand to hand until they disappeared under the yellow canvas awnings of the market. Beyond the levee Malone could see the tops of the masts of the tall ships that moved toward the Governor Nicholl's Street Wharf. What is probably true about Malone's finances? A. He is happy with his current state of finances. B. He does not desire riches. C. not enough information D. He is not a rich man.
**Answer**
D