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f098_1 | f098 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | The main character believes that: | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"he himself is guilty of fraud.",
"the mayor is guilty of fraud.",
"Sharon is guilty of fraud."
] | 2 | 5 |
f098_2 | f098 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | The protagonist probably works as a: | Entity_properties | [
"politician.",
"not enough information",
"lawyer.",
"writer."
] | 3 | 6 |
f098_3 | f098 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | Who had freakish man-hands? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"Sharon",
"the mayor",
"The narrator"
] | 1 | 5 |
f098_4 | f098 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | What will be the result of the lawsuit? | Unanswerable | [
"The protagonist will win the case.",
"The protagonist will lose the case.",
"The protagonist will settle with the plaintiffs out of court.",
"not enough information"
] | 3 | 8 |
f098_5 | f098 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | What is probably true about the narrator? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"he is a revolutionist",
"he is a yuppy",
"he likes lesbians"
] | 1 | 8 |
f098_6 | f098 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | After the conversation, Sharon probably feels: | Subsequent_state | [
"neutral",
"furious",
"reassured",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 5 |
f098_7 | f098 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | Why was Sharon upset? | Causality | [
"because she got sued",
"because the narrator hadn't had his coffee yet",
"because she had freakish man hands",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 5 |
f098_8 | f098 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | After the protagonist accused the mayor of fraud, Sharon felt: | Subsequent_state | [
"sad.",
"worried",
"not enough information",
"proud."
] | 1 | 8 |
f098_9 | f098 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | What tone did the narrator use when responding to Sharon? | Factual | [
"timid",
"not enough information",
"scared",
"brash"
] | 3 | 10 |
f098_10 | f098 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | The protagonist's conversation with Sharon probably lasted: | Event_duration | [
"a few minutes.",
"several hours.",
"not enough information",
"all day."
] | 0 | 6 |
f098_11 | f098 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | How long did it probably take Sharon to confront the narrator about the situation? | Event_duration | [
"almost immediately",
"not enough information",
"several hours",
"1 week"
] | 0 | 10 |
f098_12 | f098 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | Who was publicly accused in the story? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"The mayor",
"The taxpayers",
"Sharon"
] | 1 | 8 |
f098_13 | f098 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | Where is Sharon standing at the start of the passage? | Factual | [
"In front of the mayor's desk.",
"In front of the protagonist's desk.",
"Outside City Hall.",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 9 |
f098_14 | f098 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | Who is Sharon? | Unanswerable | [
"the narrator's intern",
"the narrator's direct supervisor",
"not enough information",
"the narrator's assistant"
] | 2 | 5 |
f098_15 | f098 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | The narrator slouched further into his chair: | Temporal_order | [
"before Sharon called him a jackass",
"after Sharon called him a jackass",
"while Sharon called him a jackass",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 6 |
f098_16 | f098 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | The narrator believes that Sharon: | Belief_states | [
"plays with human corpses",
"has a lesbian lover",
"is intimidating for a woman",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 6 |
f098_17 | f098 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | "Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." | Why did the protagonist get sued? | Causality | [
"Because he accused the mayor of conspiring with powerful corporations to defraud taxpayers.",
"Because he got Sharon fired.",
"Because he forged e-mails.",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 6 |
f099_0 | f099 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | When did the twins sell the house? | Temporal_order | [
"After Jenny began working for a charitable organization.",
"After their parents died.",
"not enough information",
"After Jenny went off the graduate school."
] | 1 | 6 |
f099_1 | f099 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | How structured was Jenny's life in school? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"She dropped out of school",
"She had lots of free time",
"Very structured"
] | 3 | 7 |
f099_2 | f099 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | Did Jenny have job opportunities after completing her Master's? | Subsequent_state | [
"Yes, but with her father's help.",
"No, she struggled",
"Yes, with the McPherson family",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 8 |
f099_3 | f099 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | Who went to work for James McPherson | Character_identity | [
"Jenny",
"The main character",
"The main character's father",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 7 |
f099_4 | f099 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | What job did the twins' mother have? | Factual | [
"Architect",
"not enough information",
"Teacher",
"Venture capitalist"
] | 0 | 6 |
f099_5 | f099 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | What did the narrator say she equated to "turning into a giant asshole"? | Belief_states | [
"Running the student council",
"Rebelling",
"not enough information",
"Being an over-achiever"
] | 1 | 14 |
f099_6 | f099 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | What kinds of orchards were found in the valley? | Unanswerable | [
"Apple",
"not enough information",
"Orange",
"Pear"
] | 1 | 8 |
f099_7 | f099 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | Who went dancing every Friday night? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"Jenny",
"James McPherson",
"The twins' parents."
] | 3 | 6 |
f099_8 | f099 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | Why did the twins sell the house? | Causality | [
"It was too large for the two of them.",
"Neither wanted to set a foot it in again.",
"So they could invest in other real estate.",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 6 |
f099_9 | f099 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | When did Jenny pay for her Master's? | Temporal_order | [
"After they sold their deceased parent's house.",
"After she got a job with James McPherson",
"not enough information",
"After she began to run the McPherson charity"
] | 0 | 7 |
f099_10 | f099 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | What did Jenny do while working for James McPherson | Factual | [
"Ran the family's charitable foundation.",
"Invested heavily in real estate",
"not enough information",
"Created venture capital opportunities."
] | 0 | 10 |
f099_11 | f099 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | How did Jenny have the money to pay for her Master's? | Causality | [
"Her parents put it in her inheritance.",
"Her dead parent's house was sold.",
"She met James McPherson",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 12 |
f099_12 | f099 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | How many years after marriage twins were born? | Event_duration | [
"About 10 years",
"not enough information",
"About 5 years",
"About 1 year"
] | 0 | 7 |
f099_13 | f099 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | Were Jenny and the main character fraternal twins? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"No, you could tell them apart",
"Yes, but one always kept short hair.",
"Yes, but they had different personalities"
] | 0 | 5 |
f099_14 | f099 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | How quickly did the twins' parents die? | Event_duration | [
"Immediately and unexpectedly",
"After a long illness",
"not enough information",
"Over the course of a year"
] | 0 | 6 |
f099_15 | f099 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | Does Jenny like school? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"No, she met the McPhersons and didnt need it.",
"Yes, she went back for her Master's",
"Yes, she went to high school"
] | 2 | 5 |
f099_16 | f099 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | The main character believes her sister is what kind of person? | Belief_states | [
"Over-achiever",
"Under-achiever",
"not enough information",
"Average person"
] | 0 | 10 |
f099_17 | f099 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny and I were twins, and we were always close growing up despite our very different personalities. Besides a birthday and a couple dead parents, there wasn't much else we shared in common. She was an over-achiever and a bit of a kiss-ass, always trying to make mom and dad proud, which she seemed to pull off with ease. She was the girl in high school who played every sport, joined every club, ran the student council, and somehow still managed to pull A's without breaking a sweat. Intense doesn't even begin to describe her. I could never compete with that, so instead I decided to build an identity for myself as the rebel. Unfortunately, I somehow equated rebelling with turning into a giant asshole.
We grew up in a middle-class suburban family. Our father was a teacher and our mother an architect. They were the kind of couple that kept a date night to go dancing every Friday for the 31 years they were married. They died when Jenny and I were twenty-two. We sold the house where we grew up and split the cash; neither of us wanted to set foot in it again.
Jenny used the money to pay for her Master's. After school she went to work for James McPherson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the city. Aside from owning the St. Augustine, McPherson had interests in real estate, land development, venture capital, and other things I really should've known more about. The McPherson family was old money here going back to when this valley was nothing but orchards. If I said that at one time or another the McPherson family had owned every single square foot of land in our city, I'd probably be exaggerating - but not much.
Jenny ran the McPhersons' charitable foundation, which basically meant that not only did they have so much money that they had to start giving it away, but they even had to hire someone else just to get rid of it for them. | At the end of this story, Jenny is: | Subsequent_state | [
"a rebel.",
"successful.",
"not enough information",
"in jail on a charge of embezzlement."
] | 1 | 7 |
f100_0 | f100 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | Who ran into Brian Lopez? | Character_identity | [
"Nick",
"The speaker",
"Maggie",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 7 |
f100_1 | f100 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | What does Nick think of Brian's wife? | Belief_states | [
"She's hot",
"She's ugly",
"She's fat",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 8 |
f100_2 | f100 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | When did the narrator run into Brian Lopez? | Temporal_order | [
"During Jenny's wedding",
"not enough information",
"After Jenny's wedding",
"Before Jenny's wedding"
] | 0 | 7 |
f100_3 | f100 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | Where were the characters sitting? | Factual | [
"In a booth.",
"At a table.",
"At the bar.",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 5 |
f100_4 | f100 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | After the story, the narrator is probably: | Subsequent_state | [
"drunk",
"sober",
"sad",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 5 |
f100_5 | f100 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | Why was Andrea upset? | Causality | [
"The speaker drinks too much",
"The speaker flirts with Maggie",
"not enough information",
"Fires have been set around the house"
] | 3 | 5 |
f100_6 | f100 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | What time does the Casbah open? | Unanswerable | [
"9:00 am",
"8:00 am",
"not enough information",
"7:00 am"
] | 2 | 5 |
f100_7 | f100 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | What did Nick order? | Factual | [
"Beer",
"Liquor",
"not enough information",
"Wine"
] | 0 | 5 |
f100_8 | f100 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | The speaker says that Nick is a | Belief_states | [
"Butterface",
"Pansy",
"not enough information",
"Mad bastard"
] | 1 | 8 |
f100_9 | f100 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | When did the narrator order his third drink? | Temporal_order | [
"Never",
"Before Nick arrived",
"not enough information",
"After Nick arrived"
] | 1 | 6 |
f100_10 | f100 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | Who is Brian Lopez? | Unanswerable | [
"A relative",
"not enough information",
"An old coworker",
"An old classmate"
] | 1 | 6 |
f100_11 | f100 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | After the story is finished, the speaker is probably going to: | Subsequent_state | [
"Joke about the bartender's appearance",
"Gossip more with his friends",
"Head home right away",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 7 |
f100_12 | f100 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | What is probably true about the speaker's taste in alcohol? | Entity_properties | [
"He enjoys drinking wine",
"He loves beer",
"not enough information",
"He likes liquor"
] | 3 | 9 |
f100_13 | f100 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | Who shrugged? | Character_identity | [
"Nick",
"not enough information",
"Maggie",
"Brian"
] | 0 | 5 |
f100_14 | f100 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | Jenny's wedding (including the dinner) likely lasted: | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"20 minutes",
"48 hours",
"A couple of hours"
] | 3 | 6 |
f100_15 | f100 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | Why did the narrator call Nick a pansy? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"He slid into a bar stool.",
"He talked to Maggie.",
"He ordered beer instead of whiskey."
] | 3 | 7 |
f100_16 | f100 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | How long has it been since the narrator has seen Nick? | Event_duration | [
"an few hours",
"a few months",
"a few years",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 10 |
f100_17 | f100 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | The next morning I called up my friend, Nick Unger, who worked for the police department. He agreed to meet me at the Casbah, a glorious little dive bar a few blocks from my apartment. It opened first thing in the morning, realizing the best drunks start early.
By the time he showed up I was already deep into my third drink and trying charm the bartender, Maggie, into comping my fourth. I was failing miserably as usual, but at least it was fun trying.
As soon as Nick walked through the front door, I slammed my palm down on the bar top. "Tricky Nicky! Have a drink, brother!"
He slid onto the bar stool beside me and smiled warmly at the bartender. "Has this low life been giving you grief, Maggie?"
She grinned at him. "Only since I opened the front door." Nick winked at her and ordered a half-pint of stout.
"Pansy," I scoffed and slammed the rest of my whiskey.
He shook his head. "God I miss you, you mad bastard. I can't imagine why Andrea won't let you come around the house anymore."
I shrugged. "I know, it's like as soon as she started squirting out brood, she suddenly gets all uptight about people starting fires in the middle of your living room."
"Imagine," he said as he raised his glass of beer.
I clinked my empty glass to his. "So guess who I ran into last night at Jenny's wedding?"
He shrugged.
"Brian Lopez."
He chuckled. "No shit. How is old Double-Dip?'
"Fat and sad," I replied while waving Maggie over for a refill. "And married to a smoking hottie. Well, married or engaged or whatever."
Nick nodded. "I met her. They were at a Police Union dinner around the holidays. She's a butterface."
I arched my eyebrow. "She had a face?"
Maggie rolled her eyes while she filled my glass. Nick caught her glance. "I know, he's got no class, but what are you gonna do?"
"Anyways," I continued, "she's way too hot for him, and that's not gonna end well. You just know that one of these days he's gonna come home and find her with the pool boy or some shit." | Why did Maggie roll her eyes? | Entity_properties | [
"She thought the narrator was being clever.",
"not enough information",
"She thought the narrator was being sexist.",
"She thought the narrator was incoherent."
] | 2 | 6 |
f101_0 | f101 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | How many Asterion men did Jenny hire? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"4 or more",
"3",
"2"
] | 0 | 5 |
f101_1 | f101 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | What is probably true about the narrator? | Entity_properties | [
"He is shy",
"He drinks a lot",
"He hates Mexico",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 8 |
f101_2 | f101 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | Immeditely after the end of the text, the narrator probably feel: | Subsequent_state | [
"Ready to start a new job",
"Ready to go shopping",
"not enough information",
"Tired, but excited for the trip"
] | 3 | 7 |
f101_3 | f101 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | Where did the narrator think they saw the Asterion man before? | Factual | [
"On the light Rail",
"At the cafe",
"not enough information",
"In Mexico"
] | 0 | 9 |
f101_4 | f101 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | Who is 'we'? | Character_identity | [
"Jenny's company.",
"not enough information",
"Jenny's co-op housing building.",
"Jenny's family."
] | 0 | 6 |
f101_5 | f101 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | How long will Jenny be in Mexico for? | Event_duration | [
"A month",
"not enough information",
"A year",
"A week"
] | 3 | 7 |
f101_6 | f101 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | How does the narrator believe Asterion is doing? | Belief_states | [
"business is good for them",
"they are taking over the world",
"not enough information",
"business is too good for them"
] | 0 | 9 |
f101_7 | f101 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | When did Jenny hire Asterion guys? | Temporal_order | [
"She hired them last month.",
"She hired them last week, which was in the previous month.",
"She hired them yesterday.",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 6 |
f101_8 | f101 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | What city does Jenny live in? | Unanswerable | [
"Baltimore",
"not enough information",
"New York City",
"Chicago"
] | 1 | 6 |
f101_9 | f101 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | Who was the narrator interested in meeting? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"Dylan Maxwell",
"The Asterion men",
"Jenny"
] | 1 | 8 |
f101_10 | f101 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | Why was Jenny happy about hiring the Asterion men? | Causality | [
"They were driving her to Mexico",
"not enough information",
"They took her shopping",
"They gave her back the space that the old records took up"
] | 3 | 9 |
f101_11 | f101 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | Jenny is going to find a new job: | Temporal_order | [
"Before she leaves for Mexico",
"not enough information",
"When she returns from Mexico",
"When she gets to Mexico"
] | 2 | 9 |
f101_12 | f101 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | Why did Jenny smile? | Causality | [
"because the narrator met a romantic interest",
"not enough information",
"because the narrator met a girl last night",
"because the narrator met a romantic interest who is Jenny's friend"
] | 2 | 5 |
f101_13 | f101 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | Where do the characters probably live? | Entity_properties | [
"In a city with the Light Rail.",
"Asterion",
"not enough information",
"Mexico"
] | 0 | 5 |
f101_14 | f101 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | After the story ends, the narrator probably | Subsequent_state | [
"follows the Asterion women",
"quits drinking",
"not enough information",
"talks more with Natalie about Dylan"
] | 3 | 6 |
f101_15 | f101 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | Who believes the narrator should stop drinking? | Belief_states | [
"Jenny",
"not enough information",
"Dylan",
"Natalie"
] | 0 | 11 |
f101_16 | f101 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | How long did Jenny shop? | Event_duration | [
"ten minutes",
"3 hours",
"not enough information",
"forty-five seconds"
] | 1 | 5 |
f101_17 | f101 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?"
"A little of both," I said.
She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet.
"Busy afternoon?" I asked.
"Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning."
My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper.
Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming."
"Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon.
"Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night."
She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume."
"Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell."
"Was it Natalie?" she asked.
"I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil."
"Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. | What was Jenny drinking? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"Tea",
"Iced latte",
"Iced Water"
] | 2 | 5 |
f102_0 | f102 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | When did the narrator notice the man in the doorway? | Temporal_order | [
"After he left the warehouse",
"not enough information",
"When he was in front of the warehouse",
"Before he got to the warehouse"
] | 2 | 7 |
f102_1 | f102 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | Why did the narrator try to flip off the camera? | Causality | [
"He didn't like the company that made the cameras",
"not enough information",
"He was trying to create a distraction",
"He realized that Dylan was not letting him in"
] | 3 | 9 |
f102_2 | f102 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | How long will the party probably last? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"Six hours",
"One hour",
"Twenty four hours"
] | 1 | 5 |
f102_3 | f102 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | How long has the narrator known Dylan Maxwell? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"One month.",
"One year.",
"They met just before eleven"
] | 0 | 6 |
f102_4 | f102 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | What is probably true about the narrator? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"He hates raves",
"He's made Dylan Maxwell mad somehow",
"Him and the doorman are old friends"
] | 2 | 8 |
f102_5 | f102 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | When did the narrator notice the doorman's ear piece? | Temporal_order | [
"After noticing the camera.",
"not enough information",
"Before approaching wearhouse.",
"After being denied entry."
] | 3 | 7 |
f102_6 | f102 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | The narrator believes that | Belief_states | [
"The doorman was an alien",
"not enough information",
"Dylan Maxwell was laughing behind the monitors of the security room",
"The goths should not be allowed in"
] | 2 | 5 |
f102_7 | f102 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | Why does the narrator believe he should be allowed entry? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"Because he is a cop.",
"Because he has an invitation.",
"Because he is important."
] | 2 | 11 |
f102_8 | f102 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | Where does the narrator go next? | Subsequent_state | [
"He calls the cops.",
"He breaks into the party.",
"not enough information",
"He goes to talk to Dylan"
] | 3 | 6 |
f102_9 | f102 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | Who was sitting infront of surveillance monitors? | Character_identity | [
"the doorman",
"not enough information",
"Dylan Maxwell",
"the goths"
] | 2 | 8 |
f102_10 | f102 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | Who says "motherfucker"? | Belief_states | [
"Dylan Maxwell.",
"not enough information",
"The narrator.",
"The doorman."
] | 2 | 6 |
f102_11 | f102 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | Who was standing under the surveillance camera? | Character_identity | [
"The doorman",
"Hipster",
"not enough information",
"Dylan"
] | 0 | 8 |
f102_12 | f102 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | Who was blocking a doorway? | Character_identity | [
"the doorman",
"not enough information",
"Dylan",
"Maxwell"
] | 0 | 6 |
f102_13 | f102 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | When did he notice the security camera? | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"After he left the parking lot.",
"After he was blocked by the security guard.",
"Before he got in line."
] | 2 | 6 |
f102_14 | f102 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | For how long was the narrator probably at the door? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"one day",
"two hours",
"20 minutes"
] | 3 | 7 |
f102_15 | f102 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | It's probable that the narrator made Dylan Maxwell mad by | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"Killing his family",
"Stealing his girlfriend",
"Taking his documentation"
] | 0 | 11 |
f102_16 | f102 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | What was the doorman wearing? | Factual | [
"A white tank top",
"A tuxedo",
"A tracksuit",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 5 |
f102_17 | f102 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | How did the narrator feel about not being let into the rave? | Subsequent_state | [
"Annoyed",
"Excited",
"Relieved",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 11 |
f102_18 | f102 | 18 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | What band's t-shirt is the narrator wearing? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"The Beatles",
"TV on the Radio",
"Pretty Girls Make Graves"
] | 2 | 5 |
f102_19 | f102 | 19 | fiction | {
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
} | I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head.
I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident.
"No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest.
"I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face.
"No dice."
I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera.
"Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera.
I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. | The narator is probably: | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"Hoping to get in to party",
"likes hipster art parties",
"Has newer met Dylan"
] | 1 | 5 |
f103_0 | f103 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | How does Jan's husband feel about his son? | Unanswerable | [
"misses his son",
"worried about his son",
"not enough information",
"he does not care"
] | 2 | 7 |
f103_1 | f103 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | Where did Jan finally fall asleep? | Factual | [
"her son's former room",
"not enough information",
"her own bedroom",
"next to her husband"
] | 0 | 6 |
f103_2 | f103 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | How does Jan feel immediately after the end of this story? | Subsequent_state | [
"she doesn't trust herself",
"not enough information",
"her husband is supportive",
"she's upset and worried"
] | 3 | 9 |
f103_3 | f103 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | What is probably true about Jan? | Entity_properties | [
"She has sleep insomnia.",
"not enough information",
"She loves her son very much.",
"She absolutely hates her husband."
] | 2 | 8 |
f103_4 | f103 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | Why did Jan need to hold the teddy bear? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"She had a nightmare peppered by demons.",
"She hated her husband for being able to sleep.",
"It belonged to her son and she wants him to come home."
] | 3 | 9 |
f103_5 | f103 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | What was Jan hugging in her arms? | Factual | [
"a soft teddy bear",
"a silky teddy bear",
"a coarse teddy bear",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 7 |
f103_6 | f103 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | Who did the guest room belong to? | Character_identity | [
"Jan's husband",
"Jan",
"not enough information",
"Rob"
] | 3 | 6 |
f103_7 | f103 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | How does Jan feel about her relationship with her husband after the story? | Subsequent_state | [
"better than ever",
"happy",
"not enough information",
"disconnected"
] | 3 | 9 |
f103_8 | f103 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | What happened after Jan opened the closet? | Temporal_order | [
"She found the teddy bear and held it tight.",
"She got up out of bed.",
"not enough information",
"She walked into the guest room."
] | 0 | 9 |