Q: The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there. I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray. I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value. I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened. "Dingo." "Hey, Luna." Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage. She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. The narrator parked at Rick's house: - not enough information - before talking to Rick's assistant - while talking to Rick's assistant - after talking to Rick's assistant
A: before talking to Rick's assistant


Q: U.S. President Donald Trump on Thursday threatened tariffs on an additional $100 billion worth of Chinese goods, on top of the $50 billion in import taxes he already has proposed against Beijing. Though none of the tariffs have taken effect, it's the latest posturing in a trade dispute that some fear could escalate into a trade war. For decades, Trump has complained about China's trade practices. One of his main complaints is what he calls Beijing's theft of U.S. intellectual property. Last month, Trump cited IP theft as justification for his proposed tariffs on $50 billion in Chinese goods. China retaliated by threatening its own tariffs on the same amount of U.S. goods. Trump then escalated the dispute, saying he would consider tripling the amount of goods to which tariffs would be applied. China gains access to U.S. technology by employing several tactics, which many observers have said are unfair or illegal. Beijing has long required that U.S. businesses transfer technology to Chinese companies as a precondition of entering the Chinese market. For instance, if you are a U.S. carmaker who wants to sell automobiles to China, Beijing requires that you team up with a local Chinese company, or face steep tariffs on imported vehicles.  In other cases, China requires U.S. companies to comply with localization requirements by storing sensitive data in the Chinese mainland. That increases the risk of intellectual property theft through means such as cyberattacks.It's difficult to quantify the value of technological knowledge. But according to an estimate last month by the U.S. trade representative, Chinese theft of American intellectual property costs between $225 billion and $600 billion every year. That rate is unsustainable, said top White House economic adviser Larry Kudlow. "We can't afford to give up our technology," Kudlow said Friday. "When they steal our technology ... they're stealing the guts of our American future." The Chinese government has always denied carrying out the cyberattacks that frequently... who can't afford to give up technology? - America - The White House - the Chinese - not enough information
A: America


Q: Marnie Sleightholme was well chuffed when she got the chance to be carnival queen, and she couldn't give a shit if it was true what folk were saying about her only getting picked because she'd had her right arm ripped off. Ever since the accident, Deborah Bullock had been using twice as much make-up to disguise her rage. Marnie being picked as carnival queen had only made her pile it on even thicker. Deborah Bullock told anyone who would listen how it was a complete piss-take to give the job to a cripple. 'Imagine getting a wedding cake covered in frosty decorations and shit like that, but it's already got a big chunk bitten out of it. Well, that's exactly how it is.' Deborah Bullock had dreamed of being carnival queen since more or less the start of primary school. She used to tear their pictures out of the newspaper and dress up to look like them, and tell Marnie she never could because she was too fat and ugly even to pretend. It was Deborah Bullock's on-off boyfriend who'd been driving the car Marnie had been sitting in when it veered off the road and crashed into a tree halfway down Back South Lane. It was pointless trying to hide the truth. There was only one reason anybody went down Back South Lane at that time of night, and the flashing blue lights illuminated the exact location for the whole town to see. When Marnie came round in a hospital bed, the first face she saw was Deborah Bullock's. She felt an ache in her side and blinked her eyes. The room was bare and cold. There was an empty chair in the corner. Deborah Bullock slapped some cheap flowers down on the bed and leaned in. She smelled of talcum powder and nicotine. 'Do you want the good news or the bad news? The good news is you've finally lost some weight. The bad news is, they've chopped your right arm off. So you're still a fat bitch.' Deborah stayed at the hospital: - not enough information - few years - few weeks - few days
