Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.

<passage>:
THE AIR OF CASTOR OIL BY JIM HARMON Illustrated by WALKER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Get help? Not this old lady and her daughter. Not this Neanderthal sailor on his way to a bar and a blonde. Not the bookkeeper. Maybe the car salesman, ex-Army, Lions Club member, beefy, respectable, well-intentioned, not a complete fool. The guy on the corner reading a newspaper by the bus stop. "I need help," I panted to him. "Somebody's trying to kidnap me." to stretch back, ever further away from the glossy fronts into the crumbling stone. A man brushed past me, wearing an Ivy League suit and snap-brim hat, carrying a briefcase. And, reassuringly, he was in a hurry. "For my money, Marilyn Monroe is the doll of the world. I just don't I decided to chance it. I certainly wanted to do it in the worst way. A little car spurted on past me. One of those foreign jobs, I decided. Only it wasn't. I fixed the silhouette in my mind's eye and identified it. A Henry J. My footsteps carried me on down the block. drive me insane! Two men, a girl—" satirizing girls without any...." He was like anybody you might talk to on the street. I knew what he insubstantiality he was. There was a stick figure of a man left before me, an economical with a modern woman fronting it, a Big Big Book of Buck Rogers and the I went in, the brass handle making me conscious of the sweat on my palm. The old man sat behind a fortress of magazines and books, treacherously And which he had answered. My work. reading the funnies in a newspaper. His bald head swiveled on the hunched shoulders of his sweater which was azuring toward white. He grinned, toothless. The work I had done at the agency, important, creative work. There "Came back for more of the stuff, did you?" He laid down the newspaper. (That subheadline couldn't really be making so nasty a suggestion to a noted general, could it?) "Yes," I laughed, not very true. part, but a part. "That's not what I want to see. I want—" The old man snickered. "I know what you want. Indeed I do. This way." upon stacks of air-war pulp magazines. "Fifteen cents for ones in good condition," the old man pronounced the ritual, "a dime for ones with incomplete covers, three for a quarter, check 'em at the desk when you go." I ran my hand down a stack. beta . The old man was watching me. He skittered back across the floor and Reluctantly he handed over the magazine, waited a moment, then left me. I stared at the stacks of flying story magazines and I felt the slow made later than 1935. I was in love with Garbo, Ginger Rogers, Dolores del Rio. My favorite stars were Richard Dix, Chester Morris and Richard Arlen. chivalrous in that Fokker. I'd like to trade this skiddoo for it. That may be just what I do too if I don't watch it. streets...." claims. So long. I'm waving, see. "Listen to me! These people, they're conspiring against me, trying to dirty half-breed hand. Raymond Hatton makes a try for his old boss, but Chaney stops his clock for him. Now William Farnum is riding up with Morgan? And at school I had bought Defense—War—Savings—Security—Liberty—Freedom—I had bought stamps enough coffee.... "Nobody would look at my magazines," the old man chuckled, "if I put it out front. My boy got me that. He runs a radio and Victrola store. A good boy. His name's in the fishbowl." I pressed some money on him and walked myself out of the store. Something was wrong. Two men were in the front seat. The driver showed me his hard, expressionless face. "What do you think you are doing?" "This isn't a taxicab?" I asked blankly. "Park Police." I sat there while we drove on for a few minutes. "D. &amp D.," the second man said to the driver. "Right into our laps." City boys." "No, kill it, Carl. Think of all that damned paper work." Carl shrugged. "What will we do with him?" I was beginning to attach myself to my surroundings. The street was Before I even got a chance to try, he said: "What did you do?" "I didn't do anything!" "Hilliard Turner. There—" Understand?" "Officer, I only bought some books—I mean magazines." "These?" the second man, Carl, asked. He had retrieved them from the "You know about the laws governing pornography, Turner." it, Turner? You a narcotics user?" I looked up a little bit and saw an ugly, battered hand thumbing across a stack of half a dozen magazines like a giant deck of cards. "Why don't you take up detective stories?" he asked me. anybody could tell that from the blank-faced Motorola in the corner, the new Edsels on the street. Memories of air combat in Spads and Nieuports stirred in me by old magazines, Quentin Reynolds, and re-runs of Dawn Patrol on television I needed help. Or if there was no help for me, it was my duty to have myself placed where I couldn't harm other consumers. If there was one thing that working for an advertising agency had taught me, it was social responsibility. one at random, for no particular reason. Dr. Ernest G. Rickenbacker. I memorized the address and heaved myself to my feet. cigarette commercial. The cool, lovely receptionist told me to wait and I did, tasting mint inside my mouth. "Mr. Turner, I can't seem to find any record of an appointment for you practice for him while he is on vacation." I nodded. What I was thinking could only be another symptom of my illness. me about it? Some people have preconceived ideas that I don't want to fight with at the beginning. Or, if you prefer, you can sit there in front of my desk and tell me all about it. Remember, I'm a "I see. Have you read much science fiction, Mr. Turner?" "Some. I read a lot. All kinds of books. Tolstoi, Twain, Hemingway, Luke Short, John D. MacDonald, Huxley." "You should read them instead of live them. Catharsis. Sublimate, Mr. Turner. For instance, to a certain type of person, I often recommend the mysteries of Mickey Spillane." "Mr. Turner, do you really believe in 'time travel'?" "But you did, Mr. Turner. You told me all about thinking you could go "Please try to keep from getting violent, Mr. Turner. People like you know I didn't tell you a thing about the Back Number Store. I'm starting to think I'm not crazy at all. You—you're trying to do bars—and sat down. "Now," Sergeant said, steepling his fingers, "I know of a completely , Mr. Turner! violence will—" ugly strips of some theatrical stuff—collodion, I think—that had covered the scrapes and bruises he had taken hammering away at me and can't win them all, and I had been in a lot of scraps when I had been younger. (Hadn't I?) I stepped in while he was trying to decide whether to use the hypo on The ledge ran beneath the windows of all the offices on this floor. The fourteenth, I remembered. I had seen it done in movies all my life. Harold Lloyd, Douglas Fairbanks, Buster Keaton were always doing it for some reason or other. I had a good reason. You aren't going to be able to Immelmann out of this dive, Turner. Good-by, Turner.

<question>:
What does Mr. Turner do for a job?

<options>:
A He directs war films.
B He is a mechanic.
C He writes comics.
D He works in advertising.

<answer>:

D