Part 3: Ninth Avenue

...ribbitulated bopilarity. Sophic distillacrity. Billeted gristation. Filleted blistoricity, oboy. Trinkin' and plinkin' and not a chance of bristric ablution. Rowsy? Browsy! Middle of the morning. Jest without warning. Gistric subbourning....

From the shadows across the street, Tim stands and watches the empty space in front of 1736 Ninth Avenue. There isn't much to see at 3:00 a.m. The closest streetlights are 77 feet to the south and 90 feet to the north.

Tim is working the puzzle of Alan Rugg, who Tim knows as eight. Eight seems not to go out at night. One, two, and three were nocturnal. Finding them alone in the early hours was easy. Eight never shows until lighttime.

...All about the mundelay, Rhoda Rhimstone pitters and frones her waysy days away. Awrily already, sustended brew Bletty acheered in each buyer-gherkin, ratched and wreakened, blown bowl the way through (tetraquadrisesquilineal). 'Sodden?' 'Deciduously'....

Tim knows he needs more information about eight. Does he go out at night? When he does go out, will the moon be new? Unlikely.

Tim has two hours and 45 minutes until the first light of dawn. He is a 35-minute walk from home. He decides to stand sentinel at 1736 Ninth Ave. for another 45 minutes. This gets Tim home well before the city's usual 4:30 a.m. stirring. Tim knows well the rhythm of the morning.

And this morning's rhythm is off a bit. No SFPD sightings. Tim usually spots a patrol car every 70 minutes on average when he's on sentinel.

...Lid'll do ya till they fool ya, and they do, yuh. Fid'll stew ya soon as boo ya. Oh, listen. Brissision freemission dissition. Preminory, exgulpadory, pestilamorous, diaphragenous. Did I say you said you see your way clear to the forest caught once, twice a time or two? Bet you saw my sorta poplin pepsic coleration....

Motionless at his post in the shadows, Tim ponders the consequences of randomization and expansion of the list. How will the new candidates be chosen? Tim's eyes shine dully in the dark as he considers the many, diverse possibilities.

...Attic, apparibly mestitute and deripped of unrevotionality, Serpous, the Dauphin of Exigence, strows prestibly over the melding widges beyond the foreflung mantling bown....

At 3:37 a.m., Tim watches a car turn left off Moraga onto Ninth Ave. Directly in front of number 1736, the driver slows the least bit, then proceeds north down Ninth Avenue. Twenty-five seconds after the car is out of sight, Tim makes his way through the open gates and dogless backyards of two houses leading to Eighth Ave. He turns left on Eighth and begins his wending way back to 2204 Steiner, buoyed by the prospect of a day spent retrieving information, and accompanied by syllabric nonsense.

Part 4: Peru Avenue