LittleGrizzly Huddled in the sand, tucked low and tight against the wooden stairs leading down from the boardwalk onto the sands. Bullets zinged off the metal railing of the stairs or thudded into the sand nearby. Whoever the shooters were, they had some talent, so despite using Tommy guns they were doing a pretty good job of keeping him pinnned. Griz' did manage a few shots back with his pistol, but was certain he hadn't done more than make them duck...and he could only make one of them duck at a time. If they'd had a 4th shooter on the beach, he would already have been dead.
In between the quick, disciplined bursts that kept him pinned, LittleGrizzly heard a dull thud. The volume of fire grew less. A few moments later, he heard a brief scream, followed by the sight of a body being pitched over the railing of the boardwalk and out onto the sands. The body didn't move. Now the firing was even less, and it didn't seem to be directed at him. Griz thought he saw a quickl flash of something coppery in the light on the boardwalk, and then everything grew quiet. Slowly, he stood, just in time to see someone walk to the top of the steps.
"You okay," asked the man at the top of the stairs.
"Yeah," said LittleGrizzly, "I never expected to owe you my life, but thanks."
"You're welcome," said the man, as he shot LittleGrizzly with a tranquilizer dart. Griz looked up, incredulous and woozy, the drug already starting to rob him of consciousness.
"So, LittleGrizzly," said the stranger with a satisfied smile. "What's your favorite number?"
They found LittleGrizzzly's arms, legs, and head the next morning, sitting on the steps to a police precinct-house, carefully arranged to form the number five.
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