Molly and Bill sat in the van, poring over their stolen floor plans of the billionaire’s estate. They were targeting the annual bashes held for his six rugrats. The place would be swarming with tykes, party favors, and more loot than Santa’s sweatshop. “This job is in the bag, Molls. I already got us matching panda mascot suits to blend in. Those stuffed animals are as phony as the smiles on my ex-wife’s face when I gave them my debit card number for ‘home repairs’." Bill adjusted his Russian earflaps. "The local band’s supposed to show up in these, but we’ll be there first. Cue the polka intro and memorize the lyrics to 'Do Your Ears Hang Low?' while I grab the wire cutters." "I’ll keep an eye out for the Stampy mascot at the rendezvous. This place cycled through six clowns in five years - that brand is cursed." Molly pulled a slingshot from her purse, checking the silicone band and affectionaly hefting the lead shotgun ammo. "Wonder if they’ll be having that tricky funnel cake toss game again. Carnival workers owe me after blowing that one. Wouldn’t waste a shot on the bumbling dope who rotates the assembly line like a pro - then smushes the greased cones right down. Calling it 'the stick'" BPA: 5.75 Words: 318 Passive voice: 1,373