Molly adjusted the polka-dot bow tie crookedly perched on her neck, grimacing at her reflection in the mirrored tiles behind the bar. "Are you sure about this, Bill? Stealing from a children's party? Seems a bit low, even for us." Bill, dressed in a comically oversized clown costume, leaned against the counter, bouncing a rubber chicken on his knee. "Molly, my dear, we're professionals. We steal high-end art, priceless jewels, not..." he mimed grabbing a fistful of colorful wrapped packages, "...fluffy bunnies and remote-control cars." "But it's a kid's birthday party, Bill! Think of the trauma! The shattered innocence!" Molly shuddered dramatically. Bill snorted, tossing the rubber chicken in the air and catching it expertly. "Trauma schmauma. These kids will be fine. Besides, their parents can afford it. Besides," he lowered his voice conspiratorially, tilting his head towards a massive, pristine cake topped with a towering unicorn figurine, "...did you see the size of that cake? We could probably sell that thing for a fortune on the black market." Molly scrutinized the cake through the window of the bustling community center. "The unicorn looks a bit... unnervingly cheerful, don't you think? Like it knows our plan and approves." Bill shrugged. "Nonsense. It's a cake, Molly. A sugary, delicious symbol of capitalist excess ripe for the taking." He checked his watch. "Right, showtime. Remember the plan?" "You create a diversion, I grab the presents, we make a swift exit with minimal collateral damage. No candy-coated casualties," Molly recited, adjusting her headband. "Exactly. Remember, you blend in with the adults, act casual, smile politely. No explosive glitter bombs, no smoke grenades, no..." Bill trailed off, eyebrows raised. "Molly, where's the glitter cannon?" Molly patted the pocket of her apron innocently. "Something told me it wouldn't be needed. Besides, wouldn't it be more satisfying to outsmart them with skill and finesse?" Bill rolled his eyes, sighing theatrically. "Fine. Just promise me you won't start any conversations about the merits of interpretive dance while you're stealing the birthday girl's Barbie Dreamhouse." "Fine, no interpretive dance," Molly agreed. "Unless they start playing 'Baby Shark'. Then all bets are off." Bill groaned and adjusted the rubber nose on his face as they stalked towards the door. The sounds of children shrieking with laughter and the tinny strains of a party playlist wafted out, fueling their determination. "Ready?" Bill whispered, his clown grin widening. "Ready," Molly replied, returning a mischievous grin. "Let's show these kids what a real party favor looks like."