"The haul will be worth it," Molly said, peering through her binoculars at the colorful streamers and balloons adorning the back yard. "I heard Jimmy's parents hired one of those annoyingly jolly clowns. Means they're loaded." "Don't remind me. I'm still having PTSD flashbacks to my 8th birthday," Bill grumbled, adjusting his ski mask. He hefted the sack slung over his shoulder. "You sure about these knuckle-headed kids not noticing us, once Stitchie the Stupid Clown has their attention?" "Consumed by greasepaint as he is. We'll be in and out in under five." She checked her goods list. "Toys, tiaras, art supplies, hand-me-down video games. The usual." "Loot a kid's party and the world's our oyster. Well, our towering money bin," Bill sighed. "Just follow my lead. And try not to give the little brats night-terrors, yeah?" "The wound of youth shall be salved tonight, my friend." Hand in hand, they tiptoed up the trellis and unlatched the window of the townhouse playroom. Size 2T ransom, here they came. A chorus of gleeful screams broke out below. "Showtime," she whispered. Within they crept.