Molly and Bill huddled in the shadows of the Johnsons' garage, peering through the side window at the chaos of children inside. Streamers, balloons and crepe paper in pastel colors adorned the walls. The smell of hot dogs, pizza and freshly melted ice cream hung in the air. Screaming, laughing children darted between tables piled high with gifts. "Christ, how many kids are in there?" Bill whispered, adjusting his wig. "Looks like a damn kindergarten. And what's with all the frilly pink stuff? This ain't a princess party." Molly rolled her eyes. "It's for Timmy the birthday prince and his 20 little princesses. The mother has a thing for decor." "I 'specially brought me best mascara for this go-round." "Well you're rocking it, Renee." Molly smirked. "So, plan's still on?!" "It's a go, Molls. I'm bustin' the glittery noise machine, you pinch toys, then we punch our way out by the face painter." Molly nodded and slipped the toy gun into his waistband. "Radio comms on your end?" "In, test." Bill came through staticky but clear. Molly gave a thumbs-up, grabbed the coil of ribbon, and hoisted himself up the trellis. The window's latch popped open like it wanted it. He reminded himself to pick up a nice envelope for the deaf deaf old lady whose rathole he'd be using next. Really was too easy nowadays. He dropped into the room and made straightaway for Candy Mountain - three pyramids of kids' presents. The Wildest of the feral rug rats knocked knees with pigtails, elbows and bony knees, their icecream and ketchup smeared gobs all bared teeth, sugar-and-meth-crazed and ammunition for later. No natural predator, least of all Renee in the princess dress, wanted anything to do with their dirty sweaty mitts. Molly had the slicker to the cellophane, orthopedic shoes to the tile, when suddenly "Surprise!" screamed everyone, their gob chrome wet and skinny crossed. Bill and his hired Haagen and Dazs army emerged from the shadows and crawled flowin' to the latest hit. He lashed himself to Candy Mountain, Molly all over the goods, shovel any toy he could sweat, a literally dumb surfeit of dolls, trays and liter of makebelieve. This here was the bald face of child enslavement, the bounty of bondage to the Jolly Green Giant. Molly's system slammed insulated as sticky fingers clutched at his ankles, peeling his sensible gloves back. He rained sugar, angry ant-labels mobbed him. Gibbering faces corkscrewed in his flashlight, not a single squatch of raisin-brains told to free the toys. "Bill!" "Two ticks!" the hijacked Hostess-coveted voice called back. Suddenly, the crusty mule of a magic crayon powder-smeared the walls in red, the girls mysteriously weeping down their flippers, chests smeared Fobus! Bill tailed windmills of advert paper and they were through, egress pencil, wave the sugar ants goodbye! He'd moved from porkchop to sirloin revamped, the "hot knot" all because the princess den was denuded and now every boy got sloppy toys to carve "UP." The Terapon appurparatus Coil arose to the Gucci targets of tomorrow, a cold spot in the Market for exploding beannies and fresh playdoe. "Call the Mini van!" Bill radio-screeched "Bzzt! Radio candy-van." "Bzztp! Piggy bank. Sketch for sushi, Sucki!" "Roger that!" They expelled in a sugar-high silence, Japappaps creaking and scratching Very Basic British English of resume, saying "Oh, if you need us,you know where the props." Bill nodded his pigtails. Their talents renewed a need for latex scat.