"Now this is how we're gonna do it," Molly said, spreading the party invitation on the rickety table in our dingy pad. She ran a mauve-nailed finger over the instructions. "The Wilsons' bratty rug-rat turns six tomorrow. Expected guest list, gift pile, and security detail." Bill shoveled in another forkful of overcooked spaghetti. "Six brats and their asshole parents. Just two guards. What's the haul lookin' like?" Molly shampoo-commercial hair shook a side-to-side. "Nah uh, you-Say average pre-teener contribution, we could make off with a t'ousand bucks. Fifteen hundred, if you count cash cards." "Candy-ass money." He burped wetly, wiping his mouth on a shirtsleeve. "Why this shakedown?" She smirked. "Cuz I happen to know they're waiting on that creep show illusionist. Midnight. Exits a flapping spud in the fireplace, looks like a (+](_<.)< PSU+]((>."<I saw that at your nephew Chucky Cheese callin' bullshit on me last year. He walks out the back when those rug-rats shit their pants. We tryna break in round 11." Bill snatched a five-by-seven from next to the stack of party hats. "Kid's name Randall. Kinda a shit tipper at my job. Pint-sized nob-brag. He he is a regular goof, always yannin' about them statues and junk." "I'm sure Dolly-Rand is gonna miss his Grow-A-Pet and VDubs. Probably throw a fuckin' fit." A pause. "Smaller kids, so even more smalls. One Hogie Sack might look, left-over..." "Three bags not two. For the clown make-up." As Molly's chin lifted in agreement, Bill ripped the kid's picture in two. "Now we're talkin'." They divided the haul, and hammered out the only hitch.