Molly leaned against the minivan, chewing on a toothpick and eyeing the bouncy castle with suspicion. "Are you sure this is the right place, Bill?" Bill, sporting a fake mustache that kept threatening to detach, squinted through binoculars. "Positive. According to my intel, this is the birthday bash of Lord Reginald Fitzhugh the Third, heir to a billion-dollar cookie empire. And where there are sugared-up, entitled preschoolers, there are designer toys worth a fortune." "Sounds lovely," Molly muttered. "But they've got those inflatable hammer things. Do you think we need to bring earplugs?" Bill snorted. "Please, Molly, we've infiltrated gala dinners with opera singers who could shatter glass with a high note. A few shrieking toddlers posing as gladiators won't faze us." "Yeah," Molly said, unconvinced. "But those gladiators are armed with plastic swords. And glitter cannons." Bill pulled out a contraption that looked suspiciously like a modified leaf blower. "Fear not, dear Molly. I’ve devised a glitter-repelling shield.” Molly peered at it, her eyebrows shooting up. "And that's..." "Trust me. It’s a trade secret," Bill interrupted, his mustache wiggling precariously. "Right, right, the mustache knows all. Okay, so we're talking presents, right? Bags stuffed with robotic kittens singing classical music? Diamond-encrusted bouncy balls?" "Think bigger. This lot's parents are the crème de la crème, Molly. We're talking solid gold building blocks, miniature ponies crafted from solid platinum, that sort of thing." Molly whistled. "Worth a risk, then. But what about security? Grumpy clowns aren't exactly known for their lax attitude towards piñata desecration." Bill grinned, producing a pack of unwieldy balloons from the back of the van. “Fear not, my lady. Tonight, we shall unleash the power of… helium-filled, glow-in-the-dark clown balloons.” Molly stared at the balloons, unimpressed. “Those are just large latex pillows with a questionable paint job." Bill, undeterred, began inflating them with manic glee. “One whiff of this helium-infused blend, and even the sternest clown will be belly-laughing his way into oblivion. Trust me, Molly, you haven't seen chaos until you’ve seen a gaggle of clowns under the influence of industrial-strength laughing gas." Molly grabbed a balloon, examining it with a sceptical eye. "This better work, Bill. The last time your 'innovative' techniques involved a llama.” Bill winced, the memory of the llama-induced pandemonium on their last heist delivering a jolt of guilt. "Okay, bad example. But this, this is foolproof." He shoved a rainbow-coloured balloon into her hand. “Ready to make these rich kids cry over stolen ponies?” Molly grinned, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Let’s party.”