"Alright Molly, I've got the cyanide gas canisters. You good on the sleeping pills?" "Yup, got 'em. Firstly, I can't believe we're robbing a children's birthday party. Secondly, isn't it dangerous to use knockout gas around kids? Their lungs are so tiny." "Oh please, it's harmless," said Bill, pocketing the two metal canisters. "They'll just pass out for a few hours, wake up with a headache. Piece of cake. It's not like we're gonna give 'em cyanide, yeah? These canisters are for grownups." Molly gave Bill a deadpan look as she zipped up her black catsuit. "I feel awful about this. My sister has a kid the same age as the birthday girl." Bill snorted. "That's why you shouldn't have taken this job, then. But 20,000 bucks is nothing to sneeze at, right? Why else would we be putting ourselves through this?" "I didn't think you'd really go through with it," Molly said, wiggling into her skintight black gloves. "And I didn't think you'd renege on me after I lined up the mark. We're in this, Molls. No quitting now." He checked his amber aviators in the rearview mirror. The two thieves, a man and woman both in their 30s, sat in a charcoal grey sedan parked along a posh suburban street. Lavish estates lined the road, all with manicured lawns and glittering pools. They were waiting for the right moment to strike. "Now or never," Bill said, cracking his knuckles. He popped the trunk and retrieved a large duffel bag. Molly sighed and followed him out into the night. Creeping through shadows, the supposed "generous" crimes plated their canisters on each side gate. Molly activated them and a thin fog began hissing out, wafting into the backyard where the party screams of children could still be heard. Bill used a glass cutter to slice a circle from the sliding door. He carefully removed it and they slipped inside, locking it closed. The house was quiet and dark except for the Nintendo Wii beeping and a thyroid Dora the Explorer episode playing on the TV in the pitch black living room. A half-eaten cake with rubber ducky's wearing birthday hats and candelbras melted into green icing lay on the coffee table. "Heist time," Bill said as they made their way to the little girl's room where the party gifts lay. Bill threw open the door and began shoving the gaily boxes into his bag. "Holy shit Molly, look at this haul! Dollies, build your own kaleidoscope kits, Cashman the Counting Crayon." "Bill..." Molly said quietly from the doorway. She was pale and alarm bulged her eyes. He looked up as the bedroom lights flicked on. Five moms and dads wielding Xbox controllers stood there, wearing bathrobes and smokingly rage on their Botox faces. The night had been a sham - their lethal gas rotated through the vents to this room only. "You little shits!" said one dad, pumping his shotgun. "You broke the Geneva convention you sick freaks!" "So much for that whole kids first rule," Bill groaned. He raised his manicured hands. The tech bros took turns pistol whipping them before tossing the thieves into a moving van skipping with dolls, money, and probable illegimate drugs from a dad who got a little too cozy with whiskey. Last Molly remembered was the adrenaline stab to her neck and waking two days later in a Pitcairn of mines with nothing but a soggy Wheatie Koosh in her bound hands. Yet vengeance would be her's, time given. THE END.