Molly and Bill huddled behind a bush outside the farmhouse, their eyes fixed on the raucous chaos of the children's birthday party. The thump-thump of bad pop music and piercing shrieks of laughter drifted through the night air. They wore black ski masks and loose-fitting jumpsuits, looking like bad bank robbers. "That's some shittery decorations," Bill said, pointing to the glittery candles. "Who the hell thought pile spikes were festive?" "Check out the balloons," Molly said, squinting into her binoculars. "Twenty, at least. And that bouncy castle? This punk kid has never seen an airing once in his life. The presents are stacked to the ceiling." Bill whistled softly. "Holy fu-- that lingerie briefcase though." "Im calling it," Molly said. Her latex gloved fingers dug through her backpack, producing bolt cutters and a crowbar. The metal glinted in the half moon. "Alright, we go in through the kitchen. I'll gate the kid while you bag the loot in the living room. Remember, hands in their hair, knees to the chest, and knees to the chest. F this up, it's your fault." Bill flipped his mask over his face, the fabric clinging to his. "This plan was your idea." He adjusted his junk behind his zipper. "Look, I really don't want to hurt-" "Shut the fu- up," Molly hissed. "They're babies. They won't even know what hit 'em. Now!" They sprinted from the bushes, feet pounding on the grass.