It was a balmy summer evening as Molly and Bill met up at their usual haunt - a dingy dive bar across town from the local children's birthday party they planned to rob later that night. Murphy's Law dictated that you never try to steal from a kids' party, but facts were facts: it was untapped territory. "I'm telling you, Bill, this job should be easy peasy," Molly said, sucking down a lowball of whiskey. Her tight black jeans were ripped and dusty, evidence of her handiwork elsewhere that day. "Hmm, yeah... can't really say I'm up for this, though," Bill said, stirring his glass of watered-down vodka. He looked at his watch. "We've got like an hour before we need to get into position. Should be plenty of time to pull back out if we change our minds, right?" Molly set down her glass and leaned across the sticky table. "They've got helium." Bill's jaw dropped open, an unbecoming habit he was working on but never quite broke and these days it seemed to be exacerbated by these conversations with Molly. "No... they're not." "Yes, Billy, they are. Badly decorated, hilariously mismatched, killer gift bags from Amazon, pimply-faced clown doing some wild shit with a bag full of balloons... I mean, what kind of dipshit pins this party together?" Bill shook his head. "You're talking to the cog." "A cog!" Molly laughed. "No, I mean... you poor sap. He's not the one doing this." Does that even make any sense?" "Nah, it doesn't, really. Dollars to donuts, it's gonna be the cashier's kid. Ronny." Billy sipped his drink slowly. "Ronny the cashier, huh?" "Yep." Molly laughed darkly. "He's out here telling everyone the party's gonna be an open bar and instrument play-along to get attendance up... Can you imagine?" "No comment," Bill replied. "Well, except that sounds like a wide open invitation for, I dunno, basically any kids' party ever. John Roberts wants you to pee on my boner? Sounds like you're doing open bar, present opening and loud music." Both of them cracked up at that one. "Appreciate the solidarity," Bill called but the laughter had stopped. Now he lowered his eyes. "How'd we get ourselves in this heist gone wrong, huh?" "What do you mean?" Molly countered, accusation in her tone. "It's overtime. Boom: cash supplements and a job for each." Bill shook his head. "Overtime..." For those who earn normal hourly wages for, say, entry-level retail jobs. He huffed and drained his drink. "I'll have to ketchup on the correlation later, saying that there appears to exist for people who work shifts from 11 am to 1 pm to 11 pm, some receive more than others." Molly tapped her foot against the IV pole, a trash bag filled with expired water next to her grabbing her cue for their usual token token scene. "What if we get caught?" Bill thought for a second. "So likely?" "People are up to shit and working late maybe they get a future date with destiny like my grandfather always said. I'll have to call him, dig up some info and run that by you." "Coolio frackin." The band began playing a country song and they could embrace the white trash bliss surrounding them. "Well... hey." Tension gripped Bill. He glanced again at his watch. Pulled up from a heated dream in the fetal position, forced to break up a Hullabaloo or two at the casino because that poor old fucker was still pinning eighties arcade games and making zoomies in front of a crowd and scaring Rocko into bewilderment and confusion. Worst of all, he couldn't do anything to stop it. Then when he woke up three hours later in his bath tub, his hair still drenched and oozing with slobber, the manager politely asked him to leave. He was, after all, sober.