“Alright, Bill, lay it out. How exactly do we crash a children's party and make off with a pile of toys without getting smushed by a sugar-fueled mob?” Bill grinned, twirling a crumpled invitation in his fingers. “Simple. We don’t just ‘crash’ it. We infiltrate. We masquerade as parents bringing gifts. Blend in like chameleons in a sea of sippy cups and sticky fingers.” Molly raised an eyebrow. “Parents, huh? You’re gonna have me showing up with a plastic stroller and a screaming baby doll? Because last I checked, neither of us looks remotely qualified for PTA meetings.” Bill chuckled. “No stroller. I got a better idea. We pose as the entertainment. Like magicians. Clowns.” “Clowns?” Molly repeated, recoiling at the mental image. “You and I, in rainbow wigs and those giant shoes? I’d scare the kids straight into therapy.” “Exactly! Scaring the kids makes them cling to their parents, freeing up the present table.” He winked. “Strategic distraction.” Molly groaned. “I hate clowns almost as much as I hate glitter. Which is three thousand percent.” Bill tapped the invite. “Look at this, Molly. It says ‘Magic Mike’s Marvelous Birthday Bash.’ Magic Mike’s the hired magician. We can swoop in, ‘help’ Magic Mike, create a diversion, and swipe the loot.” “And you just assume Magic Mike’s trusting enough to let us tag along?” Molly’s smirk was doubtful. “Trust? No. We’ll charm him with some quick sleight of hand. Maybe convince him we’re his replacement magician’s protégés. You’re good with words, remember?” Molly flicked her hair. “That’s the last time I helped you charm a pawnshop clerk into thinking ‘fine art’ means anything but dusty junk.” Bill laughed. “Ah, but this is different. Kids love magicians. Mostly for the glitter bombs and fake rabbits. Between your chatter and my flair, we’ll toss up enough smoke and mirrors to fool Magic Mike and abscond with all the presents.” Molly leaned in. “How do you plan on hauling away a pile of toys without the parents or kids noticing?” Bill smiled conspiratorially. “Inflatable backpack. It expands, holds more than you’d think. Hell, I could fit my entire shoe collection in there.” Molly raised a dubious brow. “I’d pay to see you step into those clown shoes you swore you’d never wear.” Bill shrugged. “Compromise. We wear regular shoes, but face paint. Half clown, half mime. Black and white keeps it stealthy.” Molly tapped her chin. “Alright, but what's our exit plan? Parties end with cake and chaos. Security’s teeth and sugar high levels spike at 3 PM.” Bill’s eyes sparkled. “Easy. We slip out during the piñata melee. Everyone’s busy blindfolded and swinging wildly. Perfect cover.” Molly burst out laughing. “You mean, run like hell while a dozen kids flail sticks near our heads?” “Exactly.” Molly shook her head, grinning. “Bill, you’re insane.” Bill shrugged. “But effective. So, clown shoes or not?” “Fine. But if I end up with glitter in places I didn’t know existed, you owe me dinner for a month.” “Deal. Now, let’s get glitter on our side.”