Molly leaned against the cracked leather seat of the rusty van, tapping her fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel. The streetlamp outside flickered, casting a jittery glow over her freckled face. Bill was crouched beside the open back doors, rummaging through their ill-gotten haul of tools—a rubber chicken, a sparkly tiara, and a roll of duct tape. “So,” Molly began, arching an eyebrow, “you still think we can pull this off without a single rogue balloon popping?” Bill held up the rubber chicken like a trophy. “With this bad boy? We’re practically invisible. No one suspects the chicken.” Molly sighed, drumming her fingers harder. “Bill, in what universe is a rubber chicken invisible?” “In this one,” Bill replied confidently, placing the chicken next to the tiara. “Look, people see a guy carrying an actual chicken, or, say, a rubber one, and their brain short-circuits. They think, ‘Who steals from a children’s party with a rubber chicken?’ Nobody.” Molly stared at him, unimpressed. “You do realize the plan is to steal *all* the presents, right? Not just distract with poultry.” Bill grinned. “Exactly. Diversion *and* heist, baby. I’m a genius.” “Genius, huh? Alright, Mr. Chicken. Let’s go over the plan again, before you start waddling around talking to imaginary security guards.” Bill folded his arms. “We sneak in through the side door, which the invite says will be unlocked. Easy peasy.” Molly shook her head. “Side door unlocked, yes, but only for the parents. And we’re not exactly *part* of the party.” “We wear disguises,” Bill said, pulling a ridiculous oversized bowtie from the van floor and brandishing it like a weapon. “See? Classy. Plus, we’ll each have a balloon animal. Two harmless clowns.” Molly took the bowtie, holding it up to her neck and grimacing. “I feel like a budget birthday store threw up on you.” “Exactly! Authenticity is key.” Bill slipped on a curly orange wig that looked like it had been swiped from a runaway circus. “Okay, clown Bill,” Molly said, “How do we actually get in and out with the loot?” “Step one: charm the parents,” Bill explained, “Step two: charm the kids. Step three: charm the party hostess into letting us near the presents. Step four: stealth grab-and-go.” Molly snorted. “You just summarized ‘be charming’ four times in a row. Brilliant. Any ideas on how to charm angry toddlers when their entertainment gets hijacked by two weird clowns?" Bill drummed his fingers, thinking. “Maybe... juggling?” Molly raised an eyebrow. “Juggling what? That chicken?” “Maybe. Or, hear me out: a spectacular disappearing act.” “That’s not stealing the presents, it’s losing the presents.” Molly frowned. Bill shrugged. “Minor detail.” Molly checked her watch. “The party starts in fifteen minutes. We practice the charm act or we end up as kids’ entertainment forever.” Bill grabbed a handful of balloons and started twisting them. “Behold, one balloon poodle coming right up!” Molly watched him struggle to form the shape. “Careful, Bill. Don’t pop any, or we’ll be famous for a whole different reason.” Bill grinned, handing her a lumpy, misshapen balloon. “Your turn. If you can make a hat out of this, we’re in business.” Molly rolled her eyes but took the balloon. “Fine, but if the plan fails, I’m blaming the chicken.” Bill nodded sagely. “Deal. And if the plan succeeds, I’m blaming the chicken anyway. Always the chicken.” The rusted van shuddered as the engine turned over. Molly took a deep breath and slung the rust-colored wig over her head, adjusting the crooked bowtie. Bill popped the rubber chicken, and the sound echoed like a tiny gunshot. “Let’s go steal some cheer,” Molly said. Bill grinned, clutching the basket of balloons. “Operation Party Pooper is a go.”