Molly crouched behind the row of oversized inflatable animals, peeking through the gaps at the chaos of a five-year-old’s birthday party in full swing. Bill adjusted his ridiculous fake mustache, trying to look inconspicuous but failing miserably. “So, you really think the loot’s in the playroom?” Molly whispered, eyes darting to a table stacked high with brightly wrapped boxes. Bill nodded, shushing a giggle. “Absolutely. Presents piled higher than Aunt Edna’s fruitcake last Christmas. And what’s better than stealing from sugar-hyped toddlers?” “Honestly, the real challenge is getting past Mrs. Jenkins. She’s like a hawk with Pilates-praised stamina.” Bill grinned. “Don’t worry. I brought the distraction.” He pulled out a remote-controlled fart machine, the corners of his mouth twitching with glee. “A fart machine? Really, Bill? We’re robbing kids, not breaking into a bank.” “Exactly. Banks don't expect flatulence-assisted burglaries. It’s avant-garde crime, Molly.” Molly sighed. “Alright, fine. You trigger the ‘bio-attack’ by the punch bowl. I sneak in and grab the loot.” Bill smirked, waving the remote. “Operation Tootsie Roll, commence in three... two...” Suddenly, an explosive squeal of laughter and a blast of whoopee cushion noise erupted, and the kids turned their attention toward the baffled adults — just as Molly slipped through the back door.