On the doorstep of a suburban house, Molly peeks through the window. Bill checks his bag. Molly: They have at least thirty presents under the tablecloth—brightly wrapped, ripe for the taking. Bill: A kids’ party heist—classic. But what about the parents? Molly: Distract them with my famous balloon-animal emergency. You know helium, straw, chaos? Bill: I can whip up an impromptu clown act if you promise not to squeal “Boo!” at every jump. Molly: Fine, but I want that giant teddy bear. It’s worth half our cut. Bill: Agreed, but we need a getaway route. Staircase too narrow. Back door through the bushes? Molly: Bushes are fine—except Mrs. Henderson’s guard poodle. He’s a yapping maniac. Bill: I’ll bring dog treats. Bribe it. Works every time. Unless the kids spot us? Molly: We’ll wear cake-smudged aprons. Everyone loves an accidental spill. Bill: And when the piñata swings, we storm the table. Presents in, kids out, ghosts in. Molly: Ghosts? Bill: My grandmother’s homemade sheet gag. Silent getaway. Ready? Molly: Let’s crash a party. Bill: Just one rule: no singing happy birthday as we leave. My voice cracks. Molly: Deal. But I get one squeaky balloon horn moment for style. Bill: Fine. Now, hand me that lock-pick belt. Molly: Here. And try not to poke your eye out.