"Bill, you can't be serious." "Dead serious, Molly. Tommy Fitzgerald's eighth birthday party. Saturday. Two o'clock." "We're stealing from children now?" "Not from children. From their parents. Big difference." "How exactly?" "Listen, these Riverside Heights kids get iPads, gaming consoles, smartwatches—" "They're eight!" "Exactly my point. Little Timmy doesn't need a PlayStation 5. But we do. Well, we need the money from selling it." "This is insane." "Is it? Is it really? We dress as clowns—" "Absolutely not." "Fine, balloon artists. We go in, entertain for twenty minutes, grab the gift table, out." "What about the children, Bill? The trauma?" "What trauma? They'll cry for five minutes then go back to their bouncy castle. Meanwhile, we make rent." "I hate this plan." "You got a better one?" "Literally any other plan would be better." "The Murphy wedding?" "Too much security." "The country club?" "Cameras everywhere." "So we're agreed then? Operation Birthday Bandit?" "God help me. Fine. But I'm not wearing the clown wig." "Deal. You can be the birthday magician instead." "I quit." "See you Saturday, partner."