The van smelled of stale crisps and desperation. Molly tapped a manicured nail on the blueprint—a glitter-encrusted invitation to "Timmy's Super-Spectacular 7th Birthday Bash." Through the grimy windshield, they watched the target: a suburban fortress defended by a distracted dad on barbecue duty. The faint, horrifying squeals of children and the tinny thud of a pop song about baby sharks leaked across the lawn. Bill clutched their primary infiltration tool: a water pistol filled with lukewarm prune juice. Beside him, the industrial-grade leaf blower, jerry-rigged to a giant sack of Mylar, hummed with potential chaos. "I still think the confetti bomb is overkill," Bill whispered, his voice tight. Molly shot him a look that could curdle a juice box from fifty paces. "There's no such thing as overkill, Bill. Only 'fun-kill'." She pulled a pointy, cone-shaped party hat down over her eyes, adjusting it like a tactical helmet. The elastic band snapped smartly against her chin. The prize, a glorious mountain of presents wrapped in dinosaur paper, awaited them. It was time.