“So, a bouncy castle,” Bill said, tapping a pen against a surprisingly detailed floor plan of a suburban backyard. “Precisely,” Molly replied, her eyes scanning the same map. “And a face painting station, if our intel is accurate.” “Our intel is a seven-year-old named Kevin who demanded payment in Gummy Bears,” Bill countered. “He's a professional,” Molly shot back, gesturing with a half-eaten lollipop. “And he knows the lay of the land better than anyone. Now, the presents. Where are they likely to be stacked?” “Based on previous birthday party observations,” Bill mused, tracing a finger across a picnic table icon, “they’ll start here, near the food, then migrate to a designated ‘present table’ once the kids are sufficiently sugared up. Probably under an awning, if the weather forecast holds.” “An awning. Excellent. That gives us an advantage. Less direct sunlight on the loot. What’s our ingress?” “The back fence. It’s a standard wooden picket, about four feet high. Kevin says old Mr. Henderson, who lives next door, usually leaves his garden gate unlocked. We can cut through his yard.” “Too risky. That’s two fences. We want minimal interaction with anything that might creak, rustle, or generally alert Mrs. Higgins, the hostess, to our presence.” “Mrs. Higgins is known for her high-decibel shrieking when surprised. Not ideal, I agree. So, the front. Disguises, perhaps? Clown suits?” “Bill, for a man who claims to be a master of ‘subtle infiltration,’ you have an alarming penchant for the theatrical. No clown suits. We’re aiming for inconspicuous. Think parents. Overwhelmed, slightly bored parents. They’ll barely register a new face.” “So, what, cargo shorts and a ‘World’s Best Dad’ t-shirt?” “Now you’re thinking! But make it ‘World’s Okayest Uncle’ for you. You look more like an uncle. And I’ll be the aunt who’s ‘just popped in to drop off little Timmy’s gift, terribly sorry we’re late.’ We stroll in, mingle, locate the loot, secure it, and… stroll out.” “Sounds almost too easy. What’s the catch?” “The catch, my dear Bill, is thirty hyperactive children, probably hopped up on fizzy drinks and cake, all within a ten-foot radius of our target. And possibly a bouncy castle that we’ll have to circumnavigate without drawing undue attention.” “The bouncy castle… a potential tactical advantage, if used correctly. A distraction.” “You are not going on the bouncy castle, Bill.” “But imagine the chaos! The perfect opportunity!” “No. We are not creating a diversion by you bouncing uncontrollably and possibly knocking out a small child. This is a precision operation. Now, the actual securing of the goods. What are we using for extraction?” “I was thinking a classic pillowcase. Maximum capacity, minimal bulk. Plus, it blends in with the ‘sleepover party’ aesthetic.” “Brilliant. A themed heist. I like it. Pillowcases. We’ll need two. And what about a distraction for the moment of truth? While we’re scooping up the loot?” “Kevin said there’s a piñata. Often takes a while to crack. And when it does, it’s a free-for-all. A perfect window of opportunity.” “Kevin. Our man on the inside. You know, for a seven-year-old, he’s remarkably strategic. We might have to offer him a permanent consulting gig.” “Only if we diversify into candy heists. He’s very particular about his remuneration.” “Right. Piñata, pillowcases, boring parent costumes. And no bouncy castle acrobatics from you, Bill. Understood?” “Understood. But if the opportunity *presents* itself…” “No, Bill.”