“Are you serious, Bill?” “Serious as a heart attack, Molly. And considerably less messy.” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose, a habit she’d picked up after three years of working with Bill. “A children’s birthday party? The one with the bouncy castle and the guy dressed as a slightly-too-realistic gorilla?” “The very same! Think of the haul, Molly. Imagine the unblemished glory of a hundred perfectly wrapped presents, just waiting to… well, waiting to be liberated.” Bill’s eyes twinkled with the kind of misguided enthusiasm usually reserved for cult leaders or particularly ambitious squirrels. “Liberated, he says. From six-year-olds.” Molly gestured dramatically around the dive bar booth they were currently occupying, attracting the attention of exactly no one. “Billy, we steal from banks, from museums, occasionally from that guy who sells knock-off watches in the alley. We do not steal from infants.” “Technically, they’re six. And look, it’s not *from* them. It’s *for* us. A redistribution of joy, if you will. And toys. Mostly toys.” Bill leaned forward conspiratorially. “Consider this: low security, high emotional trauma for the victims, but ultimately, they’ll get over it. Probably. And isn’t that the sweet spot of all our operations?” “The sweet spot of emotional trauma? Billy, what is wrong with you?” “Nothing! I’ve been thinking about this, Molly. It’s brilliant. The parents will be distracted by the sugary chaos, the kids will be hopped up on birthday cake and juice boxes. It’s a perfect storm of opportunity!” Molly sighed. “And how exactly do you propose we, two internationally renowned purveyors of larceny, infiltrate a kindergarten class’s birthday bash without looking like the creepiest people on the planet?” “Disguises, of course! I was thinking… clowns.” Molly stared at him, her jaw slack. “Clowns. You want us to dress as clowns. The very same clowns that are responsible for 90% of childhood nightmares?” “Precisely! It’s unexpected. Who would suspect two clowns of being master thieves? Everyone expects them to just… make balloon animals and terrorize small children with overly aggressive honking.” “Bill, I refuse to wear a wig that smells like other people’s dreams. And I certainly refuse to paint my face to look like some sort of psychotic harlequin.” “But Molly, think of the tactical advantages! Balloons for distraction, oversized shoes for… well, for very little, but they look funny. And a flower that squirts water! Imagine spraying the bouncy castle gorilla in the face while I make off with the loot.” “You’re going to be spraying a guy in a gorilla suit while I’m supposed to be… what, precisely? Hoofing it out of there with a sack full of Barbies and Hot Wheels?” “Exactly! It’s a classic misdirection. Besides, it’s a challenge. We’ve done the secure vault, the laser grid, the armed guards. This is new territory. A moral grey area, perhaps, but a highly profitable one.” Molly ran a hand through her hair. “And what happens when little Timmy’s parents find out their child’s brand-new Lego Death Star is gone? They’re going to call the cops, Bill. And we’ll be arrested for grand theft children’s toys.” “They’ll never suspect us! Clowns, Molly. Clowns are above suspicion. They’re like ninjas, but with more primary colors and existential dread.” “I’m not wearing red suspenders, Bill.” “Fine, blue! But the oversized shoes are non-negotiable.”