The flickering neon of "Sparkles & Sweets" cast garish stripes across Molly's determined face. She tapped a chipped nail on a crumpled floor plan of "Little Lamb Playhouse." "Okay, Bill," she whispered, her voice a gravelly purr, "Operation: Sugar Rush is a go." Bill, a man whose primary skillset seemed to be looking perpetually confused, squinted at the paper. "Sugar Rush? I thought we were ‘Operation: Toy Chest Takedown’?" "Details, Bill, details. The important thing is the objective: maximum present acquisition. We've got a nine-year-old's birthday bash, ten kids, approximately twenty-five to thirty presents. Most of them, from what I can tell, are ninja-themed." "Ninja? Like… actual ninjas?" Bill shifted his considerable weight, his ill-fitting overalls groaning. Molly rolled her eyes. "No, Bill, *toy* ninjas. Action figures, throwing stars made of foam, the works. Perfect for distracting any overly enthusiastic party guests. You're on distractions." "Distractions? What kind of distractions?" "Anything that makes us look like a normal, albeit slightly odd, part of the party. You are, after all, a professional balloon animal artist. Your alter ego. Remember?" Bill puffed out his chest. "Right. Barry the Balloon Baron. I spin 'em into… things." "Yes, Barry. Spin them into… chaos. While Barry is busy creating a life-sized poodle that inevitably bursts, I’ll be slipping into the gift-wrapping zone." "The gift-wrapping zone? Is that like… behind the cake table?" "Precisely. It’s a strategic blind spot. I’ll have my sonic unroller ready. Zziiiiip. Presents… gone." "But what if a kid sees you zip zapping presents?" Bill’s brow furrowed deeper. "They get pretty judgy at that age." "That’s where your furry friend comes in. If, by some astronomical chance, a small human spots me, you deploy… Bartholomew." "Bartholomew? Isn't that your… pet ferret?" "He's not a pet, Bill. He's a highly trained operative. Small, silent, and remarkably good at nabbing shiny objects. He'll create a diversion of his own. A scurrying, squeaking, possibly fur-flying diversion." "A ferret… in spandex?" Bill looked genuinely worried. "He'll be in his custom-made, miniature ninja suit. Black, naturally. Think less ferret, more furry little assassin. Now, the escape route. The side door, near the bouncy castle. If it's occupied, you create a 'sudden deflating emergency.' I’ll be waiting with the getaway vehicle, which is my sensible grey minivan." Bill stared at her. "A minivan? For stealing ninja toys?" "It’s about blending in, Bill. No one suspects the soccer mom with the questionable taste in air fresheners. Now, any questions about Operation: Sugar Rush?" "Just one," Bill said, his voice a hopeful murmur. "Will there be cake?" Molly sighed. "Only if we can snag it on the way out, Bill. Only if we can snag it on the way out."