The stale scent of uneaten pizza and desperation hung heavy in Molly’s dimly lit attic apartment. Bill, perpetually clad in a slightly too-small tweed jacket, nervously tapped a pen against his chin. “So, recap,” Bill began, his voice a reedy whisper, “Operation Birthday Bonanza. The target: one Mrs. Higgins’ notoriously lavish garden party, next Saturday. The objective: all edible and throwable loot.” Molly, sprawled on a beanbag chair that had seen better decades, snorted. “Edible and flammable, Bill. Let’s not forget the sparklers. Those things are basically gold dust to us.” “Right, right, flammable. And the presents. Thousands of them, apparently. Enough to keep us in… well, in things we can pawn for weeks.” Bill adjusted his glasses, which were perpetually sliding down his nose. “Precisely. We infiltrate the bouncy castle, create a diversion with the hired clown – I’ve got a surprise for him – and then when the sugar-fueled chaos reaches its peak, we make our move.” Molly gestured with a half-eaten banana, flinging a bit of peel onto Bill’s shoe. He flinched. “The clown,” Bill repeated, a flicker of unease in his eyes. “You’re sure about this, Molly? I mean, kids. And a clown. It feels ethically… grey.” “Grey? Bill, this is a children’s party. The only ethical considerations involve whether or not to steal the entire fruit platter. And we are stealing the fruit platter.” Molly held up a finger, then amended, “Actually, I’m bringing my own Tupperware. We’ll be vacuuming everything up. Toys, cake, tiny sandwiches, maybe even a discarded balloon animal if it looks valuable.” Bill swallowed. “And the diversion? You said you had a surprise for the clown?” Molly grinned, a glint in her eye that always made Bill’s stomach do a little flip. “Oh, I do. Let’s just say it involves a rubber chicken, a strategically placed whoopee cushion, and a deep, primal fear of oversized shoes.” “You’re going to make the clown… cry?” Bill’s voice cracked. “Make him question his entire life choices, Bill. Which will, conveniently, distract everyone else. While the tiny humans are wailing about their fallen jester, we’ll be stuffing our satchels with Lego and joy. And glitter. Lots and lots of glitter.” Molly fanned herself with a crumpled flyer for a locksmith. “This is going to be our masterpiece, Bill. Operation Birthday Bonanza. They’ll tell stories about this in the grimy underworld for generations.” Bill sighed, a long, suffering sound. “Are we sure we can’t just, you know, get jobs?” “And miss out on this? Bill, where’s your sense of adventure? Where’s your appreciation for the finer things, like strategically acquired artisanal cheese and suspiciously pristine dollhouses?” Molly tossed the banana peel, hitting the waste bin with surprising accuracy. “Now, about the getaway vehicle. I was thinking a stolen ice cream truck. For maximum thematic irony.” “An ice cream truck,” Bill murmured, his gaze drifting towards the dusty ceiling fan. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be an ice cream truck?”