“Alright, so the target: a bouncy castle. The goods: a veritable treasure trove of… toddler-sized socks and probably some plastic construction sets.” Molly gestured dramatically with a half-eaten lollipop. “Bill, you’re looking at the score of a lifetime.” Bill, meticulously polishing a miniature grappling hook with a handkerchief stolen from a department store mannequin, didn’t flinch. “Molly, if I wanted to risk my neck for a Fisher-Price garage, I’d just have a kid. A really specific, incredibly clumsy child.” “Don’t be a buzzkill, Bill. It’s not just the gifts. It’s the symbolism. The audacity! Stealing from the innocent, the unsuspecting… little Timmy’s seventh birthday party.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Imagine the sheer pandemonium. The tears. The bewildered parents trying to explain why their precious darling’s new bike is GONE.” “Right. Because that’s a legacy I want to be known for. ‘Bill ‘The Bike Bandit’ McMillan, known for his audacious raid on a suburban cul-de-sac and a subsequent lifetime of therapy for a generation of children.’” “Oh, lighten up. This is a practice run. A warm-up for the big leagues. And besides,” Molly winked, “there’s bound to be some cash in those ‘cards and gifts’ envelopes. Remember Mrs. Henderson’s niece’s wedding? We got enough to finally fix your… well, to finally fix that creaky sound your… existence makes.” Bill sighed, a long, suffering sound that seemed to have its own internal echo. “Fine. Let’s talk logistics. You’re suggesting a frontal assault on a fortress of inflatable joy and sugar-hyped seven-year-olds?” “Not frontal, Bill. Elegant. Deft. I’m thinking… diversion. Imagine a clown. A really bad clown. So bad, in fact, that he causes a mass exodus of parents, leaving the present table unguarded.” “You’re going to be the clown, aren’t you?” Molly grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Let’s just say I’ve been practicing my balloon animal artistry. My poodles are… abstract.” “Abstract in the ‘looks like it’s been run over by a lawnmower’ sense, I imagine.” “Details, details. While I’m charming the pants off the parental units with my ‘art,’ you, my dear Bill, will be the silent shadow. The ghost in the gingham table cloth. The… present purloiner.” Bill massaged his temples. “And how exactly do I transport a literal ton of glitter-covered plastic back to the hideout without attracting attention? Do you want me to wear a Santa suit? Is this your way of getting me to embrace the festive spirit a little more ‘enthusiastically’?” “No Santa suit, you Grinch. I’ve secured a… vintage ice cream truck. Very discreet. Very practical. Nobody questions an ice cream truck at a kid’s party.” “Except when it’s leaving with all the birthday gifts and no ice cream.” “Minor detail. We’ll offer them melted popsicles as a consolation prize. Consider it community service.” Bill closed his eyes. “This is going to end with us being chased by a very angry man in a dinosaur costume, isn’t it?” Molly’s laugh was bright and unapologetic. “Only if we’re lucky, Bill. Only if we’re lucky.”