The aroma of cheap fairy cakes and existential dread hung heavy in the air. Molly, a woman whose perpetually furrowed brow suggested a deep philosophical engagement with oven mitts, adjusted her tiny sombrero. "So, you're sure about this, Bill?" she whispered, her voice raspy from an unfortunate encounter with a glitter cannon. Bill, currently attempting to lick an errant smear of icing from his thumb, nodded enthusiastically. "Positive! This is it, Mol. The motherlode. Think of the tactical advantage provided by the sheer, unadulterated joy of offspring." "You call stuffing toys into a burlap sack 'tactical advantage'?" Molly scoffed. "Last time, you got distracted by a piñata and spent twenty minutes bleeding raspberry filling." "A minor setback," Bill mumbled, eyeing a particularly plump looking parcel. "Besides, this time I’ve got a plan. We go in during the 'musical chairs' segment. Maximum chaos, minimum supervision." Molly sighed, a sound like wind through a deflated bouncy castle. "Just try not to accidentally recruit any junior accomplices, alright?"