Review the perimeter again, Molly said, pointing a black-gloved finger at the crayon drawing spread across the dashboard of their rusted sedan. Bill squinted at the paper, tilting his head. Is this a guard tower? It is the bouncy castle, Bill. Keep up. The bouncy castle is the primary extraction point. If things go south, we bounce our way over the hedge. Right. Bounce over the hedge. Got it. And the beast? that is a Golden Retriever named Sparkles. He is easily bribed with these. Molly held up a bag of beef jerky. Do not eat the bribe, Bill. I wasn't going to, Bill said, wiping a suspicious crumb from his lip. I just think this is high risk for low reward. What are we even expecting? Plastic dinosaurs? A couple of coloring books? Intelligence reports suggest a limited edition Robot-o-Saurus. The one that actually walks and screams. It is worth three hundred on the black market. Plus, the cake. We take the cake to assert dominance. Bill shifted in his seat, painfully adjusting the oversized purple dinosaur costume he was wearing. I feel ridiculous. The tail keeps getting caught in the emergency brake. You are the distraction, Bill. You are Barney’s destitute cousin, Barnaby. You go in, you do a little dance, you slip on a banana peel—which I have placed in your left pocket—and while the mothers differ between laughter and concern, I sweep the gift table. Why do I have to slip on a fruit? Because slapstick disarms the bourgeoisie. Now, what is the signal? I shout the British are coming? No. You shout, who wants to play pin the tail on the donkey, heavily implying you are the donkey. I hate that part. It is necessary. Once the children swarm you, their sticky hands creating a chaotic barrier between the adults and the loot, I deploy the burlap sack. Is the sack breathable? I don't want to suffocate the Robot-o-Saurus. It is a toy, Bill. It doesn't breathe. Unlike the clown. Bill froze, his hand on the door handle. There is a clown? Target surveillance indicates a freelancer named Giggles. He is over by the punch bowl. He looks hungover. Ignore him. If he engages, tell him you are union. I am not union. He doesn't know that. Just look intimidating. I am wearing a purple felt bodysuit, Molly. I look like an eggplant having a mid-life crisis. Molly checked her tactical watch. It is time. The candles are being lit. The parents are distracted by the fire hazard. This is our window. Wait, what about the piñata? That thing is loaded with potential shrapnel. We treat the piñata as a hostile entity. Do not engage. If it breaks, stay low to avoid the candy scatter. The stampede will be brutal. God, I hate the stampede. Remember the glitter incident of 2019? We do not speak of the glitter incident. Now, mask on. It is a dinosaur head, Molly. It doesn't fit over my ski mask. Lose the ski mask, you idiot! The head is the mask. Are you ready to make history? I am ready to steal a toddler's happiness. That is the spirit. Go. And Bill? Yeah? Try not to cry when they hit you with the waffle ball bats. It ruins the illusion. No promises. Bill opened the van door, his massive purple tail knocking a half-empty coffee cup off the center console as he exited. Molly sighed, clicked her stopwatch, and whispered to the empty car. Professionalism. Pure professionalism.