The backseat of Bill’s stolen minivan smelled like stale gummy worms and regret, which, given their current line of work, was basically a signature scent. Molly adjusted the oversized clown nose she’d glued to her face—because nothing said *inconspicuous* like a grown woman in a rainbow wig and suspiciously tight polka-dot pants—and squinted at the party invitation in her hand. “Okay, so the kid’s name is Timmy,” she said, tapping the glittery cardstock. “Which is just *begging* for a nickname like ‘Tiny’ or ‘Timbit.’ You ever notice how parents just *hand* us the material?” Bill, currently wrestling a deflating whoopee cushion into the shape of a belt, grunted. “Focus, Moll. We’re not here to workshop stand-up. We’re here to rob a six-year-old blind.” “Robbing *with* heart,” she corrected, flipping the invitation over. “Says here the party’s at the community center. You ever been to one of those places? It’s like a funhouse designed by a committee that hates joy. Balloon arches that sag after five minutes, a piñata that’s 90% sawdust, and a magician who *definitely* moonlights as a dentists’ worst nightmare.” Bill finally secured the whoopee cushion to his waist with a length of duct tape. “You done?” “Almost.” She pulled a lollipop from her pocket, unwrapped it, and immediately stuck it to the roof of her mouth like a deranged gecko. “Also, the theme is ‘Jungle Adventure.’ So we’re walking into a room full of kids dressed as lions and parrots while we’re dressed like… whatever this is.” “Professional party crashers,” Bill said, adjusting his own disguise—a neon green Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned over a “World’s Okayest Uncle” tank top. “And we’re not *crashing*. We’re *blending*. Kids love clowns. Clowns love… whatever it is clowns love. Freedom? Chaos? The sound of their own squeaky shoes?” Molly plucked the lollipop from her mouth with a *pop*. “Clowns love *lollipops*, Bill. That’s the whole bit. You don’t see Pennywise out here sipping a martini, do you?” “Pennywise is a *murder clown*,” Bill said, deadpan. “He’s got *standards*.” She waved a hand. “Details. Point is, we waltz in there, play a few rounds of ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’—which, by the way, is just ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’ because donkeys *deserve* this—grab the presents, and bounce before the piñata even hits the ground.” Bill reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a walkie-talkie, which he immediately dropped when it let out a staticky shriek. “And how, exactly, are we *grabbing the presents* without, I don’t know, *looking like we’re stealing from children*?” Molly grinned. “Easy. We’re the *party favors*.” She reached into a duffel bag at her feet and pulled out a handful of brightly wrapped boxes. “See these? These are *distraction presents*. We hand these out first—stuffed with confetti and a single stale goldfish cracker each—while you ‘accidentally’ knock over the gift table. In the chaos, we swap the real presents for these.” She held up a identical-looking box, this one taped shut with an ominous *do not open until Christmas 2025* label. Bill stared. “You put *nothing* in those, did you?” “Of course I did,” Molly said, offended. “I put *hope*. And also a strongly worded note about the evils of consumerism.” Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re robbing a *kid’s party*, Molly.” “Exactly! Think of it as *redistributing* the wealth. Timmy’s parents are probably lawyers. They can afford it.” “They’re *dentists*,” Bill said, checking the invitation. “And Timmy’s six. He doesn’t even *have* wealth. He has a *train set* and a *slight obsession with dinosaurs*.” Molly gasped. “Dinosaurs? Bill, we are *monsters*.” “No, we’re *thieves*,” Bill said, throwing his hands up. “And now I’m having an ethical crisis in a minivan that smells like a carnival dumpster.” Molly patted his shoulder. “Cheer up. Worst case, we get caught, go to jail, and finally get three square meals a day. Win-win.” Bill groaned as she revved the engine. The minivan lurched forward, the whoopee cushion on his belt letting out a sad, half-hearted *pffft* as they peeled out of the parking lot. “Alright,” Molly said, cracking her knuckles. “Let’s go make some *memories*.”