The surveillance van smelled of stale corn chips and the lingering, desperate odor of a diamond heist gone wrong in '98. Through the scratched lens of the binoculars, the suburban bungalow didn't look like a fortress; it looked like a rainbow had violently exploded over a manicured lawn. Neon streamers flapped in the wind, and a battalion of pink balloons was currently staging a hostile takeover of the mailbox. It was a target rich in potential loot, yet terrifyingly high in auditory risk. Molly adjusted the focus, zooming in on the stack of gifts piled high on the patio furniture like a glittering pyramid of consumerist promise. "Listen to me, Bill," Molly hissed, tapping the side of the lens. "This isn't just a birthday party. It’s a goldmine of wrapped plastic and unopened electronics. We go in, we grab the bags, we get out before the cake cutting starts. It is an in-and-out job." Bill shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat, his eyes darting toward the front yard where a group of six-year-olds were currently beating a defenseless dinosaur-shaped effigy with a wiffle bat. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to calculate the sheer volume of high-pitched screaming awaiting them. It wasn't the police he feared; it was the sheer, unadulterated sugar-fueled energy of fifty kindergarteners hyped up on red dye number forty. They were like tiny, sticky terminators. "I don't know, Molls. The perimeter is swarming," Bill whispered, wiping a bead of nervous sweat from his forehead. "Look at the guy by the grill. He’s an ex-Marine. I can tell by the way he’s handling those tongs. And the kids... they’re unpredictable. One sees us, and the whole operation is blown with tears." Molly scoffed, turning away from the window to glare at her partner. She pulled out a blueprint of the house, which was crudely drawn on the back of a Denny's placemat. She tapped a frantic finger on the rear entrance near the garage, marking the weak point. The parents were distracted by the magician currently pulling a rabbit out of a hat, leaving the pile of presents near the sliding glass door completely unguarded. It was the perfect crime, provided they could survive the noise. "We have a distraction," she insisted, pointing toward the driveway where a desperate mother was pacing. "You’re going in as the entertainment. I saw an ad on Craigslist; the original mascot cancelled. You put on the giant kangaroo suit, you lead them to the backyard for a 'hopscotch tournament,' and I sack the living room." Bill looked down at the furry, marsupial monstrosity at his feet. It smelled like expectations, mothballs, and old gym socks. He realized then that there was no dignity left in the life of crime, only the crushing weight of a kangaroo head and the promise of stolen Xbox games. He sighed heavily, reaching for the costume with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to the electric chair. "Fine," Bill grumbled, sticking his foot into the plush suit. "But if I get tea-bagged by a six-year-old, I’m taking the larger cut of the Pokémon cards."