Molly crouched behind a bush that smelled suspiciously like someone had trained a very confused dog on it, peering through plastic binoculars shaped like unicorns. “Alright, Bill,” she whispered, adjusting her black ski mask over her already suspiciously glittery hair, “status report. Is the Piñata of Distraction in place?” Bill, who was wearing a full clown costume three sizes too small and sweating heavily under the polyester wig, held up a lopsided donkey piñata with one broken ear. “It’s ready. But Molly, I still think we’re crossing a moral line. These are children. Some of them haven’t even lost their baby teeth.” “Moral lines were crossed the second someone scheduled a birthday party at 10 a.m. on a Saturday,” Molly hissed. “Besides, the intel is solid—three dozen gifts, minimum value of eight bucks apiece, and a bouncy castle acting as both emotional support and physical cover. This is the score of a lifetime.” “But they’ve got face painting,” Bill whimpered. “And a puppet show about recycling. I don’t know if my soul can take it.” “Your soul’s already compromised, Bill. You once stole a parking meter because you thought it looked lonely.” “I felt bad for it! It was covered in bird—” “Focus!” Molly snapped, pulling a walkie-talkie shaped like a rubber duck from her utility belt. “You get into position by the snack table, use the cake distraction, I’ll rappel down from the treehouse using the streamer line, and we bag the gifts before the magician even starts his third mediocre card trick.” Bill adjusted his oversized shoes. “What if the treehouse collapses?” “It’s held up twelve sugar-raged children, two dads arm-wrestling, and a ferret named Kevin. It’ll hold me.” She paused. “Wait—did you bring the decoy gift?” Bill reached into his giant red clown shoe and pulled out a small, badly wrapped box with a sticky note that read *To: Timmy, From: Probably Santa.* “Right here. One slightly used toaster, re-gifted with emotional baggage.” “Perfect,” Molly said, grinning. “Once they open that, all eyes will be on the tragedy. Tears, confusion, maybe a fainting parent. That’s our window.” “And if they like the toaster?” “They’re six. They think glitter is a food group. No six-year-old wants a toaster.” “You didn’t like my waffle maker.” “That was betrayal. This is business.” A squeal erupted from the backyard as a tiny child in a unicorn hat launched off the bouncy castle and landed in a bush. “Showtime,” Molly whispered. “Remember the signal.” “What’s the signal?” “If I yell ‘Peppa Pig is a corporate stooge,’ you throw the cake.” Bill blinked. “That’s your signal?” “It’s memorable. Now go. And for the love of all that’s unholy, stop adjusting your clown codpiece.” “I can’t help it! It itches, and I think something’s nesting in there.” “Just think of the loot, Bill. Think of the sweet, wrapped, poorly chosen loot.” Molly scurried toward the treehouse, untangling a garland of metallic streamers like she was defusing a bomb made of joy. Bill trudged toward the snack table, clutching the toaster like a shield against childhood innocence. From inside the house, cheerful music blared: *If You're Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands!* Bill sighed. “I’m going to Hell, aren’t I?” “Only if we get caught,” Molly whispered into the duck walkie-talkie. “Now throw the cake, you magnificent grease fire.” He took a deep breath, hurled the two-tier chocolate monstrosity into the air, and ducked behind a diaper bag. Silence. Then chaos. And somewhere, a child screamed, “THE CAKE STOLE MY SPOON!”