Bill adjusted his oversized, squeaky clown nose while peering through the dense rhododendrons at the target suburban backyard. The castle-themed bounce house loomed ahead like a colorful, inflatable beast guarding the treasure trove of expensive wrapping paper and satin bows. Molly, squeezed into a polyester fairy tutu that strained against every seam, checked her wristwatch with the grim precision of a bomb disposal expert. She had calculated the exact millisecond the mediocre magician would pull the live rabbit out of the hat, creating the necessary sensory overload for their ingress. The logistics were brutal; navigating a minefield of sticky toddlers and spilled juice boxes required agility they simply didn't possess. Bill signaled that the perimeter was clear, his face painted with a greasepaint smile that barely masked his desperate need for a new toaster oven. They weren't just stealing plastic toys; they were stealing the unadulterated joy of six-year-olds. "Is the target piñata filled with high grade explosives?" Bill asked. "No, strictly high-fructose corn syrup," Molly replied.