Molly crouched behind a bush, binoculars glued to her face, peering through the fence at a yard exploding with pink streamers and a giant inflatable unicorn. “I can already smell the cheap cake and existential dread.” Bill adjusted his safari vest, which he insisted made him look “like a children’s party investigator.” “Are we sure we’re doing this? Stealing from kids? Feels low. Even for us.” Molly lowered the binoculars and stared at him. “It’s not *from* the kids. It’s *from* the parents, who, let’s not forget, collectively spent $373 on glitter balloons alone.” “How do you know that?” “I chatted with the vendor. He’s miserable. He supports this heist, morally.” Bill scratched his chin. “Still… toddlers are unpredictable. One wrong move and they start screaming. You know what happens when kids scream? Parents *notice* things.” Molly rolled her eyes. “Bill, we robbed a bank during a polka festival. We danced our way out of an armed standoff. You’re telling me you’re scared of a piñata?” “It’s not the piñata. It’s the clown. Clowns see everything.” “That’s not true. Clowns can’t see their own shoes. They’re too busy crying in the bathroom.” Bill leaned in. “What’s the plan, then? We can’t just waltz in wearing ski masks and yelling ‘Present extraction in progress!’” “No, we go in as clowns.” “Oh no.” “We wear the clown costumes. We become the entertainment. We distract with slapstick, gather the loot, and exit during the cake song.” “You want me to wear a red nose and honk a fake horn while stealing a box of Lego sets?” “It’s poetic. Justice in rubber shoes.” “I’m too old to be a clown, Molly. I look like sad birthday cake.” “You’ll wear makeup. No one will know. Besides, the real clown’s getting paid to stay home. I told him he had ‘bad vibes.’” “You bribed the clown?” “I *liberated* his services. He’s on a beach in Belize right now, eating lobster and sobbing from joy.” Bill sighed. “Fine. But I’m not doing the flower-squirting trick. That thing never works and always smells like vinegar.” “Agreed. But you *are* doing the tumbler trick. You open the briefcase, pretend to do acrobatics, and the second the kids turn to see the magic trick—*poof*—we’ve got all the gifts stuffed in the case. It expands. It’s like Mary Poppins’ bag, but for crime.” “It better expand. Last time you said the bag was bottomless, it burst when we stole that vending machine.” “That was a fluke. The machine was possessed.” “So was the clown?” “Coincidence.” Bill looked back at the yard. A tiny girl in a princess costume was aggressively hugging a squirrel that seemed deeply concerned. “And what if a kid recognizes us?” Molly smirked. “Kid, even *I* wouldn’t recognize you in those pants. You’re basically a walking circus regret already.” “Thanks.” “We go at 3:15. Right after ‘Happy Birthday’ but before naptime meltdowns. Maximum chaos, minimum accountability.” Bill nodded slowly. “And the getaway?” “Folding scooters. Disguised as party favors.” “You’re insane.” Molly patted his shoulder. “And yet, here you are. Honk honk, partner.”