Molly: “So let me get this straight. We’re robbing a birthday party. For kids.” Bill: “Not robbing. Liberating. The cake alone’s worth ten bucks.” Molly: “Ten bucks? It’s covered in plastic dinosaurs.” Bill: “But the presents, Molly! Look at that pile—wrapping paper stacked like a rainbow threw up. Someone got a unicorn scooter.” Molly: “It’s wobbly. And pink. How’s that profitable?” Bill: “We resell it to a single dad on Facebook. Tears optional.” Molly: “And how do we get in? Knock and say, ‘Hi, we’re the clowns’?” Bill: “Better. I’ve got a tutu. You wear it. You’re the new birthday princess.” Molly: “No. No way. Last time I dressed up, I got a juice box in the eye.” Bill: “Fine. I’ll wear the tutu. But I’m warning you—it’s floral.” Molly: “You in a floral tutu. Okay. Then what?” Bill: “I distract them with interpretive dance. You grab the loot.” Molly: “You can’t dance.” Bill: “Exactly. That’s the distraction.” Molly: “And the cake?” Bill: “We take it. It’s structural support for the gift mountain.” Molly: “What about the parents?” Bill: “They’re busy arguing over gluten-free cupcakes.” Molly: “So we’re exploiting divorced parents and toddlers?” Bill: “I prefer ‘maximizing emotional chaos.’ You in?” Molly: “Only if I don’t have to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ again.” Bill: “No singing. Just scooting.” Molly: “With a unicorn scooter?” Bill: “Now you’re thinking like a criminal.”