Molly crouched behind a bush, binoculars pressed to her eyes. “You said no clowns, Bill.” “There aren’t any clowns,” Bill whispered, adjusting his fake mustache. “It’s just a theme. Look—balloons shaped like squirrels. No threat.” “Last time you said ‘no threat,’ we got chased by a hamster. A *hamster*, Bill!” “That hamster had issues. This is different. We’re dealing with cupcakes and piñatas, not rodent mafia.” “So you admit the hamster was organized crime?” “Focus, Molly! Twenty-three unopened presents under the ‘Happy Birthday, Kevin’ banner. Minimum value: nine juice boxes and a talking toilet.” “A *talking toilet*? That's just a prank toy. It says ‘flush me’ in a British accent.” “Exactly. Resale gold on eBay. Parents’ll pay anything for novelty plumbing.” “You’re pricing stolen toilet humor? Are we criminals or sad podcast hosts?” “We’re *entrepreneurs with felony tendencies*. Now, what’s the plan?” “Distract them with a fake magic show. You do the disappearing rabbit trick.” “I told you, I don’t do rabbits. They judge me.” “Then use a sock. Socks disappear all the time.” “Fine. But if I’m juggling sweaty socks, I want a bigger cut.” “You get the cut I give you. Now, is the getaway vehicle ready?” “The stroller’s primed. Looks suspiciously effective.” “Perfect. We strike at snack time. When their guard is down... and their hands are sticky.” “Like us, but socially acceptable.”