Molly adjusted her ski mask and checked the tactical flashlight against her badge of authenticity. Bill was crouched before the piñata, inspecting the structural weakness with the scrutiny of a bomb disposal expert. It was a unicorn. A terrible, latex-filled target. "Too soft," Bill muttered, tapping the plastic horn. They waited behind the overgrown hedge, listening to the shrieks of third graders inside. The loot was locked in the garage, protected by the golden child of the decade. This was a fortress. Molly pulled a modified grappling hook from her utility belt, shaped like a glow-in-the-dark lizard. "If we get caught," she whispered, "the witness protection program is already waiting in Prague." Bill nodded, eyeing the back door. "Good thing we brought the incendiary device." It was merely a bag of fireworks intended for the big kid’s surprise. "Operation Unicorn Derailment commencing." They crept through the blooming azaleas, weapons drawn. The air smelled of cupcakes and desperation. The target was secure. Molly checked her watch. "Laser grid?" "Already cut," Bill said, tossing a pristine slice of construction paper into the air. "Zero clearance." Molly smirked behind her mask, admiring the logistical masterpiece. "Alright then. To the loot."