Bill adjusted his oversized clown nose, scratching furiously at the itchy polyester of his disguise. He looked toward the suburban house, which vibrated with the chaotic energy of a six-year-old’s birthday bash. The air smelled of buttercream frosting and impending emotional damage. Bill struggled to maintain his balance on the dewy grass while the sun beat down on his bright wig. Molly sighed, checking her watch and adjusting the suction cups on her hands. She pointed a latex finger toward the mountainous pile of gifts in the living room window. They crept forward, shadows against the bright siding, ready to ruin a child’s life for a PlayStation 5. "Are you sure this is the target?" Bill whispered, checking his reflection in a garden gnome. "The security is terrifying. I just saw a toddler drop a cupcake without crying." "That’s the jackpot, Bill. We hit the pile during the magic show, then we vanish like a bad fart." "What about the piñata?" Bill asked, eyes wide with gluttonous ambition. "I bet it’s full of candy." "Leave the candy," Molly snapped, crawling toward the sliding glass door. "We only carry high-value assets. If it doesn't require batteries, we don't touch it." "Right," Bill muttered, tripping slightly over a rubber chicken as he followed her lead. "Operation Sticky Fingers is a go."