Bill, his face a granite mask of misplaced seriousness, unfolded the napkin blueprint. Across the street, a rainbow unicorn banner fluttered mockingly over a suburban fortress. This was the target: a six-year-old’s birthday party. The kind of high-stakes operation that could make or break a career. Molly, in the passenger seat, calibrated a modified leaf blower, now loaded with industrial-grade glitter for maximum distraction. The primary objective, a mountain of wrapped gifts next to a screaming-giant slide, was clearly marked with a greasy X. The getaway vehicle was a minivan with a "Baby on Board" sticker they’d forgotten to scrape off. Bill had identified two major threats: "Security," a harried mother refilling a juice dispenser, and "The Enforcer," a large golden retriever with a slobbery jingle-bell collar. Every contingency was planned, save for the potential emotional fallout from a hundred sobbing children. Bill pointed a stubby finger at the diagram. “Focus on the presents, Molly. That’s the payload.” “But the piñata is full of tactical candy.” Bill sighed, the sound of a man who’d chosen the wrong partner for a very, very important job.