The alley behind Bouncy Kingdom was a monument to poor life choices: wet cardboard, a deflated unicorn piñata, and the lingering scent of cheap frosting and existential dread. Molly crouched behind a dumpster, binoculars pressed to her eyes, wearing a puffy pink princess wig that clashed violently with her tactical vest. “I still don’t see why we couldn’t just rob a bank,” Bill muttered, tugging at the elastic of his frog-themed party hat. It had little googly eyes that bounced when he moved. “You know. Something with dignity. Something where the primary defense isn’t a confetti cannon set off by kindergarteners.” Molly lowered the binoculars and fixed him with a look. “Dignity doesn’t pay for laser tag tournaments, Bill. Besides, look at this place.” She gestured toward the inflatable castle through the grimy window. “Eighty kids, two distracted parents, zero security. And under the snack table? That’s where they stash the gift bags. Hundreds of them. Each one filled with plastic junk worth at least five bucks on Etsy if you sell it as 'vintage children’s sorrow.’” “Still feels wrong,” Bill said, examining a crayon drawing someone had taped to the wall—a lopsided clown crying glitter tears. “We’re stealing from kids. Some of them haven’t even learned long division yet.” “Exactly!” Molly said, slapping his shoulder. “They won’t miss the stuff. They’ve already forgotten what they got ten minutes after unwrapping it. Psychology. Plus, this one kid just threw a perfectly good glow necklace into a punch bowl. Waste not, want not.” Bill sighed. His clipboard creaked in his grip. “Alright, plan?” Molly unfolded a napkin covered in scribbles. “We go in during the magician’s act. Peak distraction. You pose as an assistant.” “I’m not dressing up as a rabbit again.” “No, this time you’re Uncle Jerry. I called ahead. Said you were my fun-loving relative with a passion for balloon animals and tax evasion.” Bill blinked. “You… booked me?” “Yep. They even sent a confirmation email. With a little dancing cupcake. So cute.” “And you?” “I’m going in as cleanup staff. Gotta maintain the disguise.” She tugged at the wig. “I call her Glinda the Overworked.” “You can’t just waltz in with a mop and steal eighty gift bags.” “They’re not gift bags. They’re biohazard waste. Didn’t you read the memo?” “There was no memo.” “There is now.” She pulled a neon-orange janitorial vest from her backpack and tossed it at him. “Also, you’ll need this.” Bill unfolded the vest and stared. “This says ‘Danger: Spilled Goo Suspected.’” “Exactly. Psychological warfare. No parent will touch anything near it.” A shrill trumpet blared from inside. The sound of off-key “Happy Birthday” followed. Molly checked her watch. “That’s our cue. Magician’s about to saw a doll in half. Emotional peak.” She handed Bill a balloon animal kit. “Don’t make anything phallic this time.” “I only did that once!” “And still banned from Chuck E. Cheese.” Bill zipped up the vest and adjusted his frog hat. “If we get caught, I’m blaming the wig.” Molly grinned. “Wigs take no prisoners, Bill. Now move. And remember—no eye contact with children. They can smell fear. And cheap hand sanitizer.” They crept toward the side entrance, where a sign read, “Employee Use Only: Probably Where the Snacks Are.” Molly paused, turned, and whispered, “And Bill?” “Yeah?” “We’re not evil. We’re just… professionally opportunistic.” “Sure. That’ll look great on our villain origin story.” Inside, a squeaky voice announced, “Next up—Uncle Jerry and the Amazing Disappearing Hamster!” Molly mouthed, “Showtime,” and slipped through the door with a mop and a dream.