Bill adjusted the collar of his tactical turtleneck, peering through the manicured hedge at the chaotic suburban landscape. The target was a pristine bungalow currently besieged by screaming minors and a terrifying amount of pastel-colored streamers. It was a high-risk environment; one wrong move meant facing the wrath of a mob of sugar-crazed seven-year-olds, a fate far worse than any maximum-security prison. The payload, however, was stacked high on the glass patio table: three bicycles, two next-gen gaming consoles, and a drum set that promised eternal misery for any parent within a three-mile radius. Molly checked her watch, timing the rotation of the costumed entertainment with surgical precision. The atmosphere was thick with the smell of buttercream frosting and desperation. They had to move fast before the cake cutting signaled the end of the vulnerability window. A small poodle guarded the perimeter, but they had brought premium bacon treats to handle the canine security. "The clown is a major liability to us," Bill whispered, gripping the crowbar. "Neutralize him with the tranquilizer dart," Molly ordered. They synchronized their breathing. It was time to execute Operation Birthday Bash and steal a child’s happiness.