The fluorescent hum of the garage mocked the silence of their plastic sheeting barrier. Molly stared at the topographical map spread across the hood of a totaled Honda Civic, her finger tracing the winding path from the driveway to the green felt table where the loot was stashed. A crude green "TARGET" had been scrawled in neon marker. Bill sat on a milk crate, methodically peeling the labels off a collection of identical white rectangular boxes, deciding the collectible ponies inside were the flimsiest gatekeepers. The balloon animals were a smokescreen; the face painting was just psychological warfare. "Clown visibility is too high," Bill noted, adjusting his grip on a sharpened meat thermometer. "Security risk." Molly nodded, tightening her gloves. "Secondary objective is the piñata. We need that liquid gold." Bill stood up, checking the rearview mirror, seeing a Golden Retriever staring blankly through the glass. "If we miss the wind-up of the decorations, we risk detection." They looked at the plastic sheeting tent, representing a fortress of cheap plastic and unbridled capitalism, and prepared for war. The move was imminent.