Molly adjusted the rearview mirror, squinting at the suburban cul-de-sac bathed in cheerful streamers and balloons. “This is the most evil thing we’ve ever done,” she said. Bill crunched into a cheese puff from a family-sized bag. “Nah. Remember the nun’s bake sale? That was cold.” “That was charity. This is *children*.” Molly pointed at a sign: *Lucas’s 6th Birthday Blast – Pinata, Pizza, and Presents!* “These kids haven’t even learned sarcasm yet.” “Exactly. They don’t appreciate value,” Bill said, wiping orange dust on his cargo shorts. “We do. We’ll put the gifts to better use. Like… I don’t know, paying rent?” “For stealing presents at a birthday party? Even hell might send us a strongly worded memo.” Bill tossed the empty bag in the back. “We’re not stealing *from* the kids. We’re stealing *for* them. Think about it—we’re liberating toys from parental oversight. That Furby? It’s destined for a drawer by Tuesday. We’re giving it purpose.” “Right. Purpose. Like funding your kombucha addiction.” “It’s artisanal,” he snapped. “Anyway, distraction plan?” Molly unfolded a hand-drawn map on the dashboard. “You go in posing as the entertainer.” Bill blinked. “The *entertainer*?” “The clown never showed. Perfect. You’ve got the look.” “I do not have the look!” “You wear socks with sandals, Bill. You once tried to pay for tacos in bottle caps. You’re basically a street mime with benefits.” He crossed his arms. “Fine. But I’m not doing balloon animals.” “You *are* the balloon animal. Just get ’em laughing, singing, whatever. I’ll slip in the back, clear the gift table.” “And the piñata?” “Leave it. Too many variables. One kid whacks it early, candy everywhere—chaos. We’re professionals.” Bill chewed his lip. “What if they ask for a magic trick?” “Do that thing where you pull a coin from behind someone’s ear.” “That only works on drunk people at bars.” “Then make the kids drunk.” “Molly.” “Kidding. Mostly. Just… keep them occupied for ten minutes.” Bill opened the door. “Ten minutes. Then I vanish like their innocence.” Molly handed him a red nose. “You’re putting that on.” “It’s degrading.” “It’s *character work*.” He sighed, sticking it on. “If I see a therapist next week, this is going on your tab.” Inside the backyard, a toddler waddled past with a foam cowboy hat. Bill straightened his shirt, took a deep breath, and waddled toward the party, waving like a malfunctioning robot. “HELLO, FRIENDS!” he bellowed, voice cracking. “I’M… uh… Clown Bill! Ready to *party hearty*?” A few kids stared. One burst into tears. Molly muttered from the car, “Oh God, he’s doing the robot again.” From the yard, Bill spun awkwardly, arms jerking. “Who wants to learn the *Floss of Doom*?” A mother whispered to another, “Did we hire *him*?” Meanwhile, Molly crept along the fence, eyeing the gift table piled with rainbow-wrapped boxes. She pulled a duffel from her backpack, whispering, “Sorry, Lucas. Capitalism starts young.” As Bill attempted a cartwheel and collapsed into a bush, Molly began stuffing presents. Over the fence, Bill called, muffled, “How we doing?” “Almost done,” she hissed. “And for the record? Worst. Heist. Ever.” “Agreed,” Bill groaned, emerging with leaves in his hair. “But the clown *nose* stays on.” “Why?” “…It’s growing on me.”