Molly crouched behind a bush shaped like a sad giraffe, squinting through binoculars. “Okay, Bill. Status report. Clown is still inflating balloons. Cake says ‘Happy 6th Birthday, Timmy.’ He’s the weak link.” Bill, chewing bubblegum with the intensity of a man rehearsing for the Olympics, popped a bubble. “Timmy? Seriously? Who names their kid Timmy in 2023? Sounds like a guy who kicks puppies.” “He’s six, Bill. He didn’t name himself. Focus. The presents are stacked near the piñata—eight, maybe nine. Most are wrapped in superhero paper. My guess? Action figures, cheap toys, maybe one of those singing fish.” “Eight or nine,” Bill repeated, scribbling on a notepad. “So we’re talking mid-tier haul. Not legendary. More… mildly embarrassing.” “It’s not the value, it’s the principle,” Molly snapped. “We steal from the greedy, the corrupt, the over-catered. This clown’s charging two hundred bucks an hour to honk his nose. That’s evil.” “Evil? He’s wearing rainbow suspenders and a face full of paint.” “Exactly. Psychological warfare. Children fear joy, Bill. We’re liberating Timmy’s gifts before they brainwash him into consumerism.” Bill scratched his chin. “You ever think we might be the bad guys?” “No.” “Not even a little?” “Nope.” He sighed. “Fine. So what’s the play? Distract the clown with a fake five-dollar bill? You grab the loot?” “No. Too predictable. We go during the ‘Duck, Duck, Goose’ massacre.” “That’s when all the kids lose it?” “Exactly. Chaos is our ally. You rush in dressed as a rogue uncle—cheap suit, bad breath, questionable parenting energy.” “I’ve been practicing my ‘I just flew in from Vegas and brought disappointment’ walk.” “Perfect. You stumble into the backyard, say you’re late for the cake cutting. Cause a scene. Ask if Timmy’s mom is “still dating that guy from Zumba.” Family drama. Instant meltdown.” Bill grinned. “And while they’re yelling at me…” “You—wait, no, I grab the presents. You’re the distraction. I’m the execution.” “Why do I always get the danger?” “Because last time you were supposed to ‘distract the guard’ and ended up teaching him poker. We lost the Fabergé egg.” “That egg was overrated. And he was a fast learner.” Molly pointed. “There’s Timmy’s mom now. She’s bringing out juice boxes. That’s our cue. You ready?” Bill stood, adjusting a fake mustache. “Born ready. But Molly?” “Yeah?” “What if the presents are just crayons? Or juice boxes?” “Then we donate them to a more deserving heist.” “Fair. Also, what if the kids see me?” “Tell them you’re the uncle who forgot their birthday last year. Guilt’s a powerful distraction.” Bill took a deep breath. “Okay. Operation: Sad Giraffe is a go. May the odds be ever in our favor… or at least mildly amused.” He started toward the party, tripping over a garden gnome. Molly winced. “God help us.” Inside the fence, a child screamed. The clown honked. Bill raised his arms. “Who forgot to invite Uncle Larry?!” Molly muttered, “This is either genius or a class-action lawsuit waiting to happen.” Then she slithered toward the presents, eyes gleaming. “All hail consumer rebellion.”