The moonlight cast a whimsical gleam on the garishly decorated house, reflecting Molly's mischievous grin as she surveyed the scene with Bill. "You know, Bill, this is my first party heist," she whispered, clutching the elaborate blueprint like a scrap of last year's Halloween costume. "Molly, your enthusiasm is as infectious as the chicken pox," Bill muttered, eyeing the array of tiny folk slipping in and out of the house. "Alright, you march in with the Santa Claus routine, I'll handle the pool full of inflatable unicorns." She straightened her red suit, adjusting the plump pillow at her belly. "I hope you're ready then, because I am about to make history, whiskers and all!" Bill chuckled, shaking his head. "Only if Santa's sack can handle the weight of all those presents." With a pirouette worthy of a Broadway starlet, Molly swept into the house, her bell jingling merrily. Behind her, Bill executed a somersault over the garden hose, landing with the grace of a mime on stilts. As laughter and cheer echoed from within, the treasure trove lay before them, a sea of colorful bags, ribbons, and toys. They exchanged a look that said it all: this wasn't just a heist; it was the grandest fiesta of larceny. Settling down with her stash, Molly turned to Bill with a conspiratorial wink. "You know what they say, 'It's better to rhyme with crime than to lose with time.'" Bill burst into giggles, their plan a success, just as the party's firework finale painted the sky. Thus began the legends of Molly, the cunning Saint Nick, and Bill, the laughing Amadore of thievery.