Molly scrubbed her hands on her faded denim, revealing the warmth beneath her rough fingertips. “This is it, Bill. The grand finale of our Christmas crime saga.” Bill, his fedora perched atop his eccentric hairstyle, raised an eyebrow. “The Quaint Home of the Little Tykes' Festive Fête? Think that'll be a piece of cake?" Molly laughed, tucking a playful wave of hair behind her ears. "Oh, Bill, imagine the chaos. The kids are thrilled. Mum's seen better days, snoring from pre-party exhaustion. It's our sanctuary." "That's the spirit! You'll tickle her face awake faster than she can muster sympathy at the door." Bill flipped open his coin-filled wallet. "Speaking of sanctuary, I got a tip on how to bypass the security door." "A collectible spy gadget for you!" Molly exclaimed, checking their gear - a framed Monet, sticks with sharpened ends, and disguised walking canes. "Don’t worry about looking suspicious, the little cherubs' excitement will do that for us." “The same heaven that delights us could well be the cat's pajamas!" Bill started towards the door with a gusto only in mischief could kindle. "Forget the gadgets, Molly. The star of this entry is yours justly black, slicked back for stealth" - He reached out, unconsciously smirking, knowing the full consequences of unity. Molly arched an eyebrow, giving a brother's sassy wink. "No sass, Bill, we’re us. Just like us in that loop through the city park, finding decidedly funky objects that were left behind from happy families of yesterday." Their mission undeterred by philosophy but seasoned by emotion, they slipped into the partied-out home as casually as a pop-up picture book concludes; children all 'Santa' spotted significantly agitated. It wasn't long before deceit's crescendo got our duo nestled in the fake Santa. They were eyes behind the white beard, plots weaving between cookie hands and elusive laughter. The father, ostensibly enjoyying mirth amidst toys and Mistletoe kisses, was none the wiser. "Looks like we've got one-reelers in for little Johnny's latest Batman series," said Molly, a paper crown pressed into her palm. "It'll be a So Bad It’s Good label for Christmas cheer." Bill's grin wasn't devoid of victorious pleasure. “And the Snow Fairy's promise for the next Christmas?" "Oh, right. Oh, right. The Snow Fairy," Molly mock-gasped, pulling up a plastic chair beside him. "Decree of whimsical purity stammering and pulling just a few strands out of that cozy-blanket-pillow mess.” Their hijinks flew through a labyrinth of laughter and giggles, one swift moment after another choreographed less for theft and more for jest. The scheme inched closer to its close, the children’s cheer held unfettered, and award-worthy-hatred for a cold, usual Christmas approached its peak with a wink and a nudge. "The parade begins mom’s house first!" Molly announced cunningly, dispersing imaginary cotton candy while still in costume. "Do they really think she's bell-ringing Santa?” “They're us, Bill, always the sparkling eye around!" And thus the heist against Mom's mundane sorrows took form, in a tickling dance of hilarity and anomalous bravery, standing for rich tales yet to be spun from prose-inflicted yarns of chaos.