Molly and Bill lounged back in the dimly lit van, the neon glow of a passing pizza joint casting wobbly shadows across their blueprint-strewn dashboard. Molly squinted, running a finger down the intricate map. "We'll slip in through the pizzeria adjoining the venue," she said, tapping a red circle. "Kids everywhere. Diet cola for distraction." Bill grunted. "Killing it with hush-hush stealth around kiddos. Ain't that a snuggle in hell." Indeed, under a mountain of wrapping paper, amidst cries for more cotton candy and the gleeful clamor of pinwheel spins, lay the treasure trove of presents. "Minimizing sweat?" Molly quipped back, eyeing the list. "And maximizing the kiddie factor," Bill said. Sipping his cola, he imagined the chaos. Molly, in turn, plotted their escape, envisioning the Santa suit dumped in the lake. They shared a chuckle — not enough to spark suspicion, but enough to remind them why they played this dangerous Santa Clausey charade every Christmas season.