Molly and Bill huddled together in the shadows, their dark forms blending seamlessly into the night. A glittering array of balloons danced in the breeze, just a few feet from their hiding spot behind an old oak tree. "Tell me again why we're wasting our time with this?" Bill grumbled. "A bunch of stupid toys isn't enough to make this worth the risk." "First of all, those 'stupid toys' are worth a mint," Molly replied, a grin playing across her shadowed face. "Designer dolls, remote control cars, top-of-the-line video games... Easy fencing. We're getting at least a grand apiece off this if all goes smoothly." "If all goes smoothly," Bill muttered. "More like six feet of dirt at the rate you operate." Molly elbowed him sharply. "I'll have you know I'm the most smooth operator this side of the Mississippi. Digital cameras, motion detectors, pressure-sensitive tiles - a Presbyterian minister couldn't trip 'em over." A small voice piped up from next to them. "Miss...Miss Molly? Bill? I'm frightened." They spun to see Timmy, the client's unholy six-year-old brat, peeking from behind the tree. Molly visibly paled. "Timmy! What the devil are you doing out here?" "I had to go wee-wee," he hugged his knees. "And I saw you and then a big spider so I came over." The tears welling in his saucer eyes proved he told the truth. Bill groaned. "Just effin' great. Now we've got a five-year-old wrapped up in this." "No! No one's wrapping anything!" Molly snatched him up. "Listen, snookums, Uncle Bill and I have to steal all those pretty bags and boxes. It's for a, um, school project. Now you wait here real quiet until we're done sleuthing, 'kay pumpkin?" [SFX: Sirens wailing in the distance] "Oh no... The police!" Bill's voice shook. "Someone musta called the cops!" Molly studied the backyard. "Looks like the party's breaking up anyway. No time for the gadgets - in and out, Bill, and Titly can do his Uncle Bill routine on the way home. Grab a sack and fill 'er up!" Molly burst through the backdoor shoulder-first, highball in the air and Timmy flaring in the lead, Bill dragging a Hefty bag behind him. The no longer cozy living room had become a glittering madhouse of abandoned finery like credit card receipts and discarded Dorito bags. Molly and Bill dove face-first into the fray, Timmy spun-out in the center like he played this game before. Molly rolled out from her scrape, three kindle lyras and two Furbies stuffed up her sweats. She kicked the snack table for toys and pushed through wads of dollar bills. "You seeing this, Bill? Like shopping with armed coupons I tell ya!" "Gal, how do we hide this haul?" He'd shoved legos and whatever up his shirt, his midriff bulging like he was twelve months pregnant. It was the first time Timmy helped his brits pump across the lightind parkin' lot to their Plymouth Voyager, the bags stuffin the hatch-back with a merry hip-hop beat, than he warbled in the driver's seat, fruit bats fluttin in the wind. "Right snippet, honey cake. Chuck those presents in the trunk for you." [Bill's muffled voice came from the back. She thought she heard a lisp]. With a clunk, clunk, clunk of Chevy bumpers, the last splash of loot was thieved in. Mollie flipped the keys, and salughtered the Vogue Lair, the dark road before them rekked of opportunity.