Molly and Bill huddled behind a dumpster in the alleyway, crouched as they double-checked their gear - ski masks, gloved hands clutching crowbars. The excited shrieks of children could be heard echoing from the backyard of the house a block away. "This is it, our ticket to retirement," Molly whispered, her eyes gleaming with greed. "If we pull this off, we'll have enough toys to fence for a year." "Easy pickings," Bill chuckled. "No alarms on a birthday bash for snot-nosed brats. C'mon, crack that door!" Molly's crowbar splintered the wood as he jimmied the patio doors open. They slipped inside the kitchen, gathering an armful of wrapped presents from under the table. Suddenly, a voice squawked: "Looks like we got party crashers, Security!" Bleary eyed, a shotgun-mouthed cane-welder shuffled out onto the back porch, fishing for shells. Bill struck first - WHAM! The crowbar caved in the geezer's dentures and the guard crumpled like a bad poker hand. "Grab everything!" Molly commanded. "The full haul!" Presents and piñatas. Easy! The toys flowed into duffel bags. CHING CHING CHING! The register in the toy store downstairs beckoned their hot haul. CHING CHING CHING! "FYOUR!" Molly screeched. Young Timmy Tammany's lemonropyogalope stuck in the gl.birth canon! Mwahahhahahaha!