Moonlight skated across the sidewalk as Molly and Bill crouched behind a hedge not ten paces from the Johnsons’ front door. A tiny disco ball flickered inside, garish light bouncing off pastel balloons and wrapping paper. They exchanged nervous glances, purses and duffels at the ready. Tonight, they’d steal Christmas—well, children’s birthday, anyway. Bill: Alright, queen of stealth, what’s the plan? Molly: I scoped the living room. There’s a bouncy castle inflatable in the corner, kids screaming inside. Under that pile of gift bags by the snack table—two-layered tarp, moisture resistant. I can peel it back in a jiffy. Bill: Kids. Screaming. Inflatable. And you’re up for jiffy? Molly: Laughs softly. Stop clowning. You shoot the lock. I’ll grab the bags. Bill: Lock? They have a lock on a kid’s party door? Molly: It’s a reinforced child-safety latch. Johnsons are over-cautious. They paid extra. Bill: Of course they did. Realm of tantrums needs a moat. Molly: Exactly. Now, gap in three, two, one. Bill: Alright; primer dust... Molly: Careful. Bill: Snick. Bingo, we’re in. Molly: Deep breath. On my mark. Bill: Mark. Molly: Go. Bill: One step— Molly: Got it—three gift bags: blue, pink, neon green. Ready? Bill: Hold on, I see a Mr. Unicorn big plush—wants to come with us. Molly: Nope, too bulky. Focus on actual loot. Bill: Right, right, loot. These look full of LEGO sets and all that model-race-car junk kids want. Molly: Precisely. Forty minutes tops until the parents rotate snack duty. We can be ghosts. Bill: Ghosts that smell like spilled juice and icing? Molly: Bring wet wipes. Bill: I knew you’d think of everything. How do we carry thirty pounds of sugar-coated loot? Molly: Will call for extraction van. Silent mode. Bill: Extraction van? We look like two toddlers in a minivan. Molly: It’s unmarked. In the alley. You’ll love it. Bill: Okay. Where do we stash the goods once we’re out? Molly: The back seats. I’ve lined them with rugs. Soft landing for action figures. Bill: Smart. I’ll radio HQ. Molly: HQ is me. Bill: Then I’ll call you. We need code words. Molly: ‘Birthday blitz’. Bill: Sigh of relief. That’s almost cute. Molly: Cute is good. They’ll never see it coming. Bill: Okay, let’s do this. Molly: One… two… three… Bill: After we jet, what do we do with the wrapping paper? Molly: Burn it at the bonfire alley. Bill: Won’t the neighbors notice a bonfire? Molly: Wrap in organic mulch. Smells like compost. Bill: Brilliant. Next time we get invited first. Molly: Agreed, RSVP: “Banquet of booty”. Bill: Mission steal the cakes and toys is a go! Molly: Just toys. We’re leaving cake behind. Bill: Dietary hazards? Molly: Certainly. Bill: Copy. They slipped back through the hedge, duffels full of boxes, bouncing unicorn ejecta undetected. The faint glow of disco light trailed behind them like a clown mercedes, and muffled giggles chased every step. By the time the parents realized the missing treasures, Molly had already rung the follow-up text: 'Birthday blitz successful. Rendezvous in two.' Bill staggered under the weight of the loot, grinning as though he’d swallowed a barrel of candy. In the silent alley, the unmarked van purred to life. They peeled away, leaving behind the echo of collapsing balloons, champions of absurd ambition.