Moonlight skittered across the neatly trimmed lawn as Molly and Bill crouched behind a flowering hedge, eavesdropping on chaos inside. Molly: See all those glittery gift bags lined up on the table? We're about to become legends. Bill: Legends? More like professional sock puppet puppeteers. We have socks, right? Molly: Socks, goggles, the full ninja ensemble. But first we disable the Parental Unit—by which I mean the mom. Bill: What’s the plan? Chocolate cake distraction, confetti minefield, or interpretive dance off? Molly: All three. You slip a confetti cannon under the table, I boogie like there's no tomorrow, cake crumbs everywhere. Bill: Kids'll think it's part of the party? Perfect cover. Molly thumbed through a backpack bursting with stolen party favors gathered over a six-month spree. Molly: This is our Magnum Opus. By sunrise, every present in this house will vanish. Bill: I’m more excited about the action figures. But if I snag a jewel-encrusted princess tiara, I won't complain. Molly: Focus. The cake’s being wheeled in. Countdown starts now. Bill: Ten seconds till sugar-fueled oblivion. Inside, squeals erupted as the birthday boy blew out candles, while Molly readied the confetti cannon and Bill tiptoed with oversized trash bags. Molly: Now! The cannon roared, hellfire confetti raining down on pastel balloons. Parents clapped. Kids shrieked. Bill: Ha! Distraction engaged. Time to pillage the loot table. Molly: Grab the teddy bears, the glitter pens, the neon slinkies. Every gift counts! Bill wrestled an inflatable unicorn pool float into his bag. Molly zipped open sacks, stuffing tiny robots and colorful hats with practiced glee. Bill: Quick! The cake server is looking at us—she might notice. Molly: Too late! There’s frosting on your boot. You’re part of the performance. Bill: This is my finest role yet—El Tubo, the Frosting Footed Felon. Sacks bulging, the duo slipped back through the sliding door just as a mother handed out vanilla cupcakes. Molly: Cupcakes can wait. We've got loot to fence. Let’s vanish before anyone notices. Bill: I call dibs on the remote-control dinosaur. That thing is evil adorable. Molly: Deal. Now scram! Under a full moon, Molly and Bill melted into the night, their loot whispering promises of sugar-high markets and legendary profit. Back at the van, they counted loot while dawn painted pink streaks across the quiet horizon. Bill: We netted twenty remote-control cars, a partridge in a pear tree musical box, and three squirting frog toys. I’m impressed. Molly: And the glitter pens alone could launch a stationery empire. We might need body armor for runaway sparkles. Bill: So, treasure division time? Slinkies are yours, unicorn floatie’s golden, plus you get two miniature basketball hoops. Molly: Thanks, but I’ll trade you a squeaky duck for your frog army. They’d make an admirable battalion. Bill: Deal. I only ask that you keep your interpretive dance recital on a leash next time. Molly: Fine, but you owe me one confetti mine in your office. I need an excuse for glitter rain. Bill: Consider it scheduled for Monday afternoon. Also, who left a neon purple tiara on the dashboard? Molly: That would be me. It complements my ski mask. Fashion matters, you know.