The fluorescent lights of the repurposed bowling alley buzzed like an angry gnat. Molly, perched precariously on an overturned bucket, fiddled with a length of fishing wire. Bill loomed over her, a mountain of cheap polyester and nervous energy. “Are you sure about this, Molly?” Bill whispered, his voice a raspy rustle. “Stealing from… children?” Molly didn’t look up. “It’s not stealing, Bill. It’s strategic redistribution of festive goods. Besides,” she hummed, tying a knot that would make a sailor weep, “they’re getting a lot. And who’s going to miss a few redundant plastic dinosaurs? Or that ghastly singing teddy bear someone inevitably regifts every year?” “Still,” Bill wrung his hands. “Imagine their little faces. Tears. Sobbing. Sticky, snotty, heartbroken little faces.” Molly finally met his gaze, her eyes glinting under the harsh light. “Bill, darling, we dealt with a flock of angry geese guarding a bin full of artisanal cheeses. A few bewildered toddlers are practically a spa day.” “That was different! Those geese had a primal rage. These kids just have… sugar highs and existential dread about Santa’s authenticity.” Bill shuddered. “And the music. Oh, the music. I can already hear that infernal ‘Baby Shark’ echoing in my soul.” “Don’t you worry about the soundtrack, Bill,” Molly said, securing the wire to a surprisingly robust ceiling pipe. “I’ve got that covered. A little… sonic disruption. Think of it as auditory camouflage.” “Auditory camouflage sound suspiciously like I’m going to be deafened by a rogue air horn blast,” Bill mumbled, eyes darting towards the double doors that led to the main party hall. “Details, details,” Molly waved a dismissive hand. “The plan is simple. You create a diversion at the snack table. A little… accidental spill. Something impressive, like a cascade of juice boxes or a rogue marshmallow avalanche.” “A marshmallow avalanche? How? I’m not a confectionary meteorologist, Molly!” “Improvise, Bill! That’s what makes us artists. While they’re distracted by the sugary chaos, I make my way to the gift pile. Remember the laser grid we bypassed at the diamond exchange?” Bill paled. “You’re not talking about… that. This is a bouncy castle, Molly, not a high-security vault.” “The principle is the same, Bill. Precision. Grace. And a healthy dose of audacity. I’ll be in and out before anyone realizes their Paw Patrol figures have been upgraded to, shall we say, more experienced ownership.” “But what if… what if a parent tries to stop me?” Bill’s voice was barely a squeak. Molly grinned, a flash of mischief in her eyes. “That’s where the glitter bomb comes in. Small, contained, and incredibly inconvenient for anyone with an aversion to shimmering, impossible-to-remove sparkle. Now, are you ready to make some… festive financial adjustments, or are you going to stand there contemplating the spiritual implications of pilfered party favors?” Bill took a deep, shaky breath, his polyester suit seeming to shrink slightly. “Just… promise me no clowns.”