The backroom of *The Rusty Nail* smelled like stale beer and regret, which, Molly figured, was just the right ambiance for planning a heist. She leaned back in her chair, boots propped on the wobbly table, and tossed a half-eaten bag of gummy worms at Bill. He caught it with one hand, squinting at the label. "These expired in *2019*," he said, poking at a particularly sad-looking green worm. "Yeah, well, so did my patience," Molly shot back. "We stealing these presents or what?" Bill sighed, dropping the gummies onto the table like they’d personally offended him. "We’re stealing presents from a *children’s party*. You realize that makes us the villains in this story, right?" Molly grinned. "Nah, we’re just… redistributing joy. Think of it like Robin Hood, but instead of stealing from the rich, we’re stealing from a bunch of six-year-olds who’ll just cry and get new stuff by next week." Bill rubbed his temples. "That’s not how Robin Hood works." "Close enough." Molly pulled a crumpled flyer from her pocket and smoothed it out on the table. *"‘Join us for Timmy’s 7th Birthday Extravaganza! Prizes! Cake! A Piñata Shaped Like a Dinosaur!’"* She tapped the flyer. "That piñata’s got *gold* in it. I can feel it." Bill snatched the flyer, scanning it. "It’s a *children’s party*, Molly. The ‘gold’ is probably a handful of quarters and a choking hazard." "Or," Molly said, leaning in, "it’s a *metaphor*. The real treasure is the *emotional damage* we’re gonna leave in our wake. Imagine the looks on those kids’ faces when Santa’s sleigh is *empty*." Bill groaned. "We’re not Santa." "No, we’re better. We’re the *anti-Santa*." Molly mimed a dramatic gasp. "‘Oh no, little Timmy, your LEGO set is *gone*! Better start saving your allowance!’" Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. "You’re enjoying this too much." "Damn right I am." Molly pulled a sketch from her jacket—a rough blueprint of the party venue, a community center with exactly one security camera (which she’d already "accidentally" unplugged during a fake job interview). "We go in during the piñata smash. Chaos covers our tracks. I distract the parents with a *very* convincing fake asthma attack—" Bill blinked. "You don’t have asthma." "—and you slip into the gift table like a ninja made of regret." Molly pointed at the blueprint. "See? The presents are right by the exit. In and out in five minutes." Bill stared at the sketch, then at her. "You’ve thought about this *way* too hard." "Thank you." Molly beamed. "Now, what’s our exit strategy?" Bill sighed, defeated. "We *walk out the front door* like normal people, because no one suspects two adults carrying armfuls of *My Little Pony* merch." Molly clapped her hands. "Perfect. And if anyone asks, we’re just *really* committed uncles." Bill groaned. "I am *not* pretending to be related to you." "Too late." Molly stood, grabbing her jacket. "Operation: Anti-Claus is a go. You bring the distraction—" "—I am *not* the distraction—" "—and I’ll handle the heavy lifting." She tossed him a party hat from her pocket. "Wear this. You’ll blend in." Bill looked at the hat like it was a live grenade. "This is the worst heist ever." Molly grinned, adjusting her own hat—bedazzled, because *of course* it was. "No, Bill. It’s *art*."