The aroma of stale coffee and burnt toast hung in the air of the van, a mobile command centre that had seen better decades. Bill hunched over a laminated map of the suburban street, his finger tracing a path towards a house adorned with an alarming number of cartoon animal balloons. “Right, so the primary objective is the conservatory. That’s where the parents pile the loot,” Bill whispered, as if the houseplants could hear him. “Our intel says the party is in full swing. Bouncy castle operational. Sugar levels critical. We’re looking at maximum chaos.” Molly peered through a pair of binoculars, her focus not on the house, but on a particularly enthusiastic toddler chasing a pigeon across the road. “Are you sure about this, Bill? It feels wrong. Stealing from grown-ups is one thing, but stealing their kid’s presents? That’s a special kind of villainy. We’re going to get coal in our stockings for the next ten years.” “It’s not stealing, it’s a preemptive redistribution of excessive consumer goods,” Bill corrected, not looking up from his map. “Think of us as minimalist vigilantes. And for your information, we don’t have stockings. We have a duffel bag. Now, focus. The distraction is key.” Molly finally lowered the binoculars. “And the distraction is a man dressed as a pirate, singing sea shanties off-key?” “A pirate is a universally beloved figure,” Bill insisted. “He creates a focal point of bewildered joy, drawing the parents’ attention away from the conservatory. It’s psychological warfare.” “Bill, he looks like a confused accountant who lost a bet. His parrot is a sock puppet with one eye. He’s not creating joy, he’s creating a void.” “He’s a professional, Molly! You have to trust the process. Now, I will engage Operation: Peg-Leg. You will slip through the side gate, which I have confirmed is unlocked, and enter the conservatory.” “And what do I do if I get caught? Offer to help blow up the balloons? Ask where the bathroom is?” “You won’t get caught. You’re a ghost. A present-collecting ninja. In and out in ninety seconds. Grab everything. The wrapped boxes, the gift bags, the suspiciously large envelope that’s probably just cash from a lazy uncle. Everything.” Molly sighed, pulling on a black beanie that clashed horribly with her cheerful polka-dot shirt. “Fine. But if I end up having to play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, I’m taking your share of the haul to pay for the therapy.” “Deal,” Bill said, straightening his eyepatch. He gave her a firm nod. “Remember the code.” “There is no code, Bill.” “Exactly,” he whispered, before throwing open the van door and stepping out into the bright, judgmental sunlight, his sock puppet held aloft. “Ahoy, little landlubbers!” he bellowed.