Bill adjusted the tight elastic band on his purple sombrero, staring intently through the hedge at the chaotic backyard battlefield. The security detail was surprisingly lax, consisting mostly of distracted parents drinking white wine and a sleeping golden retriever napping near the keg of root beer. The target sat vulnerable on a folding table: a large mountain of wrapped boxes promising joy and cheap plastic disappointment. "We strike at the chorus," Bill said. Molly rolled her eyes, checking the battery on their portable noise-canceling device. They were seasoned professionals, even if their current objective involved stealing from a six-year-old named Timmy. The risk was very high, but the payout was unmarketable action figures and LEGOs. "Stick to the plan," she replied. Bill gripped his burlap sack, sweat beading on his upper lip. The air smelled of hot dogs and impending chaos. He wasn't just a thief; he was a monster in a ridiculous festive hat. "I really love this job," he whispered. "Just grab the bag," Molly commanded. She signaled the breach. It was time to ruin Christmas in July. They moved low, sliding through the densely manicured grass toward the prizes, ready to become the living nightmares of the entire cul-de-sac.