Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94TP0RX9AP770FMSCPN1DR

Molly tapped a grimy fingernail on the crudely drawn map spread across the dashboard of their mobile operations centre, a van that smelled vaguely of old socks and existential despair. Bill fidgeted on a cracked pleather seat, his wide eyes darting between the paper and the affluent-looking house visible down the street. The afternoon sun glinted off a sprinkler system already in full, joyous operation, oblivious to the criminal machinations unfolding nearby. "Right, focus, Bill," Molly began, her voice raspy from a combination of cheap cigarettes and mild paranoia. "Operation: Sugar Plum Purloin commenced at 13:00 hours. Target is the Henderson residence, specifically the hoard designated for young Timmy's seventh birthday." Bill’s brow furrowed. "Sugar Plum Purloin? Sounds like a bad ballet. Are we sure about this, Moll? Stealing from kids… it feels a bit… low." Molly shot him a look that could curdle milk. "We're liberating them from the burden of excess materialism, Bill. Think of it as a public service. The parents are distracted with outdoor festivities – bouncy castle, face painting, the usual noise pollution. That’s our window. The treasure trove is the pile of presents in the sunroom, visible from the kitchen." "So, we just waltz in?" Bill asked, already picturing himself in a tiny tuxedo. "Do I need fancy shoes?" "No, you don't need fancy shoes," Molly growled, underlining the sentence with a black marker smudge. "You need stealth. I've scouted the premises. The back door is frequently left ajar for the dog. Speaking of which, the only real security is Mrs. Henderson's miniature poodle, ‘Sparkles’." "Sparkles!" Bill let out a short, delighted bark of a laugh. "Like a glitter bomb went off? What do we do if she barks? Do I have to pet her to death?" Molly sighed, a long, drawn-out sound of pure exasperation. "No, Bill. We employ tactical distraction. I have a small canister of concentrated tuna essence. One discreet spritz towards Sparkles, and she’ll be too busy contemplating the profound aromas to raise an alarm. That buys us precisely twelve to fifteen minutes for acquisition." "Tuna! Genius!" Bill exclaimed, momentarily forgetting the moral implications of their mission. "So, I go in, grab the sack of presents from the sunroom, and then what? Do we have a getaway driver? Do they play jaunty music?" "The getaway vehicle is this van, Bill. And the only jaunty music will be the distant screams of children who can’t find their favourite transformer," Molly said flatly. "We collect the sack, exit the same way, and head for the drop point. Remember, leave no trace. No festive wrapping paper confetti, no incriminating fingerprints, absolutely no blue sticky tack residue from your lucky charm." Bill winced. "That was one time. And it wasn't blue, it was… aquamarine." "Whatever, blue-ish. Just stick to the plan," Molly instructed, folding the map with practiced efficiency. "You handle Sparkles and the sack. I’ll disable the garden gnome tripwire I suspect exists. We meet back at the van. Understood?" Bill gave a salute that was more of a confused wave. "Got it, Captain! Operation: Prank the Birthday Boy!" Molly dropped her head onto the steering wheel. "It's 'Purloin,' Bill. Purloin."