Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95A27WNRK55Q9VARG6EMBV

The 'borrowed' van, a chameleon of municipal grey, reeked of ambition gone slightly sour, overlaid with the faint, unsettling aroma of cheap disinfectant. Molly, perched on an upturned bucket, traced a route across a crumpled diagram that looked suspiciously like a child’s placemat. Bill, occupying the passenger seat, was meticulously buffing a surprisingly pristine, yet distinctly curved, length of metal with a tea towel embroidered with a cartoon duck. Outside, the saccharine strains of a pop song popular with the under-ten demographic drifted on the breeze, an audible taunt. "Alright, Bill," Molly began, her voice a low purr that didn't quite hide the exasperation. "Operation Sugar Plum Faerie is a go, and the objective is simple: maximum present procurement. We're talking about the holy grail of childhood avarice." Bill beamed, the metal glinting. "You mean the presents, Molly? The colourful rectangles of pure, unadulterated greed that the little darlings haven't even opened yet?" "Precisely. Think of them as treasure. Untouched. Blissfully ignorant of the harsh realities of eBay listings and secondary market value. The intel confirms the target is 'Little Timmy's 7th Birthday Bonanza' at number 17 Primrose Lane. Primary security measures include insufficient adult supervision, a potential choking hazard zone around the party favour bags, and the overwhelming power of the party host's mother." "So, we're just gonna, like, waltz in there like we own the place?" Bill asked, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Do we have a password?" "Bill, we are not storming Fort Knox. We're infiltrating a sugar-fueled riot. You, my dear Bill, will be the eccentric, rumour-has-it-won-the-lottery uncle offering questionable life advice and surprisingly skilled balloon animal impressions. I will be the quiet relative who ‘isn’t feeling well’ and is assigned the important task of ‘keeping an eye on the gifts downstairs’. My speciality is blending in by looking utterly miserable." Molly adjusted her sunglasses, which a sane person would consider overkill for a drizzly afternoon. "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is reconnaissance. Pinpoint the primary gift cache – usually near the designated destruction zone, I mean, craft table. Then, a subtle signal. We use the provided gift bags as our discrete, ecologically friendly, and highly expendable transport system. Think swift, not strenuous." Bill nodded vigorously. "Got it. Erk-in-essence. And… do they like elephants?" Molly inhaled deeply, counting to ten mentally by the branding on the cheap biscuit tin beside her. "Bill, our objective is to *acquire* the gifts, not to provide existential entertainment. The key is the art of the distraction. While young Kevin is contemplating the structural integrity of his balloon dog, your eyes should be on a suspiciously large box wrapped in that atrocious dinosaur paper. While Mrs. Gable is recounting her award-winning rose pruning techniques, you’ll be subtly transferring the loot into our decoys. It’s about minimal contact, maximum acquisition. Think… kleptomaniac ballet." "So we gotta dance?" Bill whispered, eyes wide. "No, Bill, we do *not* have to dance. We need to be ghosts. Ghosts who happen to be collecting valuable merchandise. Remember, we’re not taking from children. We are, in essence, *rehoming* the bounty. Giving it a second, more appreciative life, far away from sticky fingers and parental guilt. A service, really." Bill’s face lit up with profound understanding. "We're like… delivery squirrels, but for expensive stuff?" Molly simply closed her eyes, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips. "Close enough, Bill. Close enough."