Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ80TRB938CZDDSPZYJ6SC2

Molly leaned against a stack of pizza boxes in the dimly lit storage unit, twirling a lockpick like a baton. “Alright, Bill. The party starts in two hours. We’re crashing the Stevenses’ backyard bash, swapping out every gift with dummy versions, and vanishing before the piñata’s last stanza.” Bill adjusted his glasses, peering at a blueprint he’d printed from a suspiciously child-friendly website. “Dummy versions? You sure we can’t just, I don’t know, cart out the whole Amazon box and call it a day?” “Dummy versions,” Molly repeated, enunciating like he was a particularly dense toddler. “We don’t want the parents noticing their kids opened $5 plastic☞” “Hey, my sister’s wedding favor was $5 plastic!” “This isn’t a wedding. It’s a *children’s party*. The only thing they care about is whether the bouncy castle has a squirrel in it.” She tossed him a pair of sequined elf costumes. “You’re playing an elf. I’m Santa. Easy, right?” Bill held up the green tunic, which looked like it had been stained by existential dread. “Easy. What could go wrong? I mean, aside from the inherent wrongness of this entire enterprise? Or the fact that I’m allergic to glitter?” “Glitter’s a temporary setback. So’s prison. Now, here’s the plan: You distract the kids with your *charming, non-allergic* presence. I’ll sneak into the tent, switch the presents. Done.” Bill stared at a neon sign reading “DON’T GET CAUGHT” that he’d duct-taped to a cereal box. “Distract the kids? What if they ask me questions? Like, why I’m sweating through my hat? Or why I urinated in a plant pot three years ago?” Molly paused, considering. “If they ask about the plant pot, tell them it’s a holiday tradition. Works every time.” “Great. So I’m a walking urban legend. What if a parent sees us? What if someone recognizes Santa’s… *modest proportions*?” “I’m proportionally flawless. You, however, need to stop eating the ‘healthy’ snacks I bring.” She tossed him a mini drumstick. “Chew quietly. Also, if things go sideways, we’re leaving via the clown’s cart. Don’t question it.” Bill gaped. “You hired a clown?” “Borrowed. His name’s Mr.ubbles. He’s sleeping it off in the van. Now, practice your elf emoji.” Bill struck a pose, costume snagging on a rogue balloon. “Is this convincing enough for a six-yearer?” “Convincing enough for a six-yearer who’s been fed three scoops of confetti ice cream. Relax. Worst-case scenario, we’re stuck with a bunch of toddlers quoting *The Polar Express* at us.” Bill paled. “That *would* be the worst case. I can’t handle kids reciting my mom’s maiden name.” “Then don’t let them touch your phone. Also, remember: The replacement gifts are in the duffel. Toy frogs, bubble machines, that one weirdo action figure I found at the thrift store. Nothing too… *engaging*.” Bill furrowed his brow. “What’s the point of stealing toys no one wants?” “They’re not *stealing*. They’re… *rearranging*. For profit. Now, if you’re done philosophizing, we’ve got a party to crash.” Bill took a shuddering breath. “What if we get caught?” Molly handed him a fake mustache. “Then you’re a confused dad. I’m your *wife*. We brought cupcakes. Also, eat this mustache if you panic. It’s cinnamon.” “Why?” “In case you need to, uh, *incognito* into the dessert table. Now. Move. Or we’re Santa-ing without you.” Bill saluted, then tripped over a rogue teddy bear. “Lead the way, Your柑橘!” “*Your柑橘?*” “It’s Santa! I thought you liked Christmas!” She shoved him toward the door. “I *hate* Christmas.”