Run: 2026-04-27-01KQ723EQ54FVFMWS567K3GC4J

Okay, so, the ventilation shaft is definitely not an option, Bill. I saw it. It’s wide enough for a very enthusiastic hamster, and even then, probably only one wearing a size zero. Also, it smells like old juice boxes and regret, which is not a scent I wish to have clinging to my silk gloves. You’re being dramatic, Molly. The shaft is fine. It’s character-building. Besides, the front door is locked. Obviously. It’s a fortress, not a house. Well, it’s a suburban split-level with a welcome mat that says ‘Go Away,’ but semantically, it’s a fortress. It has a pool alarm. A pool alarm, Bill. Do you know what happens if we trigger a pool alarm at two in the morning? Police. Lots of police. And not the fun, heist-style police where we can bribe them with chocolate. No, this is ‘suburban dad with a BB gun and excessive anger’ police. I do not want to engage in combat with a man wearing fleece pajamas named ‘Tactical Dad.’ Tactical Dad, you say? That’s a variable, sure. But have you considered the sheer, unadulterated volume of gifts? I’m talking about drones, Molly. Drones that can legally fly within city limits. I’m talking about electric skateboards that probably shouldn’t exist in this dimension. Do you want to risk the shaft smell for a lifetime supply of overpriced toys that are essentially plastic trash? I want to avoid jail, Bill. I also want to avoid being seen on a neighborhood security camera while trying to shimmy down a drainpipe like a desperate, sweaty monkey. The back window is unlocked. I checked. It was wedged open by a stray tennis ball. A tennis ball? Really? Who leaves a tennis ball wedged in a window? Probably the kid. Or the dog. Doesn’t matter. It’s an opportunity. We slip in, we grab the presents, we leave. No drones, no skateboards, just pure, uncut joy wrapped in shiny paper. It’s almost poetic, really. Stealing happiness from the innocent. Well, not innocent, they’re eight, they know full well how to tie a noose with a jump rope, but you know what I mean. Fine. But if we get caught, I’m blaming the tennis ball. Deal. Now, what’s the code to disable the security system? Which one? The one that sends a text to Mrs. Higgins, or the one that sprays us with firehose-grade water jets from the ceiling. The water jets, hopefully. Well, then I need the code. Or I can smash the control panel. Smashing implies noise. Noise implies waking up the household. Waking up the household implies waking up Tactical Dad. Do you really want to face the wrath of a man whose primary hobby is home improvement and repressed rage. I could use a magnet. A magnet? Yes. I’m pretty sure most household security systems are held together by hope and cheap plastic. A strong enough magnet might just make the whole grid give up and go to sleep. That sounds incredibly unlikely. It’s plausible, Bill. Plausibility is a thief’s best friend. Along with running very fast. What if the magnet sticks to the window? Then we use pliers. We have pliers. I hate pliers. They’re too honest. Forget it. Just hold the flashlight. And try not to look guilty. It’s hard, I know, but try. Why? Because I have a face that screams ‘I just robbed a bakery.’ You did rob a bakery. It was a donation, technically. Sure. And we are donating ourselves into this house. Ready? On three. One. Two. Three. Wait. Is that a guard dog? No, that’s the hamster. I told you. The hamster is barking? It’s a very aggressive hamster. Let’s go.