Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK3141MXPMPXCWX5HF6WCWJ

The rain hammered against the corrugated iron roof of the storage shed, drowning out the distant sound of a children's choir practicing nearby. Molly adjusted her black balaclava, which was currently slipping over one eye, and pointed a gloved finger at the blueprint spread across a crate of stolen hubcaps. Bill sat opposite her, trying to untangle a string of fairy lights he insisted were essential for the operation. "We go in through the balloon arch," Molly whispered intensely. "It is the blind spot." "The balloon arch is made of latex and hope, Molly," Bill replied, finally freeing a bulb. "A stiff breeze could take us down before we even reach the punch bowl." "It is not about the latex, it is about the psychology," she insisted, tapping the paper. "No one guards the clown entrance. They are all watching the magician. That is where we strike." Bill sighed, draping the lights over his shoulders like a festive scarf. "We are breaking into a six-year-old's birthday party. The security is a woman named Brenda with a whistle and a very strong opinion on cake distribution." "Brenda is the variable we cannot control," Molly said, her voice rising slightly. "But the presents? The presents are static targets. Wrapped in shiny paper, stacked in a pyramid of greed right under the nose of society." "Society doesn't care about little Timmy's Lego set, Mol." "Society should care!" she snapped. "Imagine the haul. Action figures, board games, enough sugar to keep us wired for a decade. It is the perfect crime." "The perfect crime usually involves less glitter," Bill muttered, picking a piece of confetti off his knee. "Glitter is the forensic nightmare of the underworld. You find it in your pockets three years later. It is eternal." Molly ignored him, tracing a route on the map with a crayon she had found in the shed. "We create a diversion. You dress as the mascot. The giant purple dinosaur." "I am not wearing the dino suit," Bill stated flatly. "Last time I wore a costume for a job I got heatstroke and cried in front of a bank manager." "You cried because the zipper stuck," Molly corrected. "This time it is velcro. Modern engineering, Bill. Keep up. You roar, the kids scatter, Brenda blows her whistle, and I sweep the gift table. In and out in four minutes." "And if the parents attack?" Bill asked, raising an eyebrow. "Have you seen what soccer moms can do with a minivan? They are relentless." "We rely on speed and chaos," she said, standing up and pacing the small space. "Chaos is our ladder. While they are trying to calm a room full of screaming toddlers, we are already gone, vanishing into the night with a fortress of plush toys." Bill looked at the rain, then back at his partner. "You know we could just buy a gift. It costs less than dry cleaning this outfit." "Buying is for losers," Molly declared, striking a dramatic pose that nearly knocked over a stack of tires. "Stealing from children teaches them valuable lessons about loss and the fragility of material possessions. We are educators, Bill." "We are monsters," he corrected, standing up and grabbing his bag. "But fine. I will wear the dinosaur. But if I get stuck in the velcro again, I am blaming you." "Deal," Molly grinned, extending a hand. "Now let's go make some memories nobody wants to remember." Bill shook her hand reluctantly. "Lead the way, educator."