Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK95ZVXR9V44EQ88PS58FET

“Tell me again why we’re robbing a children’s party,” Bill whispered, crouched behind a hedge shaped like a duck with commitment issues. “Because, Bill,” Molly said, peering through binoculars that still had a price sticker on them, “children’s parties have the highest present-to-guard ratio in the criminal ecosystem.” “That’s a sentence that makes me want to call my mother.” “Your mother would applaud entrepreneurship. Now hush. Target is the gift table. Center-left. Under the balloon arch that says ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TREVOR!’ in glitter letters large enough to be seen from space.” Bill squinted. “Trevor’s only turning six. Why does Trevor have NASA-grade signage?” “Because Trevor’s parents are overcompensating,” Molly said. “Maybe Trevor can’t wink. Maybe he’s terrible at somersaults. Doesn’t matter. What matters is the pile of wrapped boxes and the fact that the only security detail is a man dressed as a pirate.” Bill watched the pirate staggering near the bounce house. “That pirate is eating a hot dog with the costume mouth open. That’s not security, that’s a cry for help.” “Exactly. We move during the piñata. Everyone’s eyes go to the violence candy.” Bill adjusted his beanie, which said WORLD’S BEST UNCLE in cheerful embroidery. “I still say we should’ve stuck with grown-up parties. At least adults don’t have face paint.” “Face paint is an advantage,” Molly said. “We blend in. I’ve got the tiger stencil. You’ve got the sponge.” “My cheekbones weren’t meant for tigers,” Bill muttered. “Fine. You can be a sad cloud. Very on-brand.” Bill looked down at the bag between them. “Are you sure about the equipment?” Molly patted it proudly. “Two tote bags. One wagon. Emergency bubble wand as a distraction. And a clipboard.” “A clipboard?” “No one questions a clipboard. You can walk into a bank with a clipboard and steal the bank’s feelings.” Bill glanced at the yard. “What about the parents? There’s like… twelve of them.” “Parents are busy judging each other’s snack choices,” Molly said. “One’s comparing hummus. One’s bragging about gluten-free cupcakes. The most dangerous one is the dad by the grill; he’s doing tongs like he’s in a jazz band.” Bill listened. “I hear him. Click-clack. Click-clack. Menacing.” “Stay focused,” Molly said. “We go in as entertainers. You’re ‘Balloon Bill.’ I’m ‘Molly the Magnificent.’” Bill grimaced. “I can’t make balloon animals.” “You can make balloon noodles. Children respect effort. Also, we’re not here to win awards. We’re here to win presents.” Bill stared at the gift pile again. “What if the gifts have names on them? We’ll have to sort through. ‘To Trevor, from Grandma.’ That’s… personal.” “We’re not monsters,” Molly said. “We’re selective monsters. We only take the unmarked ones.” Bill blinked. “There are unmarked ones?” Molly nodded. “The lazy gifts. The ones from parents who bought something at the gas station and forgot a card. Those are ours.” Bill sighed with relief. “Okay, I can rob laziness.” Molly pointed. “See the big blue box? No tag. That’s probably a remote-control truck.” “And the tall one wrapped in dinosaur paper?” “Could be a scooter,” Molly said. “Could be a lamp shaped like a llama. We’ll accept whatever the universe wants us to have.” Bill chewed his lip. “I don’t like the clown.” “The clown’s fine.” “The clown just honked at a toddler and the toddler honked back,” Bill said. “That’s a union. They’re communicating.” Molly leaned closer. “Listen to me. We are professionals. We walk in. You hand out balloons. I ask where the gift table manager is. Then, during the piñata, you wheel the wagon through like you belong. Confidence is ninety percent of crime.” “And the other ten percent?” Bill asked. “Wheels that don’t squeak,” Molly said, flicking the wagon wheel. It squealed like a mouse stepping on a Lego. Bill winced. “That wheel just confessed.” Molly rummaged in her pocket. “I’ve got lip balm. Works as lubricant.” “You’re going to grease the wheel with cherry lip balm?” “Do you have a better plan?” “I have fear,” Bill said. “Lots of fear.” Molly smeared the balm on the axle. “There. Now it’ll squeak in a festive way.” Bill watched the kids gathering around the piñata. “They’re handing out bats. Tiny bats. The cutest weapons imaginable.” “Perfect timing,” Molly said. “Masks on.” Bill pulled up his beanie. “How do I look?” “Like an uncle who’s about to commit several misdemeanors,” Molly said. “Now smile like you love children.” Bill forced a grin. “I don’t love children.” “Pretend you love free juice boxes,” Molly said. Bill brightened. “Oh. That I can do.” “Good,” Molly said, grabbing the clipboard. “On my count. Three. Two. One. We go in, we sparkle, we steal, we leave.” Bill gulped. “If anyone asks, we’re hired?” “We’re always hired,” Molly said. “By destiny. And by my imagination.” Bill nodded, stepping out from the hedge. “Okay. Balloon Bill is clocking in.” Molly strode after him. “Remember,” she hissed, “no eye contact with the pirate. He’s too broken to reason with.” Bill whispered back, “And if a kid asks for a unicorn balloon?” “Give them a worm and call it abstract,” Molly said. “Now move. The candy violence has begun.”