Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAAK7HXA2SH2H2JW3FYFPN

Molly crouched behind a plastic flamingo and considered the glittery invitation like a map to treasure. The neighbor's backyard smelled of cake and sunscreen, and a string of bunting fluttered like a tiny flag of opportunity. Bill rolled a balloon between his knees as if it were contraband. They had rehearsed the plan in cheaper restaurants and on park benches, but tonight was rehearsal and execution in one, and both were giggling at the absurdity. Molly: We go in as cake inspectors, polite and panicked, clipboard in hand, nodding gravely at frosting. Bill: Cake inspectors are a new low even for us. Molly: Low, yes, but low with a plan and a very sticky spatula. We distract, we bag, we exit under the piñata. Bill: What about the children? They are small, loud, and morally suspicious. Molly: We establish an authority. "Official frosting compliance officer." We hand out sticker badges. They adore badges. Bill: They adore stickers and will follow anyone who supplies them. Also we bring balloons. Balloons equal trust. Molly: While they chase helium, we cruise past the present table like benevolent pirates. Bill: Benevolent pirates. I like that. What about parental units? Adults with peripheral vision. Molly: We select the adults with crystal-weak focus: phone-addled, frosting-smeared, and deep in conversation about cliques. Bill: I can mimic sincere complimenting. "Your child’s crayon technique is revolutionary." They melt like popsicles. Molly: We have a getaway: sack disguised as piñata supplies, exit through the garden gate, bike baskets waiting with folding seats. Bill: Lock the bikes, release the bikes, pedal with fake humility, wave regretfully over our shoulders. Molly: Timing is cake-cutting, singing, and piñata whack. That's our three-minute window. Bill: Three minutes is generous for amateurs, but frighteningly ample for professionals with tape and polite lies. Molly: For distraction I will initiate a spontaneous conga that includes every potted plant and ends at the fence. Bill: I will be your apologetic decoy, knocking over a lawn gnome and sobbing like it was an accident. Molly: Then we scoop. Fast, quiet, and with the reverence of people stealing the last cookie from a jar. Bill: We split spoils: toys for fences, some for charity drop-offs labeled "orphans," and a special unicorn for you. Molly: The unicorn is mandatory. Also, we leave a note: "Thanks for the party. Sorry for the glitter." Signed, the Cake Inspectors. Bill: Glitter apology is classic. Also we document everything for future agency pitches: children's birthday heists, culinary acquisition division. Molly: Are you nervous? Bill: About glitter? Terrified. About commitment? Prepared. By the hedge the moon was a slice of lime. Their toolkit was a mismatched diaper bag full of spoons, tape, and the perfect amount of mischief. They moved in a practiced chaos, elbows and whispers and a compass made out of a Popsicle stick. The guests inside would be busy with cake and games; the crime, if you wanted to call it that, seemed mostly cruel to cupcakes. They looked spectacularly ridiculous and committed.