Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5BK70RKD6QXDAVWJ8QQ0P

The back room of The Rusty Nail smelled of stale beer and desperate plans. Molly traced a finger over a crayon-smeared invitation taped to the sticky table. "The target is a six-year-old's birthday party. Saturday, 2 PM, 14 Maple Drive. Lavish suburban split-level." Bill stared, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "A kid's party? Molly, we steal crown jewels, not action figures." "Precisely! Think about it, Bill. Minimal security. No lasers, no pressure plates. Just a herd of sugared-up toddlers and parents distracted by cheap sparkling wine. The haul is in the living room, wrapped in shiny paper. In and out." "In and out," Bill repeated, rubbing his chin. "What's the exit strategy? Do we blast through the ball pit?" "We blend. We go in as the clowns." Bill choked on his lukewarm coffee. "Clowns? I have a documented fear of red noses. And greasepaint makes me sweat. It’s a liability." "Fine, not clowns. Magicians. We’ll be ‘Marvelous Melvin and Baffling Brenda.’ We do a few lousy card tricks near the presents, swap the gift bag for our empty one during the ‘disappearing rabbit’ bit." Bill leaned forward, a glint of professional interest replacing the panic. "Okay. Okay, the misdirection is sound. But what about the perimeter? The parents?" "The father will be manning the grill, obsessed with achieving the perfect char. The mother will be mediating a dispute over who gets the unicorn piñata whacking stick. Our window is during the cake chaos. That’s the sweet spot. Everyone’s looking at the candles." "And the loot transport?" Molly produced a diagram. "Large, festive gift bag. False bottom. We load the presents underneath, keep some crumpled tissue paper on top. We walk out waving, saying we have another gig at four." Bill studied the map. "What’s the contingency for a crying child attaching itself to your leg?" "We carry small, distracting bribes. Stickers. Those weird sticky hand things. If compromised, deploy bribe and disengage." "What about the family dog?" "Pug. Named Sprinkles. Our intel says he’s more interested in dropped cake than intruders. We bring a pocketful of bacon bits as a peace offering." Bill was silent for a long moment, staring at the crayon drawing of a smiling cake on the invitation. "It’s… audacious. It’s beneath us. It’s frankly a little sad." "But is it doable?" He sighed, a long, weary sound. "The security is non-existent. The entry is plausible. The exit is clean. It’s doable. It’s just… morally ambiguous." Molly patted his hand. "We’re thieves, Bill. Our moral ambiguity is what pays the rent. This is a soft target with a high yield. Think of the designer toys, the overpriced educational gadgets. It’s a goldmine wrapped in Sesame Street paper." "Fine," Bill grumbled, standing up. "But I’m not being Baffling Brenda. I have a dignity, Molly. A line." "You can be Marvelous Melvin. I’ll be Baffling Brenda. But you’re learning the French Drop. We rehearse at ten. And for heaven’s sake, try to look less like a career criminal and more like a man who knows how to make a handkerchief change color." Bill attempted a smile. It looked more like a grimace. "A six-year-old’s party. My old cellmate, ‘Icepick’ Louie, is never going to let me hear the end of this." "‘Icepick’ Louie is doing twenty years for trying to steal an ATM. I’d say we’re evolving. Now, come on. We need to go shop for a sequined waistcoat and some ethically-sourced confetti."