Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5GZ337V733AVB7MY4GP7C

The stale smell of burnt coffee and regret hung in the air of Molly’s cramped apartment. Spread across her splintered kitchen table was a hand-drawn map on the back of a pizza box, depicting the sprawling backyard of 14 Maple Drive. Bill, a mountain of a man with nervous eyes, pointed a sausage-like finger at a squiggle labeled “hedge.” “See? The weak spot. They got that fancy privet, but it’s thin by the gate. We go in after the piñata frenzy. Sugar crash is a beautiful thing.” Molly, all sharp angles and focused intensity, didn’t look up from polishing her compact set of lock picks. “Piñata timing is amateur hour, Bill. You want chaos? You want the cake moment. The singing, the candles, the collective parental weepiness. All eyes on the frosting. That’s our window.” Bill shifted his weight, making the chair groan in protest. “But the loot’s all piled up on the gift table by then. What if someone’s watching it?” “Who?” Molly scoffed, finally meeting his gaze. “Uncle Dave? He’s three beers deep and arguing about lawn fertilizer with the neighbor. Grandma? She’s filming the whole thing on a tablet she hasn’t unlocked yet. The kids are in a hypnotic sugar trance. It’s perfect.” “I dunno, Mol. Stealing from a kid’s party… it feels low. Even for us.” “They’re not kids, Bill,” Molly said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re tiny, entitled distributors of pure, unmarked currency. Think about it: no serial numbers on Lego sets. No security tags on stuffed unicorns. We fence the high-end stuff—the tablets, the fancy science kits—and the rest we unload at the flea market. It’s a victimless crime.” “The victims are like, four feet tall.” “And they’ll get replacements by the weekend. Their parents will just buy more stuff to soothe their guilt. We’re practically doing a public service, highlighting their consumerist bubble.” She tapped the pizza-box blueprint. “Now, you’ll be in the van, parked on Elm. I go in through the side gate, wearing the caterer’s apron I… acquired. I blend. I mingle. I offer mini-quiches with a smile.” Bill’s brow furrowed. “You don’t know how to make mini-quiches.” “I don’t need to make them, I just need to carry them. Distraction and deployment. I get to the gift table, load the presents into the large, empty serving trays, and walk right out. You meet me at the hedge weak spot with a laundry cart.” “A laundry cart?” “It’s innocuous! Who questions a woman with a laundry cart? I’m just… doing a very large load of party favors.” She grinned, a flash of cunning. “It’s elegant.” Bill sighed, a sound like a deflating tire. “What about the clown? The map says ‘Coco the Clown, 2-4 PM.’” Molly’s grin vanished. “The clown is a variable. A wild card. We may need a secondary distraction. You still have those stink bombs from the Benson job?” “The ones that smell like rotten eggs and existential dread?” “Those exact ones. If Coco gets too attentive, you lob one near the sprinkler system. Clowns hate bad smells. It’s a known psychological fact.” She stood up, rolling the map with finality. “We go in at 3:47 PM. Cake is at four. We’re in and out by 4:05. A seven-minute operation. Clean. Sweet.” Bill looked at the crude drawing, the dotted lines of their planned incursion cutting through a child’s birthday. He pictured Lego boxes and teddy bears. “Just feels like we’re gonna end up on the naughty list for this one, Mol.” Molly clapped him on the shoulder. “Bill, we’ve been on the naughty list since we stole that truckload of novelty singing fish. Now, let’s go over the exit routes again. And stop feeling guilty. We’re not stealing childhood, we’re redistributing plastic.”