Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5K2QJ4NFA9XN307DJREYG

The warehouse loft smelled of dust, desperation, and cheap instant coffee. Molly, her hair a defiant red explosion, traced a finger over a crayon-smeared floorplan taped to their splintered worktable. Bill, a man whose face seemed permanently set to “mild panic,” chewed a biro. “It’s airtight,” Molly declared, tapping the page. “The target is the Henderson residence. Seven-year-old’s birthday. Peak gift acquisition time is between 3:17 and 3:45 PM, during the synchronized parental weeping session triggered by the ‘Baby Shark’ anniversary slideshow.” Bill removed the pen. “Right. And our point of entry? Vents? Rooftop? Posing as clowns? Please say no clowns.” “Clowns are amateur hour, Bill. We’re going in as the entertainment. Specifically, as ‘Professor Pumpernickel’s Percolating Ponies.’ It’s a bubble-and-balloon act.” Bill stared. “We don’t know any balloon animals.” “We don’t *need* to. We’ll just make a lot of big, distracting bubbles. The real payload is this.” She hefted a garishly painted box labelled ‘The Wishinator 3000.’ “Kids put a toy in, ‘make a wish,’ and it gets ‘supercharged.’ It’s just a false-bottomed chute that funnels the loot into a duffel bag in the hollow base.” A flicker of admiration crossed Bill’s face before doubt reclaimed it. “What about the parents? They watch like hawks.” “They’ll be dehydrated from crying. Also, we’ll have a secondary diversion. You, during the bubble symphony, will ‘accidentally’ release a dozen battery-operated, squeaking hamsters from your sleeve.” “I have to release rodents?” “They’re cute! It’s chaos management. While they’re corralling hamsters and wiping bubble-snot, I’ll be at the Wishinator, processing the haul. In and out. We’re just two slightly incompetent performers who made a mess.” Bill paced, the floorboards groaning. “The exit strategy. We’ll be laden. Suspicion will arise when little Timmy’s new drone doesn’t come back ‘wish-charged.’” “We feign a catastrophic equipment malfunction. The Wishinator will emit theatrical smoke. We’ll be ‘overcome by non-toxic fumes,’ grab our gear, and stagger to the van, apologizing profusely. The duffel bag *is* the equipment. They’ll be too busy airing out the cake smell to check.” He stopped, a new horror dawning. “What if a child… *wants* a balloon dog? What do I do?” Molly sighed, the sound of a master tolerating an apprentice. “You look them dead in the eye, Bill, and you say, ‘The magic is in the bubble, kid. The balloon is just a lie we tell ourselves.’ It’ll buy you twenty seconds of confused silence, minimum.” Bill considered the crayon map, the ludicrous plan, the squeaking hamsters waiting in their transport crate. It was, like all their schemes, a house of cards built over a volcano. But the take from a suburban kid’s birthday could be shockingly good—all those guilt-presents from divorced dads and competitive aunts. “Alright,” he said, shoulders slumping in resignation. “But I’m not wearing tights. Percolating Ponies can wear sensible trousers.” “Fine,” Molly said, a grin spreading. “But the rainbow waistcoat is non-negotiable. It sells the whimsy. Now, let’s rehearse your hamster-release panic face. It needs more… flailing.”