Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5N53RVPVTWYG39F82T4MR

The air in the storage unit was thick with dust and poor life choices. Molly, her ginger hair tied in a severe knot, squinted at a large, hand-drawn diagram taped to a stack of mouldering boxes. It was a flowchart of a suburban back garden, labelled with alarming precision. Bill, a man built like a disappointed fridge, polished a fish slice with his sleeve. “I still say we go in as clowns. Classic misdirection.” “Clowns are not classic,” Molly said, not looking up. “Clowns are a known variable that induces either delight or primal terror. We can’t risk a fifty-fifty chance of causing a screamer. We’re professionals.” “Professionals planning to steal from a six-year-old’s birthday party.” “The mark is ‘Timmy,’ yes. But the loot is high-value, lightly guarded, and concentrated in a single, pastel-coloured location. It’s a smash-and-grab, just with pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.” She tapped the diagram. “The perimeter is a wooden fence. The only sentry is a Labrador named Buster, who can be neutralized with a single premium sausage.” Bill waved the fish slice. “And my role? Beyond sausage duty?” “You’ll be the distraction. You’ll pose as a representative from ‘SparkleQuest Party Rentals,’ here to set up the ‘Ultimate Bouncy Castle.’ A castle which, tragically, will have a critical helium leak, requiring you to shepherd all attendees, including adults, to the front driveway to ‘inspect the delivery.’” “I don’t like helium. It makes my voice silly.” “Your voice is already silly, Bill. This will lend authenticity.” Molly moved to a smaller sketch of the party table. “During the distraction, I go in through the side gate. Presents are piled under the ceremonial ‘Happy Birthday’ banner. I’ll have ninety seconds. I’ll ditch the wrapping paper on-site—too bulky—and bag just the goods.” Bill frowned, deep in tactical thought. “What’s the exfil?” “Same gate. We load the swag into the SparkleQuest van. Which is actually Frank’s van, but we’ll have magnets.” “What about the cake?” “What *about* the cake, Bill?” “Is it part of the haul? A good sheet cake has value.” “We are not stealing a child’s cake. The operational parameters are toys, likely plastic and electronic. The cake is a chaotic element. Sticky. It leaves crumbs.” Bill sighed, a man dreaming of buttercream. “Fine. But the timeline’s tight. What if someone needs the loo during my bouncy castle briefing?” “That’s a variable we accept. My contingency is to hide in the pile of presents and pretend to be a large, moody teddy bear.” Bill stared at her. “You’d do that?” “I’ve done weirder for less. Remember the Glasgow aquarium job?” “The octopus still haunts me.” He hefted the fish slice. “So why am I polishing this?” “Your cover. A SparkleQuest rep would have a utility belt. Multi-tool, walkie-talkie, fish slice. It looks professional.” “It looks like I’m about to flip a pancake in a warzone.” “It’s about commitment, Bill! The details sear the lie into reality!” Molly finally looked at him, her eyes gleaming. “This isn’t a bank. It’s a theatre of war fought with party whistles and minor tantrums. We will be in, out, and sipping a disappointing white wine spritzer in a budget hotel before little Timmy even blows out his damn candles.” Bill slid the fish slice into his belt. He looked, indeed, like a man about to assault a large breakfast. “Okay. But if there’s a gift-wrapped drone in there, I call dibs.” “Dibs are unprofessional but acknowledged. Now, let’s rehearse your helium leak sob story. And for god’s sake, try to look sad about an inflatable’s tragic demise.”