Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5NBGXC0EJN946TGTPWBX8

The warehouse smelled of damp concrete and failed ambitions. Molly, perched on a crate marked ‘FRAGILE – GLORIOUS DINO-MITE PARTY SUPPLIES’, chewed on the end of a pencil. Bill paced nervously, the beam of his flashlight cutting frantic arcs across the dusty floor. “Okay,” Molly said, tapping a crudely drawn blueprint. “The target is the ‘Giggles & Wiggles Mega-Birthday Blowout’ for one Timmy Henderson, age six. Objective: liberate the entirety of the gift table.” “Liberate?” Bill frowned. “We’re stealing from a kid, Moll. A little kid. With a cake shaped like a cartoon badger.” “We are reallocating resources from an over-indulged bourgeoisie six-year-old to two under-capitalized entrepreneurs. Us.” She pointed the pencil at him. “Now, the party is at a soft-play arena. Chaos is our friend. The primary security is a single, harried mother named Brenda who will be approximately 72% wine by the time we arrive. The secondary security is a pack of sugared-up five-year-olds, which is a more formidable threat, I’ll admit.” Bill stopped pacing and ran a hand over his face. “How do we even get in? We don’t exactly blend. I’ve got a tattoo of a weeping clown on my neck.” “We’re going in as staff. Specifically, the party’s special guests: Captain Sparklebeard and Seaman Squeaky, the pirate mascots.” Bill stared at her. The silence stretched. A single drop of water plinked somewhere in the darkness. “You want me,” he said slowly, “a man with a chronic lower back issue and a deep-seated fear of synthetic fabrics, to wear a giant pirate costume.” “The beard is detachable. Look, Bill, it’s genius. We’re invisible. Who looks at the mascot? Nobody. Parents are terrified of them, kids just scream and try to pull their heads off. We can move freely through the venue. While I’m doing the mandatory pirate jig, you’ll be on ‘crowd control’, which is code for stuffing plush toys and gift cards into our specially modified loot-sacks.” “Loot-sacks?” “I sewed pockets into the costumes. Big ones.” Bill sighed, a sound of profound resignation. “The exit strategy?” “Standard distraction. At the designated time, you’ll ‘accidentally’ trigger the bubble machine and the confetti cannon simultaneously. In the ensuing sensory overload, we simply waddle out the emergency exit to the getaway vehicle.” “Which is?” “My cousin’s ice cream truck. It’s perfect cover. We load the goods in the back with the Neapolitan and we’re gone. We’ll be eating premium steak dinners paid for by little Timmy’s new bike before he’s even finished his second slice of badger-cake.” Bill was quiet for a long moment, contemplating the sheer, ridiculous audacity of it all. He looked at the blueprint, at the drawing of a stick-figure pirate next to a giant ‘X’. He thought about the weeping clown tattoo and the impending synthetic fabric nightmare. “Alright,” he groaned. “But if one single child asks me for a hug, I’m aborting the mission. I have boundaries.” “Noted. No hugging the merchandise.” Molly grinned, a flash of white in the dim light. “Now, let’s go over the pirate jig again. It’s crucial you get the hip-swivel right.”