Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5P4HDD6D4M85930MT4F4G

The back room of The Tipsy Trout smelled of stale beer and desperation. Molly tapped a glossy brochure on the sticky table. “The target is a seven-year-old named Timmy. His party is Saturday at two PM, ‘Jungle Safari’ theme, at 14 Maple Drive.” Bill squinted at a picture of a bouncy castle shaped like a lion’s head. “A kid’s party? Molly, we stole the Crown Jewels of Luxembourg.” “And we almost got pinched because you tried to seduce the guard’s niece. This is low-profile. In and out. Presents are always cash cows this time of year—designer toys, video game systems, gift cards. Parents try to outdo each other. It’s a goldmine.” “So what’s the play? We go in disguised as clowns? I’m not a clown, Molly. I have a dignity.” “You have a record for grand theft auto. Your dignity is on sabbatical.” She pulled out a schematic of the house. “Clowns are a red flag. We’re the caterers. Specifically, the ‘Safari Snack Shack’ people. I’ve got the van, the uniforms, the whole kit. We arrive early to set up the juice box station and the animal cracker bar. That gets us inside, accepted.” Bill leaned back, his chair creaking in protest. “And the loot?” “Presents will be piled in the living room, near the fireplace. During the peak chaos of the piñata assault—which, according to the schedule, is at 3:15 sharp—we execute Phase Two: the Gorilla Glitch.” “I’m afraid to ask.” “The family has a dog, a nervous Chihuahua named Gizmo. You will discreetly, and I stress discreetly, release a small, remote-controlled toy gorilla from our supplies. It will buzz around the dog. The dog will, predictably, lose its tiny mind. Chaos, screams, all adult eyes on the hysterical canine and the plastic primate. That’s our twenty-second window. I grab the gift bags, you snag the big boxes. Out the patio doors, into the van through the side gate. We’re unloading ‘party supplies’ as we leave.” Bill rubbed his chin. “The gorilla’s a nice touch. But what about the actual snacks we’re supposed to be serving? I don’t know how to make a jungle-themed juice box.” “You pour apple juice into a cup. You call it ‘Swamp Water.’ It’s not brain surgery, Bill. It’s childcare. The key is looking bored and slightly put-upon. No one questions a minimum-wage worker who hates their job.” A slow grin spread across Bill’s face. “I can do that. I have a natural talent for looking put-upon. What’s my name on the nametag?” “Kevin.” “I hate it.” “Kevin doesn’t care. Kevin has rent due. Now, the exfiltration route.” She pointed to the map. “We take Oak, not Maple, to avoid the partygoers leaving. The van gets repainted in the old warehouse that night. We fence the goods through the usual channels by Tuesday.” Bill stared at the lion bouncy castle again, a glint in his eye. “You think they’ll have those little sausages on sticks? The kind with the frilly toothpicks?” “Focus, Bill. This is a surgical strike. Not a buffet.” “I’m just saying, if we’re catering, we should sample the product. Maintain our cover. A thief who doesn’t appreciate a good cocktail weenie is a thief I don’t trust.” He paused. “What if the kid cries? When he finds out his presents are gone?” Molly folded the schematic with finality. “He’s seven. He’ll get over it by the time the cake is served. And we’ll be halfway to the fence with a van full of unmarked, untraceable loot. It’s clean. It’s simple. It’s perfect.” “It’s a party for toddlers, Moll.” “Exactly,” Molly said, standing up. “No one expects it. Now, let’s go shop for a toy gorilla. And maybe some frilly toothpicks. For cover.”