Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5PCJQE8ZTNG01CTWRJQQS

The air in the cramped van was thick with the smell of cheap coffee and cheaper ambition. Molly squinted at the scribbled map on her knee, her brow furrowed. Bill polished a butter knife with his sleeve, humming. “Okay,” Molly said, tapping the paper. “The target is the Henderson residence, Saturday, 2 PM. The objective is the loot pile, currently located under a… pinata shaped like a unicorn.” Bill nodded sagely. “A unicorn. Classic misdirection. They want you looking at the glitter, not the goods. What’s the security situation?” “Minimal, but unpredictable,” Molly recited. “One adult male, likely distracted by grill duties. One adult female, probable perimeter sweeps for juice box refills. The primary hazards are the thirty-five miniature operatives, aged four to six. They’re fast, they’re loud, and they have no respect for personal property.” “Hmm. A fluid environment.” Bill held up the butter knife, examining its non-edge. “I’ve been working on my infiltration tool. Silent, non-threatening. Can also spread frosting in a pinch for operational blending.” Molly stared at him. “Bill, we’re not blending. We’re crashing a kids’ party to steal presents. We need a plan, not a cutlery set. I’m thinking we go in as caterers. ‘Happy Clown Party Service.’ You’re the clown.” Bill’s face went pale. “I have a condition. It’s called coulrophobia. Fear of clowns.” “You *are* the clown!” “Exactly! I’m a danger to myself! The sight of my own nose could trigger a panic attack mid-heist. No, we need something else.” He snapped his fingers. “Relatives. Distant, vaguely remembered aunt and uncle. We show up with a giant, suspiciously heavy gift, stash it by the loot pile, and do a swap when the cake chaos erupts.” Molly considered it. “The cake distraction is solid. Sugar-induced frenzy, peak noise cover. But the gift swap is too exposed. We need an exit strategy *with* the loot.” “Balloon animals,” Bill said, as if it were obvious. “We fill the stolen gifts with helium balloons. We walk out, the presents just… float away behind us. They’ll be looking at the sky, not at us.” “Helium doesn’t work on Lego sets, Bill! It’s mostly plastic and disappointment. We need a wheeled conveyance.” She pointed out the van window at a passing mother with a double stroller. “That. A high-end pram. We load it up, cover the swag with a blanket, and walk out like sleep-deprived parents. No one stops a parent with a screaming kid.” “Do we have a screaming kid?” Bill asked. “We have you. You can do the ‘over-tired toddler being denied cake’ whine. It’s convincing.” She ignored his wounded look and pressed on. “So, we’re Uncle Bill and Aunt Molly from… Spokane. We arrive late, flustered. We park the pram right next to the unicorn of doom. During the birthday song, we make the swap. You create a minor incident—maybe ‘accidentally’ sit on the cake-topper fairy. I load the pram. We exfiltrate, you whining about gluten.” Bill sighed, a dreamy look in his eyes. “It’s beautiful. A symphony of larceny. The sheer audacity. Stealing from children… it’s not just a job, Molly. It’s a statement.” “It’s paying the rent, Bill. And it’s probably mostly socks and coloring books.” She folded the map. “Now, go practice your whining. And for heaven’s sake, lose the butter knife.”