Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5QH4K6728E89G9BDPPRP5

The attic room above Burford’s Bakery smelled of cinnamon and regret. Molly, her ginger hair escaping a messy bun, was frowning at a schematic spread across a wobbly card table. Bill, a man whose face suggested a bloodhound trying to do long division, was meticulously polishing a pair of jeweller’s loupes. “We’re overcomplicating it,” Molly declared, tapping the schematic. “It’s a child’s birthday party at a petting zoo, not a G8 summit.” Bill didn’t look up. “Chaos is the enemy, Molly. Uncontrolled variables. The zebra, for instance. Nobody expects the zebra.” “It’s a miniature donkey painted with stripes, Bill. It says so on the invoice from ‘Zany Zane’s Zoo-dunit.’ My point is, our point of entry is the problem.” She jabbed a finger at the drawing. “We go in as staff. You’re the new face at ‘Happy Clappy Cakes,’ delivering the six-foot-tall unicorn cupcake. I’m with the balloon-animal-twisting contingent.” Bill finally set his loupes down. “You can’t twist a balloon animal.” “I watched a fifteen-minute tutorial. I can make a profoundly sad-looking worm. It’s all about commitment to the bit. While you’re wheeling in the cake, creating a dessert-based diversion, I case the gift table. The loot is there, just sitting in a glorified picnic area. We’ll be in and out before little Jessica blows out her candles.” “And the exit strategy?” Bill asked, his voice a low rumble. “Assuming we’re not besieged by sugared-up seven-year-olds and a disgruntled striped donkey.” “The septic tank truck,” Molly said with a triumphant grin. “It’s scheduled to pump out the zoo’s porta-loos at 3 PM sharp. We stash the presents in the empty tank compartment. No one, and I mean no one, is going to search a truck full of… well, you know.” Bill stared into the middle distance, contemplating the sheer, audacious stupidity of it. A plan so ridiculous it just might work. “The smell,” he stated flatly. “The presents will smell.” “They’re wrapped, Bill! We’ll double-bag them. It’s a minor olfactory setback for a major financial windfall. We’re talking the latest plastic monstrosities, gift cards, probably a few cheques from generous grandparents. It’s a goldmine.” He sighed, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand bad decisions. “Fine. But if we get caught, we’re not just thieves. We’re the sociopaths who stole from a child’s party and then hid the loot in a sewage truck. Our mugshots will be next to the dictionary definition of ‘despicable.’” “We won’t get caught,” Molly said, rolling up the schematic with a definitive snap. “We’ll be the ghosts of birthday parties past. Now, come on. We need to rehearse your cake-delivery smile. It currently looks like you’re suspecting the cake of arson.” Bill attempted a smile. It was, indeed, a terrifying sight. “Better,” Molly lied. “Just stick to scowling. It’s more authentic. And remember: watch out for the donkey. He’s the wild card.”