Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5R9NVN0SXYZB2WAN1Y3JY

The air in the tiny safehouse was thick with the smell of cheap coffee and cheaper cigarettes. Molly, a woman with eyes like sharpened pennies, paced the length of the stained rug. Bill, a mountain of a man with a surprisingly delicate touch for lock-picking, was meticulously folding a party hat. “It’s a hard no from me, Bill. A children’s birthday party? Have you lost the last marble you had rattling around in there?” Bill adjusted the hat on his head. “Hear me out. It’s the perfect score. Low security, predictable patterns, and the loot is all in one place, wrapped in neat little boxes.” “The ‘loot’ is a stuffed unicorn named Glitterhoof and a box of building blocks! We’re thieves, not monsters. What’s next, stealing candy from a baby? Actually, don’t answer that.” “You’re thinking too small,” Bill said, pointing a beefy finger at her. “It’s little Oliver Pendleton’s party. His father is Arthur Pendleton. CEO of Pendleton Pharmaceuticals.” Molly stopped pacing. “The guy with the stupidly expensive yacht?” “The very same. Little Ollie’s friends are the one-percenters of the one-percent. We’re not talking action figures. We’re talking solid gold rattles, vintage comic books in mint condition, maybe even a junior-sized Rolex.” “A child-sized Rolex? That’s somehow even more depressing.” “Point is, it’s a high-yield, low-risk operation. The security is a single nanny named Carol who will be distracted by twelve sugared-up six-year-olds and a possibly drunk clown named Bubbles.” Molly sighed, sinking into a cracked leather chair. “Alright, hypothetically. How do we even get in? We’re not exactly on the guest list.” Bill produced two brightly colored invitations from his jacket. “I procured these. The Miller twins couldn’t make it. Sudden case of chicken pox. Very tragic.” “You forged get-well cards from the twins, didn’t you?” “The point is, we blend. You’ll be ‘Auntie Maureen,’ I’ll be ‘Uncle Bert.’ We arrive during the peak chaos of the piñata. We mingle, we maybe do the chicken dance, we locate the present table. During the cake-and-meltdown phase, we simply… redistribute the gifts to our waiting vehicle.” “What vehicle? The van says ‘Frank’s Fish’ on the side.” “It’s urban camouflage. No one looks twice at a fish van. We’ll be in and out before anyone misses us. Carol will just think little Henry’s rich aunt took the presents for safekeeping.” Molly stared at the ceiling. “I can’t believe I’m considering this. The chicken dance? Really?” “It’s a solid plan. Minimal contact, maximum gain. And,” Bill said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “the clown is definitely drunk. I did a reconnaissance. He was arguing with a parking meter at eleven in the morning.” A slow, wicked smile spread across Molly’s face. “A drunk clown does change the risk assessment. Fine. But I’m not doing the chicken dance. And if we get caught, I’m telling them you’re the one who let little Oliver try your espresso.” “Deal,” Bill said, grinning. He handed her a party hat. “Now, practice your smile. It needs less ‘armed robbery’ and more ‘dotty aunt who gives slightly too tight hugs.’” Molly put the hat on, her sharp eyes glinting above the cheerful elastic. “Uncle Bert, you’re a terrible influence.” “That’s why we’re partners, Auntie Maureen. Now, let’s go steal some overpriced toys.”