Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5XW8VKFC748HPCH1VR5EP

The warehouse smelled of damp cardboard and broken dreams, a fitting venue for their current scheme. Molly, a woman whose nervous energy could power a small city, paced in front of a whiteboard she’d stolen from a failed tech startup. Bill, a mountain of a man with the gentle eyes of a disappointed basset hound, sat on an upturned milk crate, slowly polishing an apple on his sleeve. On the whiteboard, Molly had drawn a crude but disturbingly detailed map of a suburban backyard. A large ‘X’ marked a bouncy castle. “Okay,” Molly said, tapping the ‘X’ with a stolen marker. “Phase one: Infiltration. We go in disguised as party entertainers. You’re ‘Billy the Balloonicorn.’ The suit is… sizable. It will hide your physique.” Bill took a loud crunch from his apple. “I’m not being a balloonicorn. Last time I was a mascot, a toddler tried to feed me a used plaster.” “It’s a high-risk, high-reward situation, Bill! The suit provides full anonymity and unparalleled access to the gift table. Which brings us to phase two: Acquisition. The target is a mountain of brightly wrapped loot, positioned next to the vegetable tray, which no one will touch. We create a diversion.” “What kind of diversion?” “I’ll trip near the punch bowl. A classic spill-and-slip. While every parent is rushing to grab paper towels and assess their dry-cleaning liabilities, you, as the Balloonicorn, will use your pre-stashed, oversized reusable shopping bag to sweep the presents.” Bill chewed thoughtfully. “Won’t I look suspicious? A giant unicorn filling a bag with gifts?” “Not if you’re singing! Nobody questions a singing balloonicorn. It’s a known psychological loophole.” “I’m not singing, Molly.” “Fine, hum! Hum a jaunty tune! The point is, confidence is key. Phase three: Extraction. We rendezvous at the inflatable slide, which we’ve pre-sabotaged with a slow-release valve. On my signal—a sneeze—you collapse it, creating a chaotic, deflating barrier between us and any pursuit. We exit through the side gate to the getaway vehicle.” “The ice cream truck we borrowed?” “It’s not borrowed, Bill, we hot-wired it. But yes. We blend into the sonic landscape of the neighbourhood with a gentle, non-suspicious rendition of ‘Pop Goes the Weasel.’ We’re home free.” Bill finished his apple and gazed at the core. “It’s a five-year-old’s birthday party, Molly. Not the Bellagio.” “The principle is the same! Misdirection, teamwork, and exploiting systemic vulnerabilities. In this case, the systemic vulnerability is a sugar-crazed child’s inability to distinguish a real balloonicorn from a felon in a stuffy suit.” “What about the security?” Molly scoffed. “What security? A Labrador named Buster who’s mainly interested in dropped cocktail sausages?” “I was thinking more about the dads,” Bill said. “They stand around the barbecue holding those long, shiny fork things. They look like a very bored, very well-fed militia. One of them might be off-duty security.” “A militia armed with spatulas is still just a barbecue, Bill! You’re losing your nerve. This is a cakewalk. A literal cakewalk, as the cake will be unguarded during the present heist. We could grab that, too.” Bill sighed, a sound like a tired engine. “I just think there has to be a less… humiliating crime. We could rob a bank. Banks are respectable.” “Banks have lasers, Bill! And silent alarms! Five-year-olds have juice boxes and short attention spans. This is the perfect score.” She stared at him, her eyes wide with manic conviction. “So? Are you in?” Bill looked from the desperate hope on Molly’s face to the drawing of the bouncy castle. He sighed again, deeper this time. “Do the balloonicorn horns come off?” he asked. “I need to be able to see.”