Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5YSH9Y3SAJMD6TMZ52990

The warehouse loft smelled of dust and desperation. Molly traced a blue-inked finger over the schematics spread on the rickety table. “It’s a fortress, Bill. A pastel-colored, balloon-anchored fortress.” Bill peered over her shoulder, squinting at the layout of the suburban McMansion. “Fortress? It’s a kid’s birthday party. The biggest threat is a sugar-crazed seven-year-old with a plastic sword.” “Precisely! Unpredictable, miniature chaos agents. Our intel says the theme is ‘Jungle Explorers.’ That means camouflage netting, artificial foliage, and a hired guy in a mangy gorilla suit. Perfect visual cover.” “And the extraction point?” Bill asked, tapping the diagram of the backyard. “Slip through the side gate during the piñata frenzy. Every adult eye will be on a suspended papier-mâché donkey. We blend, we grab, we go. The presents will be piled in the sunroom, here.” Her finger landed on a glass-walled room off the kitchen. “Blend in? Molly, we’re in our forties. I have a tattoo of a dragon eating a motorbike.” “So wear a safari hat. Look like a disgruntled uncle. I’ll be the quirky aunt no one talks to. We’ll case the gifts during the ‘Happy Birthday’ song. Emotional peak, zero vigilance.” Bill paced, his boots scuffing the concrete. “The payload. What’s the take?” Molly pulled a crumpled list from her pocket. “Estimated value based on registry scans: a next-gen gaming console, three sets of noise-cancelling headphones—parental gold—a junior chemistry set with legitimate, mildly explosive potential, and a staggering amount of branded plastic. The real score is the ‘Limited Edition Star-Counting, Robo-Hamster.’ It’s reselling for six hundred bucks online.” “A Robo-Hamster.” Bill deadpanned. “We’ve sunk to stealing robot rodents.” “It’s a metaphor for the emptiness of consumer culture, Bill. Now focus. Exfiltration is the weak point. We can’t just waltz out with a sack of toys.” “Cake delivery,” Bill said, a slow grin spreading. “We go in empty-handed, we leave with a giant, empty cake box. Stack the loot inside, walk out like catering staff. Who questions the people with the empty cake box? It’s a symbol of mission accomplished.” Molly considered this, a flicker of respect in her eyes. “Not bad. But the box will be sticky.” “All great heists have a sticky element. What about the parents? The Johnsons.” “Karen Johnson runs a tight ship, but Mike Johnson is the variable. He’ll be manning the grill, drinking craft beer, and trying to forget his mortgage. He’s our distraction. I’ll ask him to explain the difference between ales and lagers. That’ll give us a solid twelve-minute window of him pontificating.” Bill nodded, finally looking convinced. “Alright. But I have one non-negotiable condition.” “Name it.” “We take a piece of the cake. A big corner piece with the fondant jungle explorer hat on it. A professional job deserves a professional perk.” Molly smiled for the first time. “Deal. We hit during the gorilla’s conga line. Chaos is a ladder, Bill.” “To a pile of overpriced toys,” he sighed, rolling up the plans. “Let’s go shopping for a safari hat. Do they make them in extra-cynical?”