Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5Z3Y04G2JWA2EMRXVCBJB

The air in the borrowed van was thick with the scent of stale coffee and desperation. Molly tapped a glossy, brightly colored invitation against the steering wheel, her brow furrowed in concentration. "The target is a five-year-old named Bartholomew. Birthday party. Backyard of the Henderson residence. Three PM sharp." Bill, a large man crammed into the passenger seat, snorted. "Bartholomew? Who names a kid Bartholomew? His friends probably call him 'Barf.'" He squinted at the detailed schematic Molly had drawn on a napkin. It featured a stick-figure dog labelled ‘Baxter – distract with beef jerky’ and a series of swirling arrows leading to a ‘Presents Pile X’. "Focus, Bill. The objective is the loot. High-value items: plasticware, battery-operated annoyances, and, if we're lucky, cash-filled envelopes from forgetful grandparents." "This feels wrong," Bill muttered, scratching his chin. "I mean, we lifted the Crown Jewels of Prague. We swapped the real Mona Lisa with a paint-by-numbers version and nobody noticed for a week. And now we're casing a kid's party for a talking teddy bear?" Molly shot him a look that could curdle milk. "The Crown Jewels had laser grids. The Louvre had pressure-sensitive floors and a small army of guards. This..." she jabbed the invitation, "...has a piñata and a dad who will be three beers deep by four o'clock. It's the perfect score. Low risk, high reward." "What's our exit strategy? Tricycle? A getaway Big Wheel?" "The wheelie bin," Molly said without a hint of irony. "We load the goods into the Henderson's own municipal-issued rubbish bin and roll it nonchalantly down the street. It's the ultimate camouflage. Who's gonna question someone taking out the trash?" Bill stared into the middle distance, a pained expression on his face. "I can see the headlines. 'Master Thief Nabbed by Six-Year-Old with a Net.' My reputation. My standing in the international criminal community..." "Your standing is currently 'unemployed and owes me forty dollars'," Molly countered. "Now, your role is crucial. You'll be dressed as the party clown." Bill’s head snapped towards her. "Absolutely not. The Geneva Convention prohibits cruel and unusual punishment. I have coulrophobia." "You have a fear of bank alarms and gainful employment. You'll be fine. It's a disguise. You’ll be ‘Pogo the Pal’. You create a diversion. A big one. Maybe you start making balloon animals that look… sinister." "Sinister how?" "I don't know, Bill, use your imagination! A poodle with too many legs. A giraffe with a tear in its eye. Something that will captivate and mildly unsettle both children and parents. While they're staring at your existential nightmare in latex, I'll be quietly filling a sack with educational toys." Bill slumped in his seat, defeated. "I just… I never thought my life of crime would lead me to stealing from toddlers. The moral ambiguity is staggering." Molly put a hand on his shoulder. "Think of it not as stealing presents," she said, her voice softening into a conspiratorial whisper. "Think of it as… early-life lessons in disappointment. We’re not thieves, Bill. We’re cynical life coaches." He sighed, a long, weary sound that fogged up the window. "Do I at least get a squirting flower?" "Top of the line," Molly promised, starting the van. "Now, let's go. We need to case the party supply store for a wig that doesn't look like it died of fright."