Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5Z7XKDCYJ9K7BH8HDM322

The warehouse smelled of old fish and poor life choices, a scent Bill found oddly comforting. He adjusted the slide on a grease-stained projector, the only source of light in the vast, echoing space. A blueprint of a suburban house, hand-drawn with surprising artistic flair, flickered onto a stained sheet pinned to a corkboard. Molly, perched on a crate labelled ‘Fragile: Emotions’, squinted at the schematic. “Bill, explain it to me again. Slowly. Use small words.” Bill puffed out his chest, a seasoned maestro of larceny. “Phase one: Infiltration. The mark is a child’s birthday party. We enter under the guise of…” he paused for dramatic effect, “…Clarice and Bartholomew, representatives from ‘Happy Clappy Clown Co.’” Molly stared, her expression flat enough to land a small aircraft on. “We’re going in as clowns.” “Disguises,” he corrected, tapping the drawing of a curly wig and a comically large flower. “No one questions a clown. They’re expected to be unsettling. Our odd behavior will be written off as professional whimsy.” “My whimsy involves a swift exit, not a squirting flower.” She pointed a sceptical finger at the blueprint. “Phase two: Acquisition. The primary target is the ‘Present Pile’, located in the living room, directly opposite the ‘Snack Stand’. The secondary target is the piñata, which intelligence suggests is brimming with name-brand confectionery.” “Intel from your nephew Timmy?” Molly asked, deadpan. “The best sources are on the inside, Mol. He’s six. He has no concept of operational security.” Bill cleared his throat. “Once the cake is served and the sugar-induced chaos reaches its peak, we move. You create a diversion.” “What kind of diversion?” “I was thinking you could trip over the family dog. A classic.” “You want me to assault a golden retriever as a tactical manoeuvre?” “It’s not assault, it’s a strategic stumble! While the parents are cooing over the dog, I stuff the booty into my oversized clown pockets.” He gestured to the drawing of trousers large enough to smuggle a minor noble. Molly massaged her temples. “And phase three: Extraction?” “We exit through the garden gate, losing the clown suits in the hedges, and proceed to the secondary vehicle—the ice cream truck we ‘acquired’ last Tuesday. We melt into the suburban traffic, indistinguishable from any other purveyor of frozen dairy.” A long silence was broken only by the whirring fan of the projector. Molly finally spoke, her voice a low monotone. “So your master plan, the culmination of a forty-year career in grand larceny, is to dress as a clown, steal a six-year-old’s Lego set, and escape in a van that plays ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’.” Bill’s proud smile wavered. “When you say it like that, it sounds—” “Like we’ve hit rock bottom and are starting to dig?” she offered. “Ambitious!” he finished. “It’s ambitious! It’s a high-risk, high-reward operation! The sheer audacity!” Molly sighed, a sound of profound resignation. She stood up and walked to the door. “The only thing you’re going to acquire is a misdemeanour and a lifetime of shame. I’ll be in the van. If I hear even a single ‘honk’, I’m leaving without you.” “But the piñata, Molly! Think of the piñata!” Bill called after her, but she was already gone. He turned back to his blueprint, a lonely visionary in a room that smelled of fish and failure. He traced the route to the presents. It was foolproof. Mostly.