Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5ZQ3J99NWJGPW0C731V8J

The basement smelled of damp concrete and stale coffee, a fitting atmosphere for criminal contemplation. Molly, her brow furrowed in concentration, tapped a laser pointer against a detailed floor plan of the Henderson residence. Bill, meanwhile, was attempting to balance a spoon on his nose, having already grown bored with the reconnaissance photos. “Focus, Bill,” Molly said, without looking up. “The party starts at three. Pin the tail on the donkey is at three-forty. That’s our window.” Bill let the spoon clatter to the workbench. “Window? It’s a backyard party. There’s no window. It’s all open air. That’s the problem.” “The metaphorical window, you walnut.” Molly sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “During the game, all the adults will be corralling children and laughing too hard. Their attention will be diverted. We go in disguised as clowns.” “Clowns?” Bill’s face paled. “I hate clowns. They’re creepy. The kids will scream.” “That’s the point. We’re from ‘Crazy Chuckles Party Patrol.’ They’ll be expecting us. I’ve already intercepted the booking confirmation and sent a reply saying our regular clowns are sick, but we’re sending replacements.” Bill picked up a photo of a large, manicured backyard. A bouncy castle loomed like a yellow fortress. “What about the dog? The Hendersons have a Schnauzer. A yappy one.” “Already handled,” Molly said, a smirk playing on her lips. “I’ve ordered a dozen gourmet, beef-filled dog cupcakes to be delivered at three-fifteen. That dog will be in a food coma for hours.” “You think of everything,” Bill admitted, grudgingly. “But how do we carry the loot? Some of these presents are big. Look, that one’s clearly a bicycle.” Molly unfolded another schematic. “We pull up in the ‘Crazy Chuckles’ van. We load the presents into the giant ‘magic trick’ boxes we bring in. We tell them we’re going to make the presents disappear and reappear later. It’s a performance.” Bill’s eyes lit up. “That’s brilliant. So we just walk out with them?” “Walk, yes. But there’s a catch.” Molly pointed to the photo of Mrs. Henderson, a woman with a severe bun and hawk-like eyes. “She’s a former security consultant. She will be vigilant. We need a second diversion. During the pin the tail, you will accidentally-on-purpose fall into the cake.” “The cake? Molly, that’s a three-tiered masterpiece! It’s a sculpture!” “Precisely. The chaos will be absolute. I’ll be loading the van. You’ll be covered in frosting, causing a scandal. By the time anyone thinks to check the gift table, we’ll be gone.” Bill imagined the scene: the screaming children, the horrified parents, the ruined cake. A slow grin spread across his face. “I get to eat the cake, right? As part of the cover?” “Only if you don’t choke on a fondant figurine. Now, let’s go over the clown shoes. They’re fitted with silent soles, but walking in them is like trudging through mud. We need to practice.” Bill groaned, lifting one of the enormous, polka-dotted shoes. “I still say we should’ve gone as pirates. Arrr.” “Pirates don’t do birthday parties, Bill. Clowns do. Now put on the nose and try not to scare yourself in the mirror.” As Bill honked the red nose experimentally, Molly allowed herself a moment of pride. This was their most absurd job yet, but with Bill’s talent for accidental disaster and her own meticulous planning, stealing from a bunch of six-year-olds might just be the perfect crime. Or, at the very least, a hilariously memorable one. The musty air seemed to lighten with the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Molly watched Bill stumble in the oversized shoes, knocking over a stack of empty coffee cups, and she couldn’t suppress a chuckle. Their previous heists had involved art galleries and safes, but this—this was a new low, or perhaps a new high in creative larceny. She glanced at the party schedule again, mentally rehearsing each step. The real challenge wouldn’t be the security; it would be keeping Bill from actually enjoying the party and forgetting the mission. With a sigh, she handed him a giant, fluffy pink wig, knowing full well that this caper would either be their masterpiece or a spectacular, frosting-coated failure.