Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7XTKVN56CGA426HKFSK7C

The chipped Formica of the diner booth felt cold under Molly’s elbows. She traced the sticky ring left by someone’s forgotten coffee, contemplating the sheer audacity of the plan. Outside, a grey drizzle plastered itself against the window, mirroring the gloom in her soul – a gloom only slightly alleviated by the potential for a haul of Lego and gaming consoles. “So,” Bill said, picking at a rogue crumb on his plate. He’d ordered toast, unbuttered. Naturally. The man subsisted on sadness and carbohydrates. “Operation Birthday Bonanza. You still think it’s viable?” Molly didn’t bother looking up. “Viable? Bill, it's *genius*. It's low risk, high reward, and honestly? Morally grey, but in a way that’s almost charming.” Bill snorted. “Charming. Right. Like robbing a six-year-old of their Paw Patrol fire truck is peak charm.” “They won’t even *notice* individually,” Molly argued. “It’s the sheer volume we’re after. Little Timmy won't miss one remote control car amongst fifty. The parents will just think the kids are overwhelmed with generosity.” She spread a glossy, aerial photo of 14 Birchwood Lane across the table. A sprawling suburban house, a bouncy castle inflating in the backyard, a tiny, ludicrously cheerful inflatable dinosaur guarding the front door. “The party starts at two. Principal target window, two thirty to three thirty. That's when peak present-opening fatigue sets in. Parents get distracted, kids wander off to argue about who gets the first slice of cake. Chaos.” Bill pushed the toast around his plate. “And our disguise?” “Clowns. Obviously. Who suspects a clown? They're already inherently untrustworthy.” “I hate clowns,” Bill stated flatly. “Everyone hates clowns, Bill. That’s the point! It’s camouflage. We'll blend into the general air of child-induced hysteria. I’ve already sourced the outfits. Extra-large shoes, honking noses, the works.” “Do they at least have pockets?” “Of course they have pockets! I'm not an amateur, Bill. They’re reinforced. Tactical clown pockets. We’re talking industrial-strength Velcro. We can fit a surprising amount in those things." Molly tapped the photo. "The garden backs onto the woods. Quick in, quick out. We’ll have the loot stashed in the van within fifteen minutes.” Bill sighed. “And the overall plan relies on exploiting the joy of children?” “It relies on exploiting adult oversight, Bill. Big difference.” Molly leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Think of the possibilities! We're not just stealing presents, we're redistributing happiness! Okay, redistributing *items that cause happiness* to our own pockets… but still!” “You’re really selling this, aren’t you?” Bill said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I always sell it, Bill. It's a gift. Now, are you in or are you going to spend the afternoon bemoaning the existential dread of unbuttered toast?"