Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY87X9BQGVDXKBSCESYERAN

“Right, so, Operation Sugar Rush is a go, then?” Molly asked, meticulously arranging miniature plastic dinosaurs on a napkin. Bill sighed dramatically, running a hand through his already chaotic hair. “Do we *have* to do this, Molly? Really? A children’s birthday party? It feels…sad.” “Sad is a minimum wage job, Bill. This is lucrative. Think of the resale value! Limited edition Paw Patrol figurines. Vintage Beanie Babies. The possibilities are… glittery.” “Glittery and potentially fraught with accusations of child endangerment,” Bill pointed out, staring at the dinosaur collection. “Do you even realize how many sugar-fueled, screaming toddlers we’re dealing with?” “That’s part of the charm. Controlled chaos. Besides, we’ll be in and out. Fifteen minutes. Maximum. Think ninja, not kidnapper.” “Ninjas don’t wear floral camouflage,” Bill grumbled. “This outfit is humiliating.” “It’s practical! And festive. Now, about the distraction…” Molly tapped a pen against her chin. “I was thinking a brief, staged emergency involving a rogue bouncy castle?” “A bouncy castle? Molly, that’s… elaborate.” “Necessity, Bill. Utter necessity. Backup plan: a synchronized rendition of ‘Baby Shark’ performed by a group of elderly ladies.” “Absolutely not.” “Fine. We'll go with the bouncy castle. I've already called a panicked landscaping company. They’re bringing a forklift.” “A forklift? Seriously? That’s bordering on overkill.” “It’s the element of surprise! Look, the key is stealth. We’re professionals. Remember the blueprints?” “The blueprints you stole from Mr. Henderson's garage after he forgot to lock the door?” “Details, details. They show the ventilation shaft. Relatively small. You can squeeze through.” “I’m five-foot-four, Molly. I’m going to explode in that ventilation shaft.” “You’ll be compact! Think of it as… tiny espionage.” “Espionage involving dust and potential raccoon encounters.” “Raccoons are a minor inconvenience. Now, let’s talk loot. I'm prioritizing the drum set. Apparently, eight-year-old Timmy is obsessed.” “Drum set? Are you planning on starting a band?” “Precisely. Think of the resale value! A decent Ludwig drum set… we’re talking serious cash, Bill. Serious, glittery cash.” “You’re terrifying, you know that?” “I thrive on terror. Okay, logistics. You’re on distraction. I’m on present acquisition. Code word: ‘Sprinkles.’” “Sprinkles? Really?” “Don’t judge my creative process. And for the love of all that is shiny, try to look slightly less horrified. The children are watching.”