Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8VHFFD8S66DC31KTBASBEV

The van smelled of old takeout and desperation. Molly adjusted the tiny headphones on her head, her eyes never leaving the grainy black-and-white feed on the laptop. On screen, a herd of seven-year-olds in paper crowns chased a piñata shaped like a unicorn. Bill, crammed beside her, was meticulously applying clown makeup in a sun-visor mirror. “The target is in the bounce house,” Molly said, her voice all business. “Repeat, the target is in the bounce house.” “You mean little Timmy?” Bill asked, dabbing a red bulb onto his nose. “The primary gift repository is under the maple tree. Secondary stashes are by the patio doors, likely from the late arrivals.” Bill sighed, a puff of white powder rising from his cheek. “Can we just call them ‘presents’? You’re making a loot drop sound like a military operation.” “Precision is what separates us from common thugs, Bill. Now, the timeline. Father is manning the grill, distracted by propane. Mother is orchestrating the ‘cake march.’ At the first chord of ‘Happy Birthday,’ light-blindness and parental weeping will create a thirty-second window of maximum distraction.” “My window is this polyester clown suit,” Bill grumbled, pulling at the ruffled collar. “It itches. And the shoes squeak.” “The shoes are non-negotiable. They sell the bit. You’re ‘Bubbles the Clown,’ here for a ten-minute balloon animal extravaganza. You create a diversion. I, as the utterly forgettable aunt-from-out-of-town, will be near the gift table with a oversized tote bag.” “What’s my exit strategy if a kid asks for a giraffe? I can only do poodles and swords.” “Improvise. Deflate. Cry. I don’t care. Just keep them looking at you.” Molly zoomed in on a large, ribboned box. “Intel suggests a possible Lego Death Star in that one. High value, low bulk.” Bill peered at the screen. “It’s a kid’s party, Moll. We’re gonna be swimming in stuffed animals and cheap plastic. Is this really worth the risk?” Molly turned to him, her gaze steely. “The average spend per attendee at a suburban birthday party is thirty-seven dollars. With twenty-five confirmed attendees, that’s a gross potential of nine hundred and twenty-five dollars, mostly in untraceable, non-sequential toys. Now, are you in or are you out?” A massive cheer erupted from the laptop speakers as the unicorn piñata exploded, showering the children with candy. Bill looked from the chaotic scene to his partner’s dead-serious face, then to his own ridiculous reflection. “I’m in,” he said, his voice resigned. “But if I get glitter on me, I’m taking it out of your share.” “Noted. Operation Sugar Rush is a go. Remember, the enemy is small, but they are ruthless. And sticky. Now, move out.”