Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8VQF1TESX8B1GWTKYK3BCV

The "war room" was, in fact, Bill's kitchenette. A map of the suburban neighborhood was taped to the fridge, obscured slightly by a magnet shaped like a piece of pizza. Molly, her eyes gleaming with the fervor of a general before Waterloo, pointed a laser pen at a printout of a backyard layout. The red dot trembled over a sketch of a bouncy castle. “This,” she declared, “is the primary ingress point. We go over the fence at the rear, here, during the peak chaos of the piñata ritual. Parental attention will be fragmented.” Bill stirred his cold coffee with a grimace. “Peak chaos. Right. You mean when twenty six-year-olds are screaming because a boy named Aiden got the big Snickers bar.” “Precisely. A perfect storm of avarice and tears.” Molly moved the dot to a small square labeled ‘SHED’. “The presents will be here, temporarily stored before the cake ceremony. We hit fast, we hit quiet. In and out in ninety seconds.” “And the K-9 unit?” Bill asked, nodding toward a circled area on the map marked ‘BUSTER’. “The Yorkshire Terrier.” Molly slid a second sheet across the laminate table. It was a detailed dossier on the dog, complete with a grainy photo of a creature that could fit in a teacup. “Profile: food-motivated, easily distracted. Countermeasure: a high-velocity launch of mini-sausages over the eastern fence. He’ll be occupied for the duration.” Bill massaged his temples. “What about the hired entertainment? Intel says a ‘Jolly Jangles the Clown’ is confirmed.” “A known variable.” Molly produced a small, garish flower from her pocket and pinned it to her dark sweater. “This is a modified squirting flower. Contains a concentrated solution of glitter and temporary hair dye. I’ll bump into him near the punch bowl, activate the device. His subsequent meltdown will draw all adult focus. He’ll be a sparkly, pink-haired distraction.” “We’re gonna steal toys from a bunch of kids, Molly.” Bill’s voice was flat. “We’re gonna tranq a terrier and terrorize a clown to steal a pile of action figures and plush unicorns.” Molly’s expression was one of profound disappointment. “Bill, this isn’t about the merchandise. This is about the principle. The sheer audacity. The flawless execution. Besides,” she added, consulting a clipboard, “the birthday boy, Oliver, is getting a new tablet. That’s the score. The rest is window dressing.” “And the exit strategy?” “Through the side gate, into the waiting ice cream truck. It’s the perfect camouflage. No one suspects the ice cream man.” “We don’t have an ice cream truck.” “I rented one.” Molly beamed. “It’s vanilla. Very inconspicuous.” Bill stared at the map, at the dossier on the terrier, at the glitter flower. He took a long, slow sip of his terrible coffee. “What time does the piñata ritual commence?” Molly’s smile was triumphant. “Three-fifteen. Wear something festive. But dark.”