Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8W233PYPNEB30EPSS1HK1X

Molly spread a crayon-drawn map across the sticky diner table. "This is the target. The Henderson backyard. Saturday, three PM." Bill squinted at the childish scrawl of a house, a tree, and a lopsided swing set. "Intel's a bit... abstract." "It's from my niece, Chloe. She's six. It's gold. Now, the perimeter is a four-foot picket fence. The primary security is parental units, likely distracted by gossip and cheap champagne. The secondary threat is a hired entertainer: 'Jingles the Clown.'" "Clowns are creepy," Bill shuddered. "Do I have to neutralize the clown?" "Distract only. We're not animals. The main event is the gift table, here," she pointed to a wobbly circle near the sketched barbecue. "Window of opportunity is during the cake-and-sing-along phase. Maximum distraction. You create a diversion by the piñata." "What's the play?" "You'll be dressed as a larger, more confusing piñata. We'll claim it's a surprise from the rich aunt. You stumble around, the kids will swarm you. I'll move to the gift table, load the loot into the oversized gift bags we'll be carrying." Bill frowned, stirring his cold coffee. "Extraction?" "Standard. We exfiltrate through the side gate, blend into the pedestrian traffic on Maple, and rendezvous at the van parked behind the library." "What about the loot? It's all toys. How we fencing a talking doll and a junior chemistry set?" Molly leaned in, lowering her voice. "The mark isn't the toys, Bill. It's the gift receipts. Every yuppie parent includes one. We return the goods for cold, hard cash. It's untraceable." A slow grin spread across Bill's face. "That's diabolical." "Thank you. Now, your piñata suit. It's a seven-foot taco with streamers. You'll need to practice the wobble." "The wobble?" "It's key to the misdirection. A confident piñata is suspicious. You must convey festive confusion." She demonstrated with a shaky sway of her shoulders. Bill watched, unconvinced. "What's my motivation? As a piñata." "Motivation? You're filled with candy and existential dread. Just wobble, Bill." "Okay, okay. Contingencies? What if the clown gets wise?" "Clowns are territorial. If Jingles approaches, engage him in a silent, menacing stare-down. First to blink loses. He'll back off." "And if a kid tries to hit me with a stick?" "Improvise. Fall dramatically. Spill the candy. It'll be a riot." Bill studied the map again. "The treehouse here... could be a lookout post." "It's manned by Chloe and her lieutenant, a boy named Oliver with a juice-box addiction. They're neutral. I promised her a extra-large stuffed unicorn from the haul. She's our inside asset." "Bribing a six-year-old. I love this job." Bill sighed, a look of mock solemnity on his face. "So, we're really doing this? Stealing from a bunch of toddlers?" Molly folded the map with precision. "Bill, look at me. This isn't stealing from toddlers. It's a strategic redistribution of overpriced plastic from the complacent to the cunning. Now, let's go over the wobble one more time. And for God's sake, try to look less like a man who's about to rob a birthday party and more like a festive, sentient entrée."