Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8WVY10E60VVP1CTHGGAQJ3

The blueprint was a child’s crayon drawing, taped to the wall of Molly’s apartment between a water stain and a peeling poster of the Monaco Grand Prix. Molly, her brow furrowed in concentration, pointed at a wobbly square labeled ‘PRESNTS’ with a chopstick. Bill, a mountain of a man, sat on a milk crate, absently eating dry cereal from the box. “The primary ingress is the garden gate,” Molly stated, her voice low and serious. “Security will be concentrated around the inflatable slide.” “You mean the bouncy castle?” Bill asked, crunching. “I mean the primary distraction zone. Our window is during the ‘Happy Birthday’ chorus. Maximum auditory cover. We move then.” Bill squinted at the drawing. A stick-figure dog was labeled ‘MR WAGGLES.’ “What about the dog?” “Canine asset, codename: Mr. Waggles. A non-issue if you deploy the bacon bits as per the plan.” “Right. The bacon.” He shook a few more cereal bits into his mouth. “And the, uh, loot?” “Stacked on the patio table, here.” Molly tapped the chopstick on a yellow scribble. “We sweep everything into the reinforced gift bags and egress via the side alley, here, to the waiting getaway vehicle.” “Your cousin’s ice cream truck?” “It’s a mobile command center with excellent local camouflage. Now, the extraction is critical. You handle the table. I’ll create a secondary diversion by accidentally releasing the birthday boy’s pet hamster.” Bill shifted on the crate, which groaned in protest. “And if someone sees us? Like, a parent?” Molly gave him a look of profound disappointment. “We are the entertainment, Bill. You’ll be in the dinosaur costume. They’ll assume you’re part of the act.” “It’s a T-Rex. The arms are too small to carry the bags. I can’t even scratch my nose.” “Then you’ll have to make multiple trips. Professionalism, Bill. This is a precision operation.” She turned back to the map, studying a large, lopsided circle labeled ‘PINATA—DANGER.’ Bill sighed, a sound like gravel shifting. “What’s the take, anyway? A bunch of stuffed animals and plastic junk?” Molly’s eyes gleamed. “The Rasmussen kid is turning seven. That means premium loot: unopened video games, the latest hyper-velocity nerf blasters, possibly even a junior drone. The secondary market for curated childhood joy is booming. We fence the lot to that guy who has the booth at the flea market. He pays cash. No questions.” “And my cut?” “Thirty percent. After operational expenses. The costume rental wasn’t cheap.” Bill looked down at the sad, deflated T-Rex head resting on the floor. One of the plastic eyes was cracked. He poked at it with his foot. “I still think just taking the cake would be easier.” Molly snatched the cereal box from his hands. “Think bigger, Bill. We’re not snack thieves. We’re professionals. Now, let’s run the timings again. From the moment the clown starts making the balloon poodle…”