Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8WYG44ZPCKHCTV7R74PTS3

The air in the cramped van was thick with the smell of stale coffee and desperation. Molly, her eyes gleaming with a fervor usually reserved for casino vaults, tapped a laser pointer against a schematic taped to the wall. It was a detailed floorplan of 42 Cherry Blossom Lane, with meticulous notes in the margins like “Dog: Biscuit Bribes Confirmed” and “Punch Bowl: Strategic Hazard.” “This,” she announced, her voice hushed with gravity, “is the Cake Window.” Bill slumped in a folding chair, nibbling on a stale biscuit. “It’s a patio door, Moll. With a cake-shaped piñata hanging in front of it.” “Semantics. Our entry point. The target’s mother, one Linda, will be distracted here at the grill from 3:15 to 3:45, cooking ‘fun-sized’ burgers that no human child can reasonably consume. That’s our in.” “Our in to a six-year-old’s birthday party,” Bill said, brushing crumbs from his threadbare sweater. “To steal… what? Action figures he’s already chewed the feet off of? A puzzle with missing pieces?” Molly shot him a look of pure contempt. “Volume, Bill. It’s about volume. Twenty-five kids, each bringing a gift. That’s twenty-five units of retail-grade loot. We fence the lot to that guy down at the flea market. He’s got a moving truck full of Beanie Babies and regret; he’ll take anything.” She moved the pointer. “Phase Two: Distraction. You will be here, at the perimeter fence, disguised as a disgruntled clown.” Bill choked. “I’m not being a clown.” “You’ll be a *sad* clown. It’s different. You’ll complain about a missing balloon animal. It will create a scene. While the adult units are focused on your melodrama, I slip in through the Cake Window, empty the gift table into the large, festive ‘Party Bag’ I’ll be carrying, and egress via the slide into the rear alley.” Bill stared at the diagram of the inflatable bouncy castle, which Molly had labeled “Potential Alternate Exit.” He sighed, a long, weary sound. “What’s the contingency for the birthday boy himself? The… primary target?” “Timothy. Age six. Prone to tantrums. He’s a wild card.” Molly flipped to a grainy photo of a boy in a superhero cape, face smeared with chocolate. “If he engages, we use non-violent subjugation.” “We give him a sweet?” “We give him *all* the sweets. The sugar crash will render him inert within fifteen minutes. It’s in the plan.” She rolled up the schematics with a flourish. “This is a classic smash-and-grab. In and out during the singing of ‘Happy Birthday.’ The cacophony will mask any incidental noise.” Bill stood, his knees popping. “I still think hitting the liquor store on Oak is a better use of our talents.” “Where’s the challenge, Bill? Where’s the artistry?” Molly’s smile was wicked. “This Saturday, we’re not just thieves. We’re the nightmare lurking behind the party hats. We’re the reason parents double-check their gift receipts.” She handed him a rainbow wig and a red foam nose. “Now, practice your frowny face. And for heaven’s sake, work on your balloon poodle. It’s looking more like a depressed slug.” Bill took the props, his expression mirroring the very description. Outside the van, a distant ice cream truck played a tinny melody, a mocking soundtrack to their criminal descent.