Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8X4C5AQXX0N7WPFRSZ9FAJ

The back room of the ‘Lucky Ace’ billiard hall smelled of stale beer and despair. Molly spread a hand-drawn map across the green felt of a disused table. Bill peered at it, scratching his stubble. “This is the target?” he asked, his voice flat. “The Anderson residence,” Molly said, tapping a circle labeled ‘PINATA ZONE’. “Saturday, three PM. A six-year-old’s birthday party. Maximum gift saturation, minimal security.” Bill blinked slowly. “We’re gonna boost a kid’s birthday?” “We’re art thieves, Bill. This is a gallery of overpriced plastic and unchecked consumerism. Our take will be pure, untraceable retail.” “It feels… low.” “The Vanderbilts started with ferry boats. We start with Lego sets.” She pointed to a square on the map. “Primary ingress: the side gate. It’s latched, but not locked. Mrs. Anderson will be distracted by the cake ceremony at approximately 3:45.” “What’s the distraction?” “You,” Molly said, sliding a photograph toward him. It showed a man in a grubby dinosaur costume. “No. Absolutely not.” “It’s a rental. You’ll be ‘Dino-Dan,’ the surprise entertainer. You buy us seven minutes of chaos. I go in through the side, clean out the gift table, exit via the back hedge.” Bill stared at the costume. “What if the kids like me? What if I… bond with them?” “Professional detachment, Bill. Think of the squeaky toys as alarm systems. The main threat is the family Labrador, ‘Baxter.’ He’s old, loves cheese.” She produced a bag of cubed cheddar. “You’ll deploy this if necessary.” “A dog bribe. Classy.” Bill sighed, studying the map again. “What’s the biggest item on the table?” “Reportedly, a ‘Super Splash Mountain Water Slide.’ Box is huge. We’ll need the van close.” “I always wanted one of those as a kid.” “Focus. Exfiltration is key. You shed the costume in the shrubbery, we load the van, we’re gone before they finish ‘Happy Birthday.’ Clean, fast, no tears.” “From the kids or from us?” “Either.” Molly folded the map. “The beauty is, nobody expects a heist at a child’s party. Their guard is down, focused on juice spills and musical chairs. It’s the perfect score.” Bill picked up the Dino-Dan head, looking into its vacant, smiling eyes. “I just feel like my parole officer is gonna have some questions.” “Tell him it’s performance art. Now, let’s rehearse your dinosaur dance. It’s mostly pelvic thrusts. Seems age-inappropriate, but it’s what the booking agent specified.” Bill put the head on the table. “I’m not doing pelvic thrusts for toddlers, Molly.” “Fine. Just fall over a lot. Kids love a clumsy dinosaur.” She checked her watch. “We go in forty-eight hours. Try to think of the presents, not the profound moral emptiness.” “Too late,” Bill muttered, but he was already calculating how many action figures might be in a pile that size.