Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94WWQJXFGFYW6X4YPW3QNJ

The faint aroma of stale coffee and desperation hung heavy in Molly’s apartment. Bill, perched precariously on a stack of encyclopedias, leaned over the crumpled blueprint he’d drawn on the back of a pizza box. Molly, ever the pragmatist, was tapping a pen against her teeth, her gaze darting between the rudimentary map of a suburban backyard and Bill’s enthusiastic grimace. “So, to recap,” Molly said, her voice flat, “our target is the Johnson residence. Specifically, their four-year-old’s birthday party. Specifically-specifically, the presents.” “Precisely, Molly! The spoils of tiny, consumerist skirmishes,” Bill announced, sweeping a dramatic arm over the pizza box. “Exhibit A: The bouncy castle. A kinetic, unpredictable beast. Exhibit B: The Clown. A wild card, potentially lethal with those balloon animals.” Molly scoffed, nudging a stray Cheerio off the table with her elbow. “A bouncy castle and a clown are not ‘exhibits’. They’re a Monday afternoon for any parent. Our intel says the presents will be piled in the conservatory, right off the main house.” “The conservatory is glass, Molly. Exposed. Vulnerable. A glint of sunlight catches a reflection, and suddenly little Timmy’s parents are on high alert, thinking a magpie is after his new fire truck,” Bill countered, jabbing a finger at the map. “We need a diversion. A grand distraction.” “For two dozen gift-wrapped board games, Bill? Are we going to send in a trained squirrel with a tiny grappling hook?” she deadpanned, raising an eyebrow. Bill’s eyes lit up. “A squirrel is unhygienic. No, no. Far too pedestrian. My thoughts were on the clown. We destabilize the clown.” Molly lowered her pen, a slow blink her only comment. “You want to weaponize a party clown?” “No, not weaponize. Distract. Entice. Offer him a better gig – say, a prestigious engagement at the Mayor’s daughter’s quinceañera. Get him off the premises. Or, failing that, steal his oversized shoes. That’ll put a kink in his balloon animal production line.” Bill grinned, pleased with his own genius. Molly sighed, rubbing her temples. “Stealing a clown’s shoes, Bill? What’s next, disabling a pinata? I’m thinking more along the lines of a timed power outage. Simple, effective, no risk of a grease-painted rampage.” “But the suspense, Molly! The theatricality!” Bill lamented. “Imagine the chaos, the brief, glorious pandemonium as the clown, barefoot, tries to make a sword from a deflated balloon.” “No, I can’t imagine it. Because we’re not doing it. We go in when the kids are sugared-up and distracted by cake. Blackout the block, grab the presents, gone in sixty seconds,” Molly insisted, tapping the conservatory on the map. “Clean. Efficient. Minimal clown-related trauma.” Bill pouted, tracing the outline of the bouncy castle. “Fine. No clown shoes. But I still say we should wear disguises. Maybe two very tall, very stern-looking nannies.” Molly nearly choked on a crumb. “Bill, we are stealing from a four-year-old. Our disguises should be inconspicuous, not traumatizing. We’re wearing dark clothes, Bill. Like always. Now, about that window… it’s a standard double-pane, correct?”The faint aroma of stale coffee and desperation hung heavy in Molly’s apartment. Bill, perched precariously on a stack of encyclopedias, leaned over the crumpled blueprint he’d drawn on the back of a pizza box. Molly, ever the pragmatist, was tapping a pen against her teeth, her gaze darting between the rudimentary map of a suburban backyard and Bill’s enthusiastic grimace. “So, to recap,” Molly said, her voice flat, “our target is the Johnson residence. Specifically, their four-year-old’s birthday party. Specifically-specifically, the presents.” “Precisely, Molly! The spoils of tiny, consumerist skirmishes,” Bill announced, sweeping a dramatic arm over the pizza box. “Exhibit A: The bouncy castle. A kinetic, unpredictable beast. Exhibit B: The Clown. A wild card, potentially lethal with those balloon animals.” Molly scoffed, nudging a stray Cheerio off the table with her elbow. “A bouncy castle and a clown are not ‘exhibits’. They’re a Monday afternoon for any parent. Our intel says the presents will be piled in the conservatory, right off the main house.” “The conservatory is glass, Molly. Exposed. Vulnerable. A glint of sunlight catches a reflection, and suddenly little Timmy’s parents are on high alert, thinking a magpie is after his new fire truck,” Bill countered, jabbing a finger at the map. “We need a diversion. A grand distraction.” “For two dozen gift-wrapped board games, Bill? Are we going to send in a trained squirrel with a tiny grappling hook?” she deadpanned, raising an eyebrow. Bill’s eyes lit up. “A squirrel is unhygienic. No, no. Far too pedestrian. My thoughts were on the clown. We destabilize the clown.” Molly lowered her pen, a slow blink her only comment. “You want to weaponize a party clown?” “No, not weaponize. Distract. Entice. Offer him a better gig – say, a prestigious engagement at the Mayor’s daughter’s quinceañera. Get him off the premises. Or, failing that, steal his oversized shoes. That’ll put a kink in his balloon animal production line.” Bill grinned, pleased with his own genius. Molly sighed, rubbing her temples. “Stealing a clown’s shoes, Bill? What’s next, disabling a pinata? I’m thinking more along the lines of a timed power outage. Simple, effective, no risk of a grease-painted rampage.” “But the suspense, Molly! The theatricality!” Bill lamented. “Imagine the chaos, the brief, glorious pandemonium as the clown, barefoot, tries to make a sword from a deflated balloon.” “No, I can’t imagine it. Because we’re not doing it. We go in when the kids are sugared-up and distracted by cake. Blackout the block, grab the presents, gone in sixty seconds,” Molly insisted, tapping the conservatory on the map. “Clean. Efficient. Minimal clown-related trauma.” Bill pouted, tracing the outline of the bouncy castle. “Fine. No clown shoes. But I still say we should wear disguises. Maybe two very tall, very stern-looking nannies.” Molly nearly choked on a crumb. “Bill, we are stealing from a four-year-old. Our disguises should be inconspicuous, not traumatizing. We’re wearing dark clothes, Bill. Like always. Now, about that window… it’s a standard double-pane, correct?”