Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ951CQT51WM9DB046HA1GJA

Pass me the thermal blueprints, Bill. Molly adjusted her binoculars, her eyes fixed on the suburban backyard. It’s a hand-drawn map on a Burger King napkin, Molly. And the target isn’t a vault. It’s a bouncy castle shaped like a psychedelic giraffe. Bill sighed, adjusting the neck of his costume. The geometry of an inflatable structure is complex. One wrong move and we’re swallowed by yellow vinyl. Did you scout the perimeter? I did two laps around the hibiscus bushes. There’s a high concentration of juice boxes near the swing set. Security is light. Just a clown named Puddles who looks like he’s having an existential crisis. Puddles is a professional, Molly whispered, her voice tight with pseudo-intensity. I saw him fold a balloon into a motorcycle in under twenty seconds. A man with that kind of manual dexterity is a danger to us both. He’s currently stuck in a lawn chair. I don't think he's a threat. That’s exactly what he wants you to think. It’s a classic low-profile stakeout. Status on the loot? The haul is massive. We’re looking at twelve medium-sized boxes, three oversized bags, and something that looks suspiciously like a mountain bike. The bike is the priority. It’s the crown jewel of the seven-year-old market. If we get that onto the getaway trike, we’re golden. The trike’s weight limit is forty pounds, Molly. We’re going to pop a tire. Then we use the wagon. I’ve muffled the wheels with duct tape and stolen gym socks. It’s a ghost in the grass, Bill. A silent, red-painted ghost. I’m still not sure about these disguises. Why am I the rear end of a horse? It’s a costume party. If we go in wearing balaclavas, we’ll trigger the mothers. Nobody suspects a horse. Especially one that’s interested in the gift table. I can’t see anything out of this tail-hole, Bill grumbled, fumbling with the plush fabric. You don’t need to see. You just need to haul. When I give the signal—which is a high-pitched imitation of a hawk—you move in. Why a hawk? Why can’t the signal just be you saying go? Because go is common. A hawk is unexpected. It creates a moment of primal confusion in the toddlers, giving us a four-second window to strike. I looked at the guest list. There’s a kid named Tyler who’s a known biter. What’s the protocol? If Tyler engages, you deploy the distraction. I’ve packed organic, gluten-free kale chips. He’ll be so offended by the lack of sugar he’ll be stunned into silence. That’s cold, Molly. Even for us. This is a high-stakes environment. It’s not about being liked. It’s about the plastic. Check your watch. The big hand is on the pizza slice, and the little hand is on the dinosaur. It’s nearly showtime. The cake is being served. The sugar peak is imminent. Once the birthday song hits the chorus, we breach the fence. Do you think they’ll have ice cream cake? I’d risk a lot for some Mint Chocolate Chip. Eyes on the prize. We’re here for the Lego, not the dairy. Do you have the tactical party poppers? Loaded and ready. On your mark. Let’s go. And remember, if a kid tries to hug you, tell them you’re a wild animal. Do not break character. I’m a stallion, Molly. A thieving, majestic stallion.