Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ955BWDJT30CBP5B0SAV6JT

The subterranean dampness of the basement smelled of stale Cheetos and ambition. Molly leaned over the blueprints, her brow furrowed as she tapped a red marker against a drawing of a multi-colored bounce house. The basement was a shrine to low-stakes larceny, decorated with faded blueprints of community centers and the occasional map of a high-end lemonade stand. To any outsider, it looked like a messy storage room, but to Molly and Bill, it was the war room where legends were born. Molly adjusted her spectacles, which were held together by a prayer and a piece of duct tape, her eyes scanning the layout of Timmy’s backyard with the intensity of a master jeweler. "Look at the perimeter, Bill," Molly said. "We have a three-minute window between the cake and the balloon artist." Bill adjusted his tactical turtleneck, his fingers nervously fidgeting with a loose thread. He was a man of action, or at least a man who looked like he might take action if the snack selection were right. He stared at a photograph of the target: a suburban split-level with a driveway full of minivans. "I don't like it," Bill muttered. "I’ve heard rumors about the balloon artist. They call him Pogo. He’s got a grip like a vice." Molly didn't even look up from her map. "He’s seventy, Bill. Focus on the objective. The gift table is situated in the North-East corner." She circled a cluster of brightly wrapped boxes with an aggressive flourish of her marker. Bill wiped sweat from his upper lip, his mind racing with the logistical nightmare of navigating a landscape populated by sticky fingers and unpredictable tantrums. He paced the small room, his heavy boots thudding against the concrete floor. "What if a toddler gets sticky?" Bill asked. "It compromises my finger dexterity." Molly finally looked at him, her eyes cold and calculating behind her cracked lenses. "That’s why you’re wearing the mittens," Molly snapped. "We go in as the entertainment. I’m the maggot-themed magician, and you’re my silent assistant." Bill pouted, his broad shoulders slouching in disappointment. "I wanted to be a mime. Mimes have dignity." Molly rolled her eyes and turned back to the tactical schematic. "Mimes are suspicious," Molly countered. "The target is Timmy’s haul. Rumor has it there’s a limited-edition Galactic Laser-Mech in there. It is the crown jewel of plastic weaponry." Bill considered this, his greed momentarily outweighing his fear of yogurt-covered fingers. The suburban jungle was a fickle beast, but the reward was too great to ignore. Molly leaned back, imagining the resale value of the plastic robot. Outside, the world was preparing for a Saturday afternoon of mild-mannered celebration, unaware that the two greatest petty thieves in the tri-state area were ready for action. "The sheer density of minivans is a tactical nightmare," Bill observed. He stared out of the tiny basement window at the street above. "If we get cornered, do we use the Glitter Bomb?" Molly sighed, packing her bag. "Only as a last resort, Bill. We aren't monsters." She folded the blueprints with a sharp snap, her resolve hardening like a week-old birthday cake. They climbed the stairs towards the light, the creak of the wood signaling the start of their most daring heist to date.