Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ956GZWWAW6WVN4H7SWYYAQ

Molly’s planning nook was less a nook and more a precarious stack of stolen electronics in the back of their rusty van, currently parked in a suspiciously quiet industrial estate. Maps, blueprints, and a ludicrously glitter-encrusted party invitation for ‘Theodore Bartholomew’s Terrific Tenth Birthday Bash’ were taped to a crumbling cork board. She tapped the card with a worn pencil, the tip of which had seen more action than most police forces. Bill, perched on an overturned plastic bucket, was meticulously dissecting a pastrami sandwich, each layer carefully peeled back and inspected before being reassembled. Crumbs dotted his greasy t-shirt like tiny, edible constellations. He paused, licking mayonnaise from his thumb, and pointed a glistening finger at the invitation. The paper practically shimmered with iridescent fairy dust, a clear biological hazard in Molly’s meticulous world. Molly ran a hand over her tightly pulled-back hair, a familiar gesture of exasperation. Their current target was a large suburban house in Glenwood Estates, a place where lawns were manicured to within an inch of their lives and children apparently received pre-teen Lamborghinis as birthday gifts. The intel, gathered via a repurposed drone and Molly's surprisingly effective network of disgruntled postal workers, suggested Mrs. Bartholomew spared no expense. A veritable mountain of gifts was expected—high-end drones, gaming consoles, designer clothing for a ten-year-old who probably preferred sweatpants. This was a low-risk, high-reward operation; the sheer volume of anticipated loot could fund their more ambitious endeavors for months. She outlined the route on the map, a complex web of back alleys and garden fences leading to the target’s kitchen entrance. The party, she noted, kicked off at 2 PM. Experience taught them that parents, fueled by lukewarm prosecco and the chaos of children hopped up on sugar, usually began their slow descent into blissful negligence around 4 PM. That was their sweet spot, their prime window of opportunity. The grand plan involved disguises, a decoy vehicle, and minimal interaction with anyone under the age of eighteen, a rule Bill frequently struggled with. Bill, meanwhile, had moved on from his sandwich and was now utterly transfixed by a cartoon image of a cheerful bouncy castle on the invitation. His eyes, typically glazed over with a mild, permanent confusion, were wide with a childlike terror. He fidgeted, pulling at the frayed cuff of his sleeve. He gnawed nervously on his fingernail, a habit Molly had tried to break him of for years. The thought of a clown or a mascot appearing sent shivers down his spine. Molly watched him, a familiar groan building in her chest. “Alright, Bill, concentrate. Every present in that house is ours. Clear?” Molly snapped. “But Molly, all the glitter! And what about the bouncy castle? Or a clown?” Bill shuddered visibly. “No clowns. No bouncy castle. Kitchen entrance, caterer disguise for us both. You’re on present duty. Extraction via the ‘gluten-free cake’ van.” “Gluten-free cake? Is it real cake? Just a slice, for professional observation?” Bill pleaded. “No cake. Empty box. You load presents. I distract with artisanal cupcakes. Understood?” “Artisanal cupcakes, huh? Fancy. Do I get a chef hat, for gravitas?” Molly sighed. “Black polo. Gravitas comes from purpose, not hats. Our biggest enemy will be a hyperactive six-year-old.” “Hyperactive kids? Even worse than clowns. Do they believe in fairies?” “Just focus on the drones, Bill. No friends.”