Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95CC2F2JCGWTWNAN2TQGBQ

Molly unfolded the crumpled flyer on the greasy table. A brightly coloured cartoon dinosaur grinned inanely from the centre. “Operation Pipsqueak is a go,” she announced, her voice devoid of any actual enthusiasm. Bill leaned closer, his breath fogging a section of the table. “Pipsqueak? For a heist? Sounds a bit… soft, Mol. Are we sure this is the right gig? I was hoping for something with a bit more zing. Like, ‘Operation High Roller Rhinestone’ or ‘Operation Diamond Dachshund Dash’.” “It’s stealing presents from a six-year-old's birthday party, Bill. The only zing involved will be the faint taste of cake crumbs you’ll inevitably get on your gloves. Now, details. The party is at Farmer McGregor’s place. Starts at two. Peaks around three-thirty for cake. We go in when the entertainer – a clown named ‘Giggles’ – is scheduled to do his balloon animal act. That’s our window.” “Giggles!” Bill snorted. “Figures. Probably smells like stale popcorn and regret. So, what’s the entry strategy? Chimney again? Last time your ‘specialised grapple hook’ ended up in Mrs. Higgins’ prize-winning begonia.” “No chimney. Too obvious. We’re going through the side door. The one that leads directly into the pantry. McGregor always leaves it unlocked for Uncle Barry, who apparently has a… peculiar relationship with the cheese platter. You’ll wait by the door, keep an ear out for Uncle Barry or any rogue toddlers. I’ll slip inside, locate the main haul – the box labelled ‘For Leo, From Grandma Mildred’ – and we’ll be out before you can say ‘sugar rush’.” “The Mildred box!” Bill exclaimed, slapping a hand on the table, making the flyer jump. “That’ll have the good stuff! Last year, she sent a remote-controlled tractor. A *tractor*, Mol! This year, it’s probably a miniature laser tag set, or maybe even a drone shaped like a grumpy badger.” “They’re presents, Bill. They’re generally toys. The value isn’t the point. It’s the *audacity*. The sheer, unadulterated nerve. Plus, we need to diversify our portfolio. We can’t live on rare stamps and antique doorknobs forever.” Molly adjusted her slightly skewed beanie. “Are you clear on the distraction part?” “Distraction?” Bill’s eyes widened. “You want me to distract Giggles? I’ve seen his act. It’s mostly falling over and making fart noises with his armpit. If I try to upstage him, he’ll probably cry. Kids *hate* when the clown cries. It ruins the whole ephemeral magic of childhood wonder.” “No, you idiot. Not distract Giggles. Guard the *other* door. The pantry one. Against Uncle Barry. Or a small child who wandered off looking for juice. If anyone comes, you cough. A distinct, two-part cough. Like a seagull with a mild chest infection. Got it?” “A cough,” Bill mused, nodding slowly. “Right. Seagull. Chest infection. Not too strong, not too weak. Just… pathetic enough to make them pause. Intriguing. So, the presents… are we thinking, like, colour-coded bags? Or just a frantic grab and shove into our oversized novelty suitcases?” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “Just grab them. And no novelty suitcases, Bill. We’re using the standard canvas duffels. Less conspicuous. And for the love of all that is shiny, try not to get any glitter on your face this time. It took three days to get it out of your eyebrows for the antique clock incident.”