Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95CQKE8C7B0TV37ZB2WYSK

Molly tapped a sharpened pencil against the greasy placemat, her eyes narrowed in concentration. Bill slurped his banana milkshake, a sticky residue tracing a path down his chin. The placemat, a child's crayon rendering of ‘Susie’s Super Fun Twelfth’, was now adorned with Molly’s strategic red scribbles: ‘PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: THE BACK ROOM (GIFTS)’, ‘SECONDARY: THE FRONT PORCH STEPS (CARD BOX)’, ‘ESCAPE ROUTE: THE FORSYTHIA BUSH’. The ambient hum of ‘The Greasy Spoon’ diner, a chipped Formica tabletop, and the distant clatter of plates served as their planning sanctuary. Molly folded the placemat into quarters, then eighths, a nervous habit. The afternoon sun, struggling through the grimy window, caught a stray piece of glitter still clinging to Bill’s enormous thumb. This operation, ‘Operation: Present Panic’, was audacious – a raid on a children’s birthday party, targeting the symbols of childhood joy. Molly found the sheer absurdity both appalling and exhilarating. Bill, meanwhile, seemed mostly focused on the milkshake. The plan was direct: hit the house during peak chaos. Molly, the phantom, would slip in the back, bypass napping adults, and collect goods from the ‘gift zone’. Bill, the brute force distraction, would orchestrate a spectacle outside, drawing the younger, more volatile element away. A yappy terrier barked distantly, a factor for their getaway. The dense foliage of the garden offered an escape. Molly imagined the scene: stolen wrapping paper, confused parents, Bill juggling invisible oranges. It would be glorious. “Alright, Bill,” Molly finally murmured, smoothing the placemat. “Here’s the core intel. The window is critical: precisely between the puppet show and the actual cake presentation. Your role necessitates… significant theatre.” Bill nodded, wiping his mouth. “You mean I gotta be loud?” “Exactly. You’re ‘Captain Chaos’. Your mission is to create a diversion so overwhelming, so utterly bizarre, that every child, and frankly, every adult with a pulse, is drawn *away* from the house. Think spontaneous interpretive dance about sock puppets, or a sudden, aggressive balloon animal demonstration. Keep ‘em pinned to the park across the street. My part is the silent infiltration. The back room first, then the porch. Quick, clean sweep. Load into the disguised duffels. We rendezvous at the lilac bush by the fence. Watch for the dog. And absolutely no singing. Your singing would be terrifying.” Molly stood, adjusting her jacket. “And Bill? This entire haul is spoken for by the buyer. No ‘borrowing’ for yourself. Understood?” Bill grinned, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. “Presents for the people, boss. Got it.”