Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95E0CK19WR5F3R8DABGKRQ

Molly traced patterns in the condensation on her lukewarm pint glass, the sticky-sweet smell of burnt sugar and old fry oil permeating the air of The Rusty Spoon. Across from her, Bill meticulously unfolded a crinkled party invitation, smoothing it out like it was a priceless blueprint for a bank vault. His eyes, usually a dull grey, glinted with an almost manic enthusiasm. "Are you absolutely certain about this, Bill?" Molly’s voice was a low crackle of incredulity. The memory of their last endeavor, involving an ill-fated chimney descent and a collection of ceramic cats, still left a phantom ache in her elbows. She eyed the illustration of a cartoon unicorn with profound suspicion. Bill beamed, a faint smudge of what might have been grease on his cheek. "Pure opportunity! An infant’s birthday bash! The ultimate soft target!" Molly merely raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Presents, Bill. From a party. For *children*." "Precisely! Untapped market! Think of the haul – Lego, toy cars, even an artisanal wooden puzzle!" Bill leaned forward, practically vibrating with excitement. He then launched into a breathless monologue about "Operation Gummy Bear Gambit: A Candy-Coated Coup," involving strategically positioned confetti cannons, glitter bombs for sensory overload, and the tactical deployment of a rogue balloon animal sculptor as a distraction. The concept of breaching a bouncy castle’s defenses was briefly horrific, as was the thought of facing down a determined child wielding a party popper. "Or," Molly interrupted, a flicker of exasperation in her eyes, "we just walk in, grab bags, and walk out? People are distracted." "Too obvious! Where’s the artistry? We’re M&B Enterprises!" Bill declared, thumping the table with a theatrical flourish that made his teacup rattle. His passion for the ridiculous always trumped practicality; he could turn buying milk into a multi-phase infiltration mission. "Besides, I hear little Tarquin Henderson gets *all* the best gifts." Molly froze, her hand halfway to her pint, a sudden chill running down her spine. "Tarquin Henderson? Whose party is this, exactly?" Bill’s grin faltered, just a fraction. "My nephew’s. I already know the layout and his gift preferences. Been tracking his toy empire for months." Molly stared, her jaw slack in disbelief. "You are going to steal from your nephew. On his birthday." "It's for a good cause! Our retirement fund! He has too many. Sharing is caring, Molly. Redistribution of wealth!" He took a dramatic sip from his imaginary martini glass, then peered over the rim. "Now, about those clowns…"