Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95NDA4NAWTT3S4YC2SBWVZ

The air inside the rusted 1998 Econoline smelled like a funeral for a pack of stale gummy bears. Molly pinned a grease-stained napkin sketch to the velvet dashboard, her eyes darting with the manic energy of a woman who had consumed three sugar-free energy drinks. Bill sat beside her, struggling to fit a tactical balaclava over a head that was clearly designed for floppy sun hats. He grunted, his ears popping through the eye holes before he managed to rotate the fabric into its proper, menacing position. Outside, the suburban sun beat down on a pristine cul-de-sac that looked entirely too innocent for the carnage they were about to inflict upon its rigid social order. "Focus, Bill. The target is the mahogany sideboard under the patio umbrella. That’s where the high-value boxes are." "Why can’t we wait for the magician? We could slip in during the escape artist bit." Molly pulled a pair of plastic binoculars from her pocket and peered through the windshield. The enemy was formidable: fifteen six-year-olds fueled by Red Dye Number Forty and a primal need to scream at nothing in particular. In the center of the yard stood the Great Inflatable Dragon, its nylon neck swaying in the wind like a drowsy sentinel. Under its shadow sat the pile of presents. Molly adjusted the focus on her optics, noting the treacherous terrain of discarded juice boxes and a rogue Slip-N-Slide that functioned as a watery moat. "The magician is a hack who does balloon animals. He’s a security risk. We move during the cake. When the frosting hits the tongues, it creates a sensory blind spot. It’s basic heist physics." "The bouncy castle is leaking air on the south side. We can use the wheezing sound to mask our boots." Bill adjusted his gear. Molly nodded, her jaw set in a line of grim determination. She checked her watch, a plastic piece featuring a cartoon cat whose eyes ticked back and forth. The countdown to the ultimate sugar rush had begun, and the suburban defenses were beginning to fray at the edges as the first massive scoop of vanilla ice cream was leveled onto paper plates. "Good intel. Go for the large, rectangular boxes. Avoid anything that sounds like it’s filled with loose glitter. We don’t need a trail." "What about the gift bags? I heard a rumor about gourmet popcorn." "Leave the bags, Bill. We're here for the big haul. Tonight, we feast on the spoils of a primary school social hierarchy." Molly grabbed her primary extraction tool—a weighted fishing net draped over her shoulder—and checked the sliding door’s handle. The neighborhood was quiet, save for the distant, rhythmic thumping of a high-pitched pop remix played at ear-splitting volume. It was the siren song of their destiny, the signal that the perimeter was soft and the prizes were ripe for the taking. "For the loot." "For the loot." Molly paused for a moment of cold silence then slid the van door open.