Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95PNAEZRKJ1PBDF5RWJ8YN

Molly unfurled the crinkled napkin across the cluttered kitchen table, its crayon scrawls depicting a crude map of suburbia’s most formidable target. Bill, attempting to dislodge a particularly stubborn gobbet of sausage roll, squinted at the artwork. He chewed thoughtfully, leaving a greasy smudge on the paper as he leaned in, a distant look in his eye that suggested memories of past glorious sausage rolls and imminent snack opportunities. "Operation 'Birthday Bonanza Bust'," Molly declared, tapping the map. "High-risk, high-reward." "Still calling it that?" Bill mumbled. "I preferred 'Sweet Sixteen Sting.' More alliterative." "It's a five-year-old's party, Bill. 'Sweet Sixteen Sting' is creepy." Molly sighed, scrubbing a hand over her perpetually exasperated face. This was their big league: children's parties. She pointed to a blob labelled 'Bouncy Castle of Doom', circled ominously in red. Their target, little Timmy Henderson’s birthday celebration, was just hours away from becoming their next score. "So Henderson's again? Didn't you say their gnome collection had motion sensors last time?" "That was a different Henderson. The bouncy castle is a diversion. Perimeter access: the garden gate." "Fluffy," Bill interjected, eyes lighting up. "He’s practically a co-conspirator. Allergic to loneliness, partial to belly rubs." "Which is why you're on 'Fluffy Duty'," Molly confirmed. "Once he's neutralized, you distract Mrs. Henderson – 'Oh dear, your prize-winning marrows look deflated!'" "Classic," Bill grinned, "puts her in a gardening trance." Molly nodded, satisfied with Bill's knack for horticultural espionage. Their plan relied on such precise distractions. Her focus shifted to the prize. She tapped a circled area on the napkin that contained a roughly drawn table. "That leaves me free to target the main objective," Molly said. "The present table. Strategically placed near the unicorn piñata." "Ah, the unicorn. Trojan horse of confectionery," Bill mused. "Smash and grab?" "Only if absolutely necessary. Too much attention. Our exit strategy: the old 'Pizza Delivery' ruse." "The uniform!" Bill nodded. "Nobody questions a pizza guy. What about the getaway bike, though? The tandem is a bit flashy." Molly’s irritation spiked. The tandem was their *only* option. She pushed the napkin away, already envisioning Bill’s inevitable improvisation. She knew, with a sinking feeling, that half the presents would likely end up in Bill’s personal collection. The child’s bicycle with a surprisingly sturdy basket, adorned with fake streamers to complete their innocent facade, waited outside. It always felt a little undignified for two seasoned professionals. "While you're making your fake delivery and charming Mrs. Henderson, I'll be securing our prize. The loot. Stacked high, brimming with plastic fantastic." "Any chance of finding that limited edition 'Captain Comet' action figure?" Bill asked, suddenly serious. "The one with the detachable rocket pack? Little Timmy Henderson had one." "Bill! We're not shopping for vintage toys! This is a professional operation. Profit-sharing, remember? No personal acquisitions."