Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1J1F4F21F6YVMC3YM4EDBR

“I’m telling you,” said Molly, flattening a crinkled napkin on the café table as if it were a military map, “a children’s party is the perfect target. Low suspicion, high gift density, appalling perimeter security.” Bill stared at her. “You’ve found a way to make balloons sound illegal.” “Balloons are always illegal in spirit,” Molly said. “Now, focus. We go in at half three, during peak chaos. Sugar crash hasn’t hit, parents are distracted, and there’s always one uncle losing a fight with a folding chair.” Bill leaned over the napkin. “This blob is the house?” “It’s the venue. Hired hall, soft-play annex, two exits, one gift table. Here’s the cake. Here’s the magician.” “There’s a magician?” “A bad one. Which is ideal. Nothing attracts a crowd like a man failing to remove a pigeon from a scarf.” Bill rubbed his chin. “I don’t know, Mol. Robbing banks, museums, even that dentist convention—those made sense. But stealing presents from children feels morally wobbly.” “We are not stealing from children,” Molly said. “We are intercepting goods in festive transit. Besides, half the presents will be duplicate dinosaur sets and noisy plastic nightmares. We’re practically performing a public service.” “That’s a lie you’ve put a hat on.” “It’s a very convincing hat.” Bill sighed. “What’s the entry plan?” Molly tapped the napkin. “Disguises. I go in as Balloon Specialist.” “You can’t make balloons.” “I don’t have to. I have to look like I can make balloons. Confidence and a waistcoat will carry me for ten minutes.” “And me?” “You’re the emergency face painter.” Bill recoiled. “I don’t even paint walls well.” “You paint one tiger, badly, and suddenly every parent says, ‘Oh, isn’t that creative?’ Adults see one orange stripe on a cheek and surrender all standards.” Bill muttered, “This is how civilizations end.” Molly continued, “While they’re occupied, we identify the gift pile, transfer packages into the catering trolley, and wheel them out through the kitchen.” “Kitchens always have a woman with terrifying elbows guarding the sausage rolls.” “Correct. That is why we bribe her.” “With what?” Molly reached into her bag and produced a tin. “Mini éclairs.” Bill’s eyes widened. “You’re using the good éclairs?” “For a haul this size? Absolutely.” He sat back, thinking. “What about the children themselves? They notice things. Horrible little hawks.” “Children are easily redirected,” Molly said. “If one gets curious, ask where the birthday child is. They’ll immediately become embroiled in status politics.” Bill pointed at the napkin again. “And this squiggle?” “The bouncy castle. Avoid it.” “Why?” “Because no criminal has ever looked dignified fleeing through mesh while being kicked by six-year-olds.” Bill nodded solemnly. “Fair.” A waitress passed. Molly covered the napkin with her hand. Bill lowered his voice. “Suppose a parent asks who hired us.” “Say ‘Deborah.’ There is always a Deborah.” “And if there isn’t?” “Then say, ‘Tall Deborah.’ Fear will do the rest.” Bill snorted despite himself. “You’ve really thought this through.” “Bill, I once stole a chandelier during a power cut. This is just party crime.” He folded his arms. “And after we’ve got the presents?” “We sort them. Electronics, vouchers, premium toys in one pile. Anything educational we fence immediately.” “That’s cold.” “That’s efficient.” Bill looked at the napkin-map, then at Molly’s bright, criminal face. “I hate that this might work.” “It will work.” “And if it doesn’t?” Molly smiled. “Then you paint a crying child as a zebra, I fake a balloon sword, and we vanish in the confusion.” Bill stood up with a groan. “Fine. But I’m drawing a line somewhere.” “Excellent,” said Molly, rising and tucking the napkin into her coat. “Can you draw it in face paint? We may need signage.” Bill followed her to the door. “One more thing. If I end up in a bouncy castle, leave me.” “Never,” said Molly. “I’d photograph you first.”