Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ8J5KW1SCVKKM0T7NM7VP3

Molly crouched behind a bush shaped like a cartoon unicorn, its plastic mane flickering in the breeze like a bad wig. Bill adjusted his oversized novelty sunglasses, despite it being dusk, and scratched his head with a squeaky rubber chicken. They watched the birthday fortress—a suburban split-level with streamers flapping like surrender flags—where laughter echoed like tiny banshees fueled on sugar and injustice. Balloons bobbed, suspiciously cheerful. A bounce house throbbed in the yard like a giant, pastel tumor. Molly unfurled a blueprint drawn on the back of a pizza coupon. It showed the cake table, piñata drop zone, and most importantly, the Gift Mountain: a card table sagging under poorly wrapped offerings and envelopes that jingled with grocery-store gift cards. Her finger traced a path through the snack zone, past the cotton candy machine (a known hazard—sticky fingers ruined three heists already). Bill nodded gravely, pulling a glitter-proof poncho from his duffel. He’d learned after the Great Craft Room Incident of ’22. They’d go in disguised as entertainers—Molly as a disgruntled magician’s assistant, Bill as a deflating dinosaur mascot. The exit route led through the neighbor’s yard, where an unlocked shed promised getaway cover and, hopefully, a working motor scooter. A tiny child screamed “PINATA!” and chaos erupted. Molly adjusted her fake mole and gave the signal. Bill wiggled into the dino suit, tail getting caught in a lawn sprinkler. The heist was afoot, fueled by greed, bad planning, and an alarming number of juice boxes.