Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0PK246TWPDYEY3BGQGGWK5

Molly unfolded the invitation like a map to buried treasure, except it smelled of frosting and had a dinosaur wearing a party hat on the front. Bill peered over her shoulder, crumbs from his emergency biscuit sprinkling onto the carpet. The target was young Percival Plunkett’s seventh birthday, noon, community hall, theme: pirates. Fate had gift-wrapped their opportunity in tissue paper and supervised it with balloon animals. "Molly, we stroll in as entertainers, juggle badly, then leave with loot." "Bill, you can't juggle." "Exactly. Authentic children's entertainment." They sat in the van, which was painted with the words Definitely Not Suspicious Plumbing, watching parents carry parcels inside. One box was tall enough to contain a pony or, more likely, educational disappointment. Molly adjusted her fake mustache; Bill practiced saying “ahoy” with the confidence of a man who had once been chased by a swan and called it maritime experience. Their equipment was simple: empty sacks, squeaky shoes, and a moral compass Molly had won in a Christmas cracker. It spun uselessly whenever pointed at cake. Across the street, children shrieked with joy, unaware that two criminal masterminds were about to be defeated by pass-the-parcel, sticky fingers, and one grandmother with handbag reflexes like a cobra. Bill gulped; Molly grinned, already hearing sirens in the kazoo chorus and applauding anyway loudly.