Run: 2026-05-10-01KR8WS4D3QE2JBK4KBCVPXDC5

Molly spotted Bill hunched over a battered picnic table in the alley, maps and scribbled notes scattered like crime scene confetti. “Bill, you’re really wearing the chicken suit to a six-year-old’s party?” He tugged at the yellow polyester collar. “Camouflage, Mol. Nobody questions the guy handing out balloons. Plus, the pants have secret pockets the size of pillowcases.” Molly rolled her eyes so hard it looked like she was scouting the ceiling for exits. “And what am I supposed to be? The gift-wrapping fairy? We need a plan, not poultry cosplay.” “Phase one,” he continued, tapping a crayon drawing of the backyard layout, “we arrive right after the magician cancels. Parents will be distracted yelling at the clown. You slip in through the kitchen window while I distract the grandma with my balloon animals.” Molly snorted. “You can’t tie a balloon giraffe, Bill. Last time you made a floppy eggplant and traumatized the birthday boy.” “That’s nostalgia, not trauma. Anyway, phase two: the loot bag. The kids leave their presents in a pile behind the bounce house. We grab, we dash, we fence the Lego sets on eBay by nine.” She tapped the map with a stubby pencil. “There’s a security camera by the trampoline.” “Extension cord and a sprinkler. One good squirt and it’s a modern art installation.” Molly chewed her thumbnail. “What if the parents notice the presents disappearing?” “Then we blame it on the birthday kid being greedy. Tell them he hid everything in the garage for later. Kids get framed all the time; it’s practically tradition.” Bill reached into the chicken suit and produced a tiny speaker. “I made a playlist of baby shark remixes. Blast it during the grab. Screaming children cover any noise we make.” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re going to weaponize earworms?” “Desperate times, desperate sharks. We hit at two-fifteen, right after cake but before party games. Parents will be busy arguing over juice boxes.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice like a conspirator instead of a planner. “What if someone recognizes us from the last job?” Bill patted the beak of his costume. “Nobody remembers a chicken. I’m invisible in yolk-yellow polyester. Science fact.” Molly sighed, folding the map into a neat square. “Fine. But no real weapons. If a kid cries, we abort.” “Agreed. We’re professionals, not monsters. Except for the Lego sets we’re about to ruin childhoods over.” She smiled despite herself. “Two-fifteen. Kitchen window. Baby shark at full volume. Try not to trip on your own tail feathers this time.” Bill gave a salute with the balloon eggplant. “Operation Loot the Lootbags is a go.”