Run: 2026-05-20-01KS26189AX7DMSSP1RGEHS32H

The smoke from Molly’s cheap cigar drifted into Bill’s face, making him blink rapidly. He adjusted his fake mustache, which was currently clinging to his upper lip by a single thread of spirit gum. They glared at the target across the street: a brightly decorated suburban house currently vibrating with the shrieks of twenty caffeinated eight-year-olds. It’s a fortress, Bill said, rubbing his temple. There’s a bouncy castle blocking the rear exit, three clowns on patrol, and a mother who looks like she’s wrestled crocodiles. We aren't fighting the mother, Bill, Molly replied, stabbing her map of the living room with a manicured fingernail. We’re hit-and-run artists. We slip in during the cake cutting. The cake cutting is a bloodbath of sticky fingers, Bill pointed out. We’ll get covered in frosting. It ruins the grip on my crowbar. You don't need a crowbar for a Barbie Dreamhouse, Molly snapped, her eyes narrowing. We need stealth. We need disguise. Hence, the lederhosen. I look ridiculous, Bill groaned, pulling at the tight leather straps. Why do I have to be the assistant entertainment? Because nobody questions a man carrying copper wire if he’s also carrying an accordion, Molly said. You play the polka, they look at you, and I empty the gift table into the laundry bags. What if they request a song I don’t know? Bill asked. My repertoire is strictly limited to ‘Weird Al’ parodies. Play those, Molly shrugged. Kids love parody. Just make sure you draw the crowd away from the foyer. That’s where the high-yield loot is. Timmy’s grandmother is loaded. I’m talking gold-plated Lego sets. Are we sure this is ethical? Bill muttered. Stealing from a child? He’s eight, Bill, Molly said, dismissing his guilt with a wave of her cigar. He doesn't need a third iPad. He needs to learn about disappointment. It’s character building. We’re doing him a favor. And the bouncy castle? Bill asked. What if it gets popped? That’s our distraction, Molly grinned, her eyes flashing with mischief. If things go south, you poke it with a toothpick. The sudden deflation will create a mass panic. We escape in the confusion. You’re a monster, Molly, Bill smiled, his doubts melting away. A beautiful, genius monster. I know, Molly said. Now, put on your balloon-animal apron. We go in on my mark. Wait, Bill yelled, grabbing her arm. What about the dog? The invite said they have a golden retriever. I brought premium deli ham, Molly whispered, revealing a greasy foil wrapper. He’ll be our accomplice within ten seconds. Bill adjusted his accordion straps with a dramatic sigh. Let’s go steal some childhood.