Run: 2026-05-27-01KSMF8K1EWAGG0MB19F6S67T7

Molly adjusted her oversized sunglasses despite the overcast sky. "This is ridiculous, Bill. A children's party? We're professional thieves, not Santa's minions." Bill straightened the collar of his suspiciously festive maroon sweater. "Lower your voice. And it's not just a children's party, Molly. It's the présidentielle, the gold standard of suburban celebration. The presents we're looking at? Top-of-the-line electronics, jewelry, cash-filled greeting cards. This is a goldmine." "The party started five minutes ago," Molly whispered, glancing at her watch as they approached the balloon-covered house. "And did you see the police car patrolling this street last night?" "Patrol is routine. They're not expecting anything. Why would they?" Bill rubbed his hands together. "The parents are busy getting drunk on fruit punch, the kids are overdosing on sugar, and the presents are piled in the corner like an Old West bank. It's perfect." "The transition from party to gift-opening is the critical moment," Molly said, adjusting her name tag—'Aunt Jenny'—that clearly said 'Employee of the Month' from a nearby pizza place. "That's when we make our move. Three minutes. No more." "And no less. Restroom window is where we come in. And out." Bill winked, pulling out his lock-picking kit. "Anyone questions us, we say we were hired to clean up." "Those things actually work?" Molly asked, pointing to the phallic devices swinging from his belt. Bill held one up. "These, my dear, are tools of pleasure. The house, specifically, is our playground today. Remember, we don't take anything until the final distraction." "What final distraction?" Molly froze as her phone buzzed. "Is this your wildcat idea?" "No! Well, yes, but not anymore. You remember that ice cream truck that's been passing by every twenty minutes? That's us." "Wait, what?" Molly's eyes widened. "Give me some credit," Bill said, flashing a smile. "Kids hear ice cream jingle, parents let down their guard, and we disappear with their presents. Classic. Now, maintain the smile. You look like you're constipated." "I am constipated. This plan gave me diarrhea." Molly pasted on a fake smile as they approached the front door. "Targets acquired," Bill whispered, his eyes fixed on the pyramid of gifts. "Max, please be the birthday boy who cries." "Bill, you're worrying me." "That's the goal," he patted her back. "Every good sheist needs a touch of panic. Now let's get rich."