Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1GC9ZP9MKDTMWC50CECTJ5

Bill adjusted his novelty Groucho Marx glasses for the fifteenth time, clearly not comfortable with the disguise. He stood in the middle of their cluttered apartment, a half-eaten sandwich balanced precariously on a stack of stolen encyclopedias. Across from him, Molly paced back and forth, her fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against the blueprints spread across the coffee table. Bill, I'm having second thoughts about this one, he said, his voice cracking slightly. Oh, come off it, Bill. We've pulled off bigger jobs than this. Remember the retirement home bingo hall? That was different. They had security. This is, Bill gestured vaguely, a room full of six-year-olds hopped up on sugar and Pixy Stix. That's basically a feral army. Molly rolled her eyes and stabbed a finger at the blueprints. Focus, Bill. Eighteen kids. Two parents. One disgruntled clown who, according to my source, hates children and will look the other way for a twenty. Twenty bucks? The clown takes bribes? The clown takes a lot of things, Bill. Probably why he's so bitter. Now, the presents will be piled near the piñata. Classic misdirection. Everyone watches the stick-wielding maniac swinging at the papier-mâché donkey, and nobody notices two professionals quietly making off with fifteen years worth of educational toys. Bill scratched his chin, looking unconvinced. And our exit strategy? Simple. I'll dress as a birthday mom, oversized sunglasses, a tote bag, and one of those ridiculous headbands with the cat ears. You, my friend, will be the entertainment. Me? Bill's eyes went wide. I'm not dressing as a clown, Molly. I have a reputation in the underworld. You're dressing as a magician, Bill. Slightly less tragic. You go in through the back with a collapsible rabbit cage and a bag of tricks. By the time you pull the quarter out from behind some kid's ear, I'll be out the front with the loot. Bill, you don't understand. Children terrify me. Last Christmas, my nephew looked at me for two hours straight and I lost the ability to form words. Molly walked over and patted him on the shoulder. That's exactly the energy we need, Bill. Mild, unthreatening, mildly confused middle-aged man. You're practically already in character. Bill considered this for a moment, then pulled out his phone and began scrolling. Fine. But I have conditions. First, we don't make eye contact with any of the kids. Second, if a child asks if I'm a real magician, I am required by my personal code of ethics to tell the truth. Which is no. Third, no glitter. Under any circumstances. Molly grinned and raised an imaginary glass. To the easiest fifty grand of our careers. Bill didn't look convinced but raised his sandwich in solidarity. To the feral army, he muttered. And to hopefully not getting tackled by a roomful of kindergarteners.