Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1GZVWSEA535EW58VHMCFG6

Molly adjusted her oversized sunglasses and studied the leaflet with the intensity of a surgeon examining an x-ray. It was a perfect target: sugar-fueled chaos, distracted parents, and a mountain of wrapped loot just waiting to be liberated from the tyranny of grateful children. "Children's parties are low-hanging fruit," Bill muttered, stroking his terrible mustache thoughtfully. "Literally, with all those juice boxes around." Molly nodded, her mind already racing through logistics. The venue was a community hall with exactly one security camera and a fire exit that groaned louder than her Uncle Gerald after Thanksgiving dinner. She estimated there would be roughly forty kids, twelve adults, one magician with shaky hands, and a piñata containing enough confetti to cause a small avalanche. "Honk if you love crime," Bill said. "Honk," Molly replied without hesitation. The plan was airtight, or at least air-adjacent. Bill would disguise himself as a clown, because nothing lowers suspicion like face paint and shoes that honk. Molly would pose as a health inspector, clipboard in hand, authority in voice. They would move fast, grab the gift table, and vanish into the night like the ghosts of Christmas past, except meaner and with better shoes. By the time the magician pulled the rabbit from his hat, they'd be long gone, already arguing about who got the Easy-Bake Oven.