Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1HCDWFJKZKFA0G0QFDXT1J

Molly crouched behind the garden hedge, binoculars pressed to her face, and surveyed the enemy territory with the grim determination of a woman who hadn't slept since Tuesday. Pink bunting flapped in the breeze. A bouncy castle threatened structural collapse. Somewhere, a clown honked. "Right," she whispered, tapping her clipboard. "Entry point, exit strategy, alibi, and most importantly—dress code. We cannot be underdressed for a six-year-old's birthday." Bill emerged from the bushes wearing a bright purple waistcoat and a Groucho Marx disguise that he'd clearly slept in. A bee circled his head. "I look fantastic," he said, adjusting the nose. "Nobody suspects the funny uncle." "Nobody suspects the funny uncle because he doesn't have crumbs in his beard and a parking ticket from 2019." Bill brushed himself off with wounded dignity. "That ticket was a misunderstanding." "It was three hundred pounds and you parked on a roundabout." Molly snatched the glasses away from her eyes. "Focus, Bill. We have a window of nine minutes between the piñata and the gift opening. That's our entire window." "Nine minutes to loot a child's party." Bill let out a low, reverent whistle. "This is the big one, isn't it?" "This is the medium one. The big one is the bat mitzvah in November. Now listen. I'm going in as the magician." Bill blinked. "You're not a magician." "I'm not a *good* magician. I'm a magician who's very bad at magic. Parents love that. Builds character in the children." She pulled a wand from her sleeve and it snapped immediately. "See? Authentic." "And me?" "You're the piñata man. You break the piñata, and while the children are distracted by the screaming sugar rush, I sweep the gift table. Then we vanish into the chaos." Bill frowned beneath his plastic nose. "What if there's a guard dog?" "There's no guard dog, Bill. It's a party for a child called Poppy who's turning six and her parents are vegans." "Vegans are unpredictable." "Vegans are exhausted. Trust me, I've done the research. The mother cried during a John Lewis advert. She won't fight us." Bill considered this, scratching his chin through the disguise. "What's our cut?" "Sixty-forty." "Forty?" "Forty *and* you get the giant teddy bear. I've seen it, Bill. It's the size of a small child. It'll change your life." He stroked the fake mustache thoughtfully. "What about the clown?" "What about the clown?" "Real clowns are usually ex-military. I've seen the files." Molly looked up from her clipboard. Bill was, against all odds, occasionally right about these things. "Fine. If the clown approaches, we deploy the emergency protocol." "Which is?" "You do a very bad magic trick and I scream." Bill considered this. "I can do a very bad magic trick." "You can do an excellent one. That's the problem. If the clown sees actual magic, he'll know we're professionals." A long silence settled between them as a distant child shrieked with laughter. A balloon escaped into the sky. "Right," Molly said, checking her watch. "Positions in five. And Bill?" "Yes?" "Leave the bee alone. He's seen too much." Bill nodded solemnly. The bee, sensing it had been promoted to witness, flew away to inform its hive of the heist of the century. The pink bunting fluttered. Somewhere, a parent yelled for more hummus. The clown honked again, mournful and low, and Molly thought, not for the first time, that crime was simply poetry with better snacks.