Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCXCX40CHBZT5AJ8G46Z7JZ

Molly slapped the folded map against Bill’s chest. “Party starts at two. We walk in at two-oh-five.” Bill lowered his sunglasses inside the van. “We’re robbing children.” “Children’s party,” Molly said. “Big difference. Toddlers don’t own gaming consoles.” Bill peeled a banana with the gravitas of a surgeon. “How many kids?” “Forty-seven RSVPs. I’m guessing sixty presents minimum, stacked on the left table like a pyramid of regret.” “And we take all of them.” “Every single wrapped lie.” Bill chewed slowly. “What’s the cover?” Molly tossed a plastic bag onto the seat. “Clowns. I rented two suits. Yours is polka-dot. Mine has the big shoes.” “I’m not wearing a red nose.” “You want the backup? Princess tiara and a wand that actually shocks people.” “No.” “Then wear the nose, Bill.” He sighed. “How do we get inside?” “Invitation said ‘Unicorns and Rainbows.’ That means the mom—Jennifer—will be distracted arranging organic cupcakes and crying in the kitchen. We enter through the garage, compliment her hair, then hit the table.” Bill frowned. “I don’t know how to compliment hair.” “Say it looks expensive. Say it looks like it requires maintenance. Women love that.” “What if she asks my name?” “You’re Bongo the Clown. I’m Tickle.” “That sounds like a felony waiting to happen.” Molly ignored him and pointed at a photo. “Present table is near the bouncy castle. Blue tablecloth. Gifts have unicorn stickers. You grab the big ones, I grab the flat ones—those are the gift cards.” “You think there are gift cards?” “Jennifer works in marketing. Of course there are gift cards. Probably to places that sell more unicorns.” Bill tossed the banana peel into a coffee cup. “This feels wrong. They’re kids.” “So was I wrong when I stole that golf cart from the retirement home? They had a pool, Bill. A pool.” “That was different. Those people had life experience.” “These people have better electronics. Did you see the invite? One kid wants a drone. A drone. At age six. That child is already surveilling us.” Bill rubbed his temples. “What about witnesses?” “Children are the best witnesses to confuse. One will tell police we were pirates. Another will say we were her mom’s yoga friends. By the time anyone talks, we’re three towns away with sixty boxes of regret and a drone.” “And the exit?” “Van behind the bouncy castle. You drive, I load. Two-twenty exit sharp.” “Is there actually a bouncy castle?” “Read the plan.” “I can’t read your handwriting. It looks like a spider had a stroke and then died.” “Then listen. Two-oh-five entry. Two-twenty we hit the table. Two-twenty-five we’re at the fence with every present and zero credible testimony.” Bill pulled the clown suit from the bag. The pants were enormous and had seventeen pockets. “These pants have more storage than my apartment.” “Exactly. You’ll fit twelve action figures in the left leg alone.” “I still think we should leave one present.” Molly stared at him. “We’re leaving nothing. Not even the wrapping paper. That paper is artisanal.” Bill held the red nose up like a dead fish. “If I have to make a balloon giraffe, I want hazard pay.” “Deal. Now put on the shoes. They squeak, which is perfect—nobody hears you steal anything over squeaking.” Bill stepped into the oversized sneakers. “I hate you.” “That’s the spirit,” Molly said, zipping her own suit. “Now remember—smile, lie about the cupcakes, and if a kid asks what we’re doing, tell them we’re here for the cake. Then take the cake too.” “Even the cake?” “Especially the cake. It’s probably gluten-free, and you’re allergic, but we’re professionals, Bill. We suffer for art.” Bill adjusted the nose. “Let’s go steal Christmas in June.” “It’s July,” Molly said, opening the door. “Same energy.”