Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD50R5KPY3S5FR10H84XDNH

Molly spread the crumpled birthday invitation across the dashboard of their getaway car, which was currently a dented Honda Civic with a missing hubcap and a lingering smell of old french fries. Bill squinted at the glittery unicorn border like it might explode. The plan had started simple, as their plans always did, with Bill overhearing something lucrative at the grocery store while buying discount salami. He claimed the mother in line ahead of him was loudly discussing the mountain of presents expected for little Tyler's ninth birthday, and Bill's ears had perked up at the words no receipt needed. Molly, who actually possessed a functioning conscience and basic shame, had tried to talk him out of it for three days. Now they were parked outside the suburban fortress of fun, watching a rented clown twist balloons into questionable dachshunds while a bouncy castle wheezed in the backyard. The smell of grilled hot dogs and sunscreen wafted over, mixing terribly with their desperation. Bill adjusted his ill-fitting windbreaker, already sweating despite the mild weather, while Molly checked her watch and calculated how quickly social services could arrive. She looked at him with the flat stare she usually reserved for his pyramid scheme ideas. "Bill, we are not stealing from eight-year-olds." He shrugged, utterly unrepentant, and pulled out a crudely drawn map of the backyard on a napkin. "Technically we're stealing from their parents, who can afford it." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "You said it was a high value target with minimal security." The map showed an X over the present table, guarded by what Bill had labeled as laser beams but were clearly just streamers. "It is! It's a bouncy castle full of Xboxes!" She tapped the drawing skeptically. "It's a bouncy castle full of screaming children and Capri-Sun." Outside, a child shrieked with joy or possibly sugar-induced mania, and the clown's balloon popped loudly, causing mass panic among the juice box brigade. Bill nodded solemnly, as if she had confirmed his tactical assessment. "Same thing." Molly stared at the house again, where a banner read TYLER IS 9 TODAY in letters that were already peeling in the heat. "The invitation said gifts are mandatory, minimum fifty bucks each." Bill's eyes gleamed behind his cheap sunglasses. "There are twenty kids invited. That's a thousand dollars in Bluey merchandise." That was, admittedly, a lot of plastic. "Molly, focus. How do we get past the clown?" He pointed dramatically toward the backyard where the enormous clown shoes squeaked ominously. "We distract him with the existential dread of adulting." This was why their heists always ended in community service. "Great plan. And the parents?" "Kerry from accounting is bringing her famous seven-layer dip. Nobody will notice us." "So we just walk in, grab the table, and run?" "We need a wagon. And a fake mustache for you." "Why do I need the mustache?" "Because you're the only adult male who fits in the ball pit for cover." "I hate this job."