Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA2JAQGFACBDWYFZ16KRKW

Night settled over the space they'd carved from the world tonight. Molly and Bill crouched behind a bakery cart, eyes fixed on a flyer that promised a children's party at the Hilltop Community Center. They whispered in half-jokes and half-nerves, two burglars with a sense of theatre and a budget for glitter. The job, they insisted, would be artful, playful, and entirely nonviolent—at least until the chaos began. In their heads the presents glowed like moonlight, and every glittery box hummed with potential mischief. Molly: Tomorrow afternoon, Bill. The gym overflows with giggles and gifts. Bill: Right, but we’re more artful fools than criminals today. Molly: Our disguises say party helpers, not loot-hunters, clearly. Bill: Hats on, smiles bright, and a unicorn-level confidence, maybe? Molly: The gift table will tempt us with ribbons and warranty cards. Bill: I’ll juggle three squeaky toys to distract the crowd. Molly: Let the kids lead the parade; we trail like polite shadows. Bill: If anyone questions us, we’re here for music and cake. Molly: The cake’s lights blink, the balloons bob, and we wander closer. Bill: I practiced a haunting "shh" that never scares anyone away. Molly: We stay invisible, but curious; a paradox that buys time. Bill: My map is a doodle; it’s modern art with risk. Molly: Then we improvise like a tiny, stubborn carnival. Bill: If bells ring, we pretend to be an emergency band. Molly: We glow with glow sticks and pretend we’re the main attraction. Bill: If needed, we’ll bargain with clowns for a moment. Molly: We won’t steal anything that won’t sparkle with wonder and consent. Bill: Okay, signal if we panic: a squeaky nose. Molly: Sneeze into the mic and pretend it’s a crowd-pleaser. Bill: The gig is "Operation Peekaboo," harmless and ridiculous. Molly: Peekaboo fits us; two adults chasing props is comic poetry. Bill: Will the kids notice two strangers in giant party hats? Molly: They’ll think we’re performers, not thieves, and that’s safer. Bill: Then we exit with dignity, and maybe a cupcake. Molly: We’ll leave presents untouched, and keep the prank alive. Night settled over the space they’d carved from the world. They rose, brushed dust from their knees, and checked the clock that never learned to tell fools' time. Bill cracked a grin; Molly laughed, half relief, half ridiculous. They walked away from the gym's glow, careful not to step on a stray sneaker or balloon. The plan, once so serious in their minds, dissolved into a parade of what-ifs. On the way home they rehearsed dozen versions of what happened next: the triumphant haul, the villain’s reveal, the grand motive collapsing into a single cupcake. In the end, they chose a different success—the shared joke that kept their pockets empty but their friendship rich. If they learned anything, it was that crime performed as comedy is theater with poor budgeting, and that the best loot is the story you tell at night’s end. They did not steal a single present, yet salvaged something rarer: a tale to laugh about tomorrow, and the day after, and every future party needing two clowns with kind hearts and questionable plans.