Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAG6VJ9AJK9ATDMYY6V7T5

Inside a cramped kitchen, the party glow leaks from a doorway and paints the room in pinkish gold. Molly, hair in a wild halo of bright red, drums her fingers on the chipped table. Bill, lean as a reed and wearing a cap smeared with frosting, studies a glossy flyer for a children's party he found on the floor—balloons, a cartoon panda, and the admonition “Do Not Open Till Party Time.” The two thieves share a look that says this is ridiculous, this is reckless, and maybe this is their last chance to be legendary. The calender is littered with sticky notes and a lipstick smudge on the date. They sip lukewarm tea that tastes faintly of lemon soap. The plan, ever so grand, hovers between them like the smoke off a bonfire: steal all the presents for art, or for glory, or for a joke the world isn’t ready for. Molly: Bill, you realize this is the kind of caper that ends with us wearing the same ridiculous disguise on the cover of a mugshot book. Bill: Relax, partner. If we pull this off, they’ll call it the greatest party theft since the Great Gift Swap of ’82. The crowd will never forget two lovers of loot and balloons. Molly: I’m more worried about the clowns. You know how clowns are. They can spot a fake mustache from a mile away and they never forget a squeaky shoe. Bill: Clowns are nothing. It’s the adults I’m worried about—the parents who think “no presents before cake” is a sacred law carved in chocolate. Molly: We don’t need a map or a security consultant. We need charisma, charm, and a dash of ridiculous pep. Bill: You’re implying we have charm. I’ve seen the way you flirt with pizza delivery men. You dispatch romance with pepperoni. Molly: Focus. We distract the party with a performance—twins on unicycles, or maybe me doing a flawless interpretive dance about wrapping paper. Bill: And while they’re dazzled, we slip through the shadows like two sardines in a velvet tuxedo. Molly: A velvet tuxedo would be perfect. It sounds expensive and terrifying and absolutely not something we own. Bill: We’ll borrow a few props. A pirate hat, a superhero cape, and a banner that says The Magnificent Gift Grab. People love a good title. Molly: It’s suspiciously theatrical. People will assume a performance, not a burglary. Bill: That’s the point. We’re not criminals. We’re artists in velvet. The loot is the props, the wrapping paper, the stories behind the gifts. Molly: You always want the narrative. Fine. We stage a disruption—a public toast to the birthday kid, a toast that lasts just long enough for us to, uh, accept a token to remind us of the night. Bill: A token? Like a souvenir button that says I Survived The Incredible Gift Heist? Molly: Exactly. And when the party-goers cheer, we bow, we wave, and we walk out with the scent of cinnamon pretzels and glitter clinging to our jackets. Bill: You know what? It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect. Let’s do it. Molly: Let’s do it tonight, then. And when the story hits the papers, we’ll tell them it was all for the children—the happiest crime never told. Bill: The kids will forgive us if we bring back more fairy dust than we take. Molly: Then we’ll be legends, Bill. Absolute legends in mismatched masks. Tonight—that’s our night.