Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5N0D3AR3R53FFJRM8KBN8

Molly adjusted the fake mustache that refused to stick to her upper lip and glared at the tiny tube of glue. “This is ridiculous. Why do I have to be the clown?” Bill, halfway into a rainbow-striped jacket three sizes too small, grunted. “Because you’ve got the people skills. You’re charming. I’m the strong, silent balloon animal guy.” He waved a half-deflated giraffe between them like a surrender flag. “Oh, right. Because nothing says ‘silent professional’ like squeaky shoes.” Molly stomped her foot, producing an ear-piercing honk. “We’re supposed to be in and out, not starring in the world’s worst circus.” Bill sighed and tossed the giraffe aside. “Look, the plan’s foolproof. We show up, distract the kids with cheap tricks, and while they’re busy catching bubbles or whatever, we raid the gift pile. Easy.” Molly folded her arms. “And what happens when little Timmy wants a sword balloon and you accidentally hand him your lockpicks?” “That was one time.” He yanked a wrinkled map from his pocket and spread it over the table. “The party’s in the backyard. Presents are under the oak tree—guarded by exactly zero trained attack clowns. We zip in, loot, duck out the side gate. Boom. Retirement fund secured.” She leaned over the map, squinting. “What’s the red X?” “Barbecue.” “Why’s it marked?” Bill grinned. “Distraction bacon.” Molly groaned. “You’re going to light their grill on fire?” “No! Probably! Look, if things go south, a sudden smoke crisis gives us cover.” He tapped the map. “Also, free hot dogs.” Molly rolled her eyes and checked her watch. “Party starts in twenty. We’re underdressed, underplanned, and that mustache is now on my chin.” Bill clapped her shoulder. “That’s the spirit! Plan B is punching a piñata and running. Classic.” She swatted his hand away. “This is why we’re still stealing from birthday parties and not, say, museums.” “Museums don’t have cake,” he reasoned, shoving a bag of glitter into his pocket. “Speaking of—you grab the presents, I’ll handle dessert.” Molly gaped. “You promised no snacks until after the job!” “I also promised no jail, but here we are, living dangerously.” He tossed her a squirting flower. “Just stick to the plan.” She caught it, hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. But if we end up in another police chase because of your ‘one quick bite,’ I’m feeding you to the clown car.” Bill saluted with a rubber chicken. “Deal. Now let’s get rich or die trying confetti.” Molly mutinously adjusted her wig as they headed out, already dreading the sound of squeaky shoes echoing through suburbia. This was either genius or the worst idea since glitter bombs. Possibly both.